Second Chance Love (5 page)

“Honestly, Steve. Pet Shop Boys? What were you thinking?”

“You question my youthful musical taste? I’m cut to the bone!” The banter was a thrill of remembered companionship, trust, joy, and yes, long-neglected love.

When they got to her front door, Elizabeth turned to him with her keys in her hand. “I just want to make sure I was clear. I don’t make very much money, and I never have. My place isn’t much.”

Steve laid a hand softly on her arm. “Lizzie, it’s me. I’ve never cared about that and I never will.”

“Okay, then…” she took a deep breath and opened the lock. As soon as the door swung open, Sebastian ran toward her but pulled up short. He recovered his dignity quickly, turning his back on them and walking away.

“That’s Sebastian,” Elizabeth said. “He’s been the only man in my life for the last eight years. He doesn’t take up much room in the bed, though. Here, have a seat on the couch. I’ll turn up the heat. It’s a little cold in here.”

Steve looked around the small living room, at the worn couch and rug and the bookcases filled with books that took up every available space on the wall, saying, “It’s nice, Lizzy. It’s got your touches in it. I like it.”

“Thanks, but I know what it is. It’s been fine for me. I don’t need much.” She turned the radio on to fill up the quiet. A commercial pitching “Last minute gifts for last minute shoppers” was playing. She opened the bottom drawer of a dresser in the corner of the living room and pushed a few sweaters aside. “Here it is.” She pulled out a small book and sat on the other end of the couch from Steve. “Since it seems to be true confessions day today, here’s mine. You weren’t the only one with something on your mind that day. This is the present I was going to give you that night.”

She set the book on the middle cushion of the couch and pushed it toward him.

“Those are the mental meanderings of twenty-year-old Elizabeth Lynn Coleman, recorded for posterity by a number of different-colored gel pens. Mostly it’s really bad poetry that I should have thrown away years ago. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

She took a deep breath. “Steve, all those poems were about you. I was going to tell you that night.”

He hung his head. When he looked at her again, she saw tears in his eyes.

“Lizzie…”

She stopped him short. “Steve… that was a long time ago. We lost that chance that night. I’m sorry.”

He smiled a little at her, a wistful smile under unbearably sad eyes.

“I suppose you’re right. That moment, that chance, is gone.” He reached over and touched her hand. “But it’s sure nice to know you felt that way once.”

“Say,” Elizabeth said, “It always takes a long time to warm up in here. Are you cold? Would you like some tea?”

“I would love some.”

She got up and put the teapot on. A few minutes later, when she came back into the room carrying the two steaming cups, Steve had his reading glasses on and was holding her book of poetry close to the light. He looked up at her. “Your Christmas tree is still just sitting there. How come you didn’t decorate it?”

“I don’t know. I thought I might start a new tradition, decorating the tree on Christmas night, just to be different.” She walked into the kitchen and pulled down a box from the back of her pantry. She took the lid off and carried it to the living room. It was filled with ornaments, tinsel and lights. “Let’s get to work.”

Elizabeth dug around at the back of her closet and found the tree stand. Even when they put it in straight, the tree had a decided lean. As she moved it over by the window, it left a trail of needles behind. She took out her strings of lights and stretched them across the floor. He plugged them in to make sure they worked. After a little fidgeting with the bulbs, they did.
They strung the lights around the tree, then placed each ornament carefully, falling into step, working together, just like old times, to trim the tree.

Finally, Steve handed Elizabeth the star, simple and shiny, and she reached to place it on the top of the tree. At the same moment, he pulled down the shade on the one window of the tiny living room, and the tree glowed magically like a Christmas beacon in the darkened room. She spun to face him, smiling at their achievement. Steve did something he did often in business and almost never in his real life. He took a chance.

He took Elizabeth’s hand and held it for a moment, gauging her reaction. She looked back at him evenly. He pulled her to him and kissed her gently. She closed her eyes and flowed into his arms. It was a kiss delayed by twenty years, but those years seemed to have impacted it like high-end single-malt Scotch. Rich, complex, unequaled.

Elizabeth pulled away and looked into his eyes. He smiled contentedly at her.

“If I’d known you could kiss like that, I never would have let you leave,” Lizzie said.

He stroked her cheek softly. “If that first chance is in the past, is this another chance?”

