Second Chance Love (25 page)

Chapter Forty

Three days later, Steve walked out of the local KeyBank branch into a biting wind. He had never before gone to a bank to apply for a loan. He had taken out plenty of loans, of course, but his personal banker had always come to his office to get his signature. Approval had never been at issue.

Today had been different. His personal banker, Mr. Davidson, had been transferred to a branch in another city. Steve was not delusional enough to imagine that KeyBank would assign him another, and until the condo sold, he was cash-poor. Unlike most of the cash-poor, Steve had managed to protect his credit rating. He had driven to the local branch and filled out the loan application paperwork, including his two most recent Federal income tax returns and six months worth of bank statements. KeyBank had approved his loan.

His mind turned to Elizabeth. Since Valentine’s Day, they hadn’t had a single harsh word. Since the exchange in the bookstore, he had felt an unsettling distance between them.

I have to be patient. It’s only been three days.

I'm not twenty. I know there's nothing to just fix. She needs me, but how?

Suzi’s voice came out of his phone. “Steve, you have an incoming call from Chelsea Stanton.”

If Steve had been drinking coffee at that moment, he would have spent part of the afternoon cleaning it off the inside of the windshield.

What in the hell is she doing, calling me? I don’t want to speak to her. If I told Suzi 'tell her to go to hell, Suzi,' would she do that?

“Suzi, let it go to voicemail.”

“Yes, Steve.”

Steve did his best to keep his eyes and mind on the road ahead, but he knew what was coming. After about a minute, Suzi advised him that he had a new voicemail.

Waiting never solved anything.

“Suzi, play the voicemail.”

“Hello, Steve.” Chelsea sounded oddly chipper. “I’m not sure where to start. I know I owe you an apology. I feel absolutely terrible about the way I’ve been acting. I went to check on your mom a few days ago, and even that turned out poorly. It feels like everything I touch lately falls apart.”

Poor you. Have you ever considered that’s because you’re a complete bitch that poisons everything you touch?

“Anyway, I really would like to apologize to you, at least on the phone. Will you give me a call, please?”

Oh, hell. At the wedding, we're going to be...

Related. God. I guess there's no harm in making peace
.

“
Suzi, call Chelsea Stanton.” After three rings, he began to hope he would get her voicemail, and could say the right things without having to interact.

“Hello, Steve."

"Hi, Chelsea."

"You must think me the most awful person for the way I’ve been acting. Thank you for calling me back and giving me the chance to apologize.”

“Chelsea, you don’t..." The lie wouldn't come out.

“Come on, Steve," she said, reasonably. "Let’s be honest with each other for once. I don’t think we’ve ever really been that, have we?”

“I suppose not, not really.”

“My poor parents would be mortified to see how I've been acting. I hope you understand it was a shock, though. I always thought we had something, when we were together.”

That was a one-sided feeling. My immune system seems to have fought it off.
“Don’t give it another thought,” he said. “I’ve already forgotten about it.”

I guess I can't do the honesty thing with her. The truth is too cold.

“Thank you, Steve, I really mean that. Now, one more thing. I have a gift for the two of you. Since I won’t be able to attend the wedding—"

Since I would never invite a fer-de-lance to my wedding…

“—I wonder if you would stop by the shop and pick it up? I’ll be there all day tomorrow, putting out the new season.”

“The shop?”

“Yes, silly,
La Boutique.
The little clothing shop I have downtown?”

Oh, that’s right. She did own a little store. Lots of high end fixtures. Almost no inventory. Very haute couture.

“Of course, I remember now. Tomorrow, you say? That would be tough, Chelsea. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my mom is getting remarried, and the ceremony is tomorrow.”

“Really? Isn’t that lovely? Wedding bells are ringing all over the place. Well, what time is their ceremony? Are they having it at
Shady Acres,
or whatever it’s called, then?”

“The wedding is at one o’clock. Yes, they’re holding it at Park Center Rehab. I have a feeling they are doing it there in case Mother doesn’t ever get to go home.”

Steve had never entertained that thought before, but as soon as he said it, he sensed the truth of it.
They’re getting married because they’re not sure she’ll ever get out of there. And Chelsea had no right to know that last part. I'm letting down my guard in the presence of a poisonous snake. No good.

“Well, my little shop is right on the way for you. Why don’t you stop by? I’ll be there at noon, if that works.”

Unable to think of an easy excuse, he let out a deep breath. “Okay, Chelsea. I’ll swing by. I won’t be able to stay long, though.”

“Of course! Wonderful. See you then!”

Steve heard the click of his phone as it disconnected. “Suzi, call Elizabeth.”

After five rings, he heard the familiar recording: “Hello, this is Eliz—"

“Suzi, disconnect.”

Chapter Forty-One

Chelsea Stanton stalked through her darkened house, the place where she had grown up. At most times there were servants underfoot, but Friday nights were the exception. That was their night off, and it was Chelsea's night to doff all her social masks and be herself.

Rain beat against the picture window in the immense living room, lit only by the Yule log Jameson had kindled before leaving for the weekend. Chelsea knew from experience that it would burn until past midnight.

Chelsea liked it dark. When she was small, she would skulk around the immense house after everyone else was in bed, looking for hiding places, making plans. No hiding place was good enough to keep her safe, but she kept seeking that magical spot she had somehow missed.

A life-size portrait of her parents hung above the fireplace. Her mother's image was dolled up in a long dress accented by pearl and diamond jewelry. Her father's image wore one of his blue suits, a red power tie, and a serious expression. They’d been dead for more than a decade, but they lived on in this room.

Chelsea came here to revel in her hatred for them.

She looked at the portrait in the flickering light. The world thought of her father as an important chief executive. Chelsea knew him as the monster who haunted her dreams. She had thought the nightmares would pass when she grew up, but they hadn't. They had grown worse, more vulnerable, more graphic.

Jefferson Stanton had sired eight children out of wedlock with eight different women. His legal team had always been able to cajole, negotiate, or intimidate the women into silence, aided by meager payouts of hush money. Jefferson had the predator's knack for picking out women who would go quietly into the night.

After his death, a senior partner had called Chelsea into the offices of Anderson, Jenkins and Grogan. She had learned that she was the sole beneficiary of her parents' will, and of the illegitimate children by names and ages. When Steve had first introduced her to Elizabeth Coleman at the Winterland Gala in February, she had nearly choked, knowing that she was looking at her half sister.

Chelsea sat down hard on the carpet in front of the fire. She pulled her knees up to her chin and stared into the flames.

It’s raining goddamned weddings. The eighty-year-old bitch, too used up to get out of her hospital bed, is getting married. My half sister, the urchin slut, is getting married. And here I sit. Alone. Always alone. First Steve, now Simon, gone.

I always end up alone.

After the dustup at the Autumn Wonderland, Simon had distanced himself, then managed to disappear altogether. She didn’t need to ask why she always ended up alone; she knew. She did not understand, however, how everyone else knew. She began to sway back and forth, an old rhythm. The fire was too hot on her face, but she didn’t move away. Her eyes open but unfocused, she stared into the leaping flames.

And now, another one of my father’s bastards has crawled up from the muck, ready to make things difficult for me.

Everything is too much. Too much.

Too much.

It is time.

Someone will pay.

Elizabeth? No. Steve.

Steve will pay.

Chapter Forty-Two

Steve squinted into a rare clear-and-cold December sun break as he pulled up in front of
La Boutique
. A green neon sign in the window spelled out O-P-E-N, over and over.

His old habits asserted themselves.
High-end neighborhood, probably paying more per square foot than the foot traffic justifies. Trendy older building that will be nearly impossible to sell when it comes time because the earthquake retrofitting will cost as much as the building itself. Still, good lines, nice architectural touches. If I was in the market, I would pass.

At first glance, the front window of Chelsea’s store looked like an incomprehensible swirl of golden loops and circles. When he really focused on it, though, Steve realized that the swoops eventually formed the words,
La Boutique.