“I guess it is,” she said, sliding her arms around his neck. “Christmas is the time for second chances. Even old Ebenezer got that much.”

The chiming bells that served as the intro to “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” came on the radio.

Chapter Eight

Steve finally shut Lizzie’s apartment door behind him and made his way down the dingy hallway to the stairs. His Rolex read 2:02 AM. When he reached the landing, his emotions overtook him and he sat down abruptly on the top step. He leaned his head against wall, indifferent to its accumulated grime and grunge. His overcoat pocket held the comforting weight of the handwritten book of poetry. A twenty-year-delayed Christmas gift from Elizabeth Coleman.

Lizzie. His Lizzie.

He didn't try to check the tears.
I’ve lived a bottled-up, buttoned-down life too long. No more.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and descended the last flight.

When he walked out the front door into a starless night, he wasn't sure where to go. He was unfamiliar with the area and had forgotten where he had parked his car. He thumbed his phone awake.

“Suzi? I’ve lost my car. Can you show me a route?”

“Of course, Steve,” the warm contralto computer voice answered instantly. “You are less than a mile from your car. Would you like a walking or driving route? I can connect you with a taxi to pick you up and deliver you.”

“It’s a nice night for a stroll,” Steve said, pulling the collar of his coat higher around his neck. “Show me the walking route.” A map of the area appeared on his screen. Suzi said, “Turn east from where you are standing, go two blocks and turn right onto 1
^st
Avenue.”

He felt lighter than he had in many years. He considered giving a lamppost a Gene Kelly,
Singing in the Rain
twirl, but thought better of it. He settled for whistling a few bars from
The Christmas Song
and taking the occasional skip-step.
I need to cut back on a few meals for a while. Then I can swing on a lamppost if I feel like it.

Fifteen minutes later, Suzi had guided him to the transponder in his Mercedes SLS, where he sat down in accustomed leather-wrapped comfort. He pushed the Start button and said, “Home, Suzi.” Another map appeared on his dashboard screen. Suzi had been expensive. The cutting edge often was. Sometimes it even paid for itself, as Suzi did.

Chapter Nine

At 8:30 the next morning, Elizabeth walked down the steps of her apartment and started the nine-block journey to The Prints and the Pauper, the used bookstore where she had worked for the last two decades. She pulled her scarf tight against the late December wind.

The Christmas tree lot where she had run into Steve was now abandoned. The sign which had read, “Xmas trees for sale,” now had one word crudely painted at the top: “Free.” A dozen or so scraggly trees remained, leaning haphazardly against their supports; the ones nobody had wanted, and now, never would. Elizabeth rarely stopped in her daily commute, but today she took a moment and wandered through the deserted lot, taking her gloves off and touching the trees.
If two days ago, someone had told me that a crummy guy on a crummy tree lot would change my life, I would have thought she was crazy. But, life is a little crazy sometimes.

At 8:50, she turned the key in the lock at the bookstore, flipping the sign to 'OPEN' ten minutes early. She did this not by turning on a switch, but by physically turning a sign that hung from twine. Some bookstores had gone high-tech. The Prints and the Pauper had not.

It did not have a perky employee near the door pitching electronic readers. It had not been laid out by marketing wonks to lead customers past all the high-margin merchandise. It lacked an espresso bar, overpriced scones or trendy teas, much less a dining area; it gave away free coffee. It had no selection of CDs or DVDs for sale, nor did it have a small stage for guest artists. Those who came seeking a Wi-Fi hotspot might as well have been seeking solid gold nuggets. Elizabeth had never once, in her entire career, asked a customer if he or she had purchased a 'loyalty card,' nor had she ever offered one for sale with the promise of a minor discount on future purchases.

Instead, there were books: stacks and stacks of books, lovingly organized, dusted, and maintained by Elizabeth herself. Mr. Bartleby owned the store, but over the years he had increasingly exercised his option not to come in. The store had become her domain. There was no computer, nor did she see the need for one. The sixties-era cash register still worked fine, and it made satisfying, clunky sounds when she operated it. The inventory control and search system for the store was called 'Elizabeth Coleman.' If someone came in asking for
Exodus
by Leon Uris, or
Giants in the Earth
by Hans Rolvaag, she knew exactly where they were, and probably what condition they were in.