Not signage I would recommend, either, but I am obviously not their target audience.

He tried and failed to picture himself going into the store to pick out a gift for Elizabeth. Even when he could have afforded what Chelsea sold, Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted it.

A burst of warm, lavender-scented air coated him as he stepped inside, while a bell announced his presence with a soft
bong
. The showroom floor had very little merchandise on display. Two ornate display racks each displayed a few trendy outfits, and half a dozen glass shelves held fashion trinkets and accessories, but that was it. Steve walked past a jacket and examined its delicate price tag. It read "$1600.00." He let it drop.

Chelsea emerged from the back of the store in a tailored suit, smiling what Steve called 'the women's social smile.' She came close enough to kiss the air beside Steve’s face. He could smell expensive perfume.

“Steve, darling, thank you so much for stopping by. Especially after I’ve been acting such a fool.”

“No problem, but I can’t stay. I need to pick up Elizabeth and get over to Mom’s room. Lizzie is going to help her fix her hair for the big event.”

Chelsea’s smile remained, permafrost in the Alaskan tundra.

“Of course, of course. How nice. It’s so nice to see the way that they have hit it off with each other, isn’t it?”

Steve narrowed his eyes a fraction of an inch.

Which is the real Chelsea? The bitch-queen, or this modern-day female Eddie Haskell standing in front of me?

“Oh! I almost forgot why you stopped by. Stay right here.”

Chelsea bustled around behind the small counter that held a cash register and a display of what Steve guessed were hair bands. She reached under the counter and pulled out a small, ornate wooden box, about the size of a small music box. He could tell at a glance that its latch was sterling silver. “I feel terrible that I didn’t even have a chance to have it wrapped for you, but I really want you to have this. It’s important to me. But.” The plastic social smile became a coquettish pout. “You have to promise not to take advantage of the fact I didn’t wrap it. No peeking until you open your wedding gifts.” She held the box out to Steve, who accepted it with the same caution with which he would have received a live grenade.

Something feels wrong
. “What is this, Chelsea?”

“It’s a wedding present, silly. Please don’t open it until after your nuptials.”

Steve retreated into his accustomed urbane politeness. “Well, that’s very kind of you. I will do that. Thank you. And now, I must be off.”

He attempted a smile, couldn’t quite muster one, settled for a nod, then turned and headed for the door. The soft
bong
attended his departure.

Halfway between
La Boutique
and his Taurus, he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He turned, thinking perhaps Chelsea was returning something he had dropped something in the shop.

Ten feet away and closing, Steve saw a Chelsea he did not recognize. She was still perfectly made up, but the social smile had been replaced with a snarl. Her eyes blazed. In spite of her heels, she was nearly running. Too shocked to react, he stood still as she came within reach.

“Time for you to pay,” she hissed.

“Chelsea, what in the hell—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Chelsea lunged at him and slapped him with all the Pilates-trained strength she could muster, raking her manicured and sharpened nails from his left eye down his cheek to his neck, drawing blood.

Steve’s head rocked back. His vision exploded with bright lights. The pain of the slap and the dig of her nails overcame the sheer shock of the moment. He stepped back and put his left hand to his injured face, nearly dropping the small box. He caught it before it fell.

Before Steve could do more than that, Chelsea turned and ran away. Ten yards from her store, her right ankle twisted and she fell hard to the sidewalk, badly scraping her knee and hand. She popped up immediately and without a backward glance, limped the last few steps to the store, threw open the door and ran in. Steve dimly took note of the sound as the deadbolt thunked home.

He wiped his left hand down his face, then held it away from him. Blood. Shaking, he walked the last few feet to his car, unlocked it, and sat down heavily behind the wheel. He set the box on the seat beside him, then looked into the rearview mirror. Three furrows of blood were dripping down his cheek. His left eye had not yet swollen shut, so he could still see a sunburst of blood at the edge.

He opened the glove box hoping for napkins, but found only a small package of hand wipes. He took one out, dabbed it against the fresh wound, and regretted it instantly.