To Elizabeth, the best part of coming to work was the smell. Tens of thousands of books, old and new, gave off a smell like none other. Mingled with the smell of the coffeepot she always had going, this was her potpourri. It felt relaxing, welcoming, and like home.

The mystery side room also held a few modestly tatty sofas and overstuffed chairs. Customers could sit and read if they liked, breathing in the exotic incense called Used Bookstore. The Locked Room Readers met there on the third Thursday of the month, ostensibly to discuss mysteries but prone to wander off topic. A number of regulars stopped in almost daily for coffee, books and conversation, and this was their place.

Elizabeth generally considered music in the store an unwelcome distraction from conversation or reading, but not today. She tuned the elderly radio behind the counter to the classical music station.
Ah, Edvard Grieg
, thought Elizabeth as she hummed along while making coffee, turning on lights and sweeping the well-worn hardwood floor.

Just a few minutes after 9:00, the small bell above the door chimed. Elizabeth looked up to see and hear Gail Weathers. Gail was a regular at The Prints and the Pauper. She worked at Faded Memories, the vintage clothing store two doors down. As was her habit, Gail entered already in mid-sentence. “…and I just don’t know what they were thinking? Yoga pants? I think that was asking too much of that fabric to contain all that…”

Someone unfamiliar with Gail would have assumed she was talking on a Bluetooth earpiece, but this wasn't the case, nor did she suffer from a mental condition. Gail just talked, as naturally as she breathed, with or without a conversation partner.

Gail stood around 5'6", carried an extra pound or two, and wore her hair in an afro struck through with silvery gray. She was unwilling either to color her hair or update its style. She considered its markings her badge of life. Her unlined face was that of a woman who went to bed every night with questions answered and conscience clear. It made her look two decades younger than her fifty-five years, in spite of wire-rimmed bifocals.

Elizabeth smiled. “Good morning, Gail.”

“Good morning, sweetheart, I was watching this old movie last night, because, you know, everything’s in re-runs during the holidays, and…” She stopped and cocked her head, observing Elizabeth more closely. Any silence longer than three seconds around Gail was unusual, and this one stretched out before she said: “What happened to you?”

Elizabeth’s hand flew first to her hair, then her face, flitting around like a hummingbird at a lilac bush, trying to find what Gail might be seeing.

“What do you mean, ‘What happened to me?’”

“I mean just that. I’ve been stopping off here on my way to the shop for more than ten years. Every day, it’s exactly the same. That’s why I stop in. I like things that stay the same. But today…” Gail walked several steps closer to Elizabeth, tilting her head back to look through the bottom of her glasses. “Are you wearing makeup?”

“What? Oh, that. Not really. I mean, kind of, I guess. Just a little eyeliner and lipstick I found in the bathroom this morning while I was getting ready.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm. You’re playing music in the store. You’re wearing makeup. And you're acting like nothing happened.” Gail’s eyebrows shot up and she looked stern. “Spill.”

Elizabeth was just starting to form a denial when the bell chimed again. The door opened halfway. Steve Larson poked his head in inquisitively, saying “Hello?” as if entering an actor’s dressing room instead of a place of business.

Elizabeth’s eyes flew wide in surprise. “Steve! What are you doing here?”

Steve stepped inside, grabbed the first book he saw, looked at the spine and said “I’ve been looking everywhere for a copy of… ummm…” He squinted, saw that the title was
Your Vulva and You
, put it down, and grabbed the next nearest book. "...
The Silmarillion
. Yes. I’ve been looking everywhere for it, and I heard this place had a copy. I had no idea you worked here, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

Meanwhile, Gail was close to setting a new non-speaking personal record (awake division) when she looked at Elizabeth, then at Steve, then back at Elizabeth in triumph. “I knew it! ‘Lizzie?’ Who in the world calls you ‘Lizzie?’”

Steve noticed Gail for the first time. “Sorry. I’m Steve. Steve Larson. Lizzie and I are old friends. Since junior high. We ran into each other on Christmas Eve for the first time in twenty years and I just wanted to stop in and say hi.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.” She lifted her right eyebrow. “I feel like I’ve walked into the middle of one of those Lifetime Christmas movies, and I’ve been cast as the black best friend. Damn it. I always hoped I’d be playing the lead…”

Elizabeth came around the counter and gave Steve a quick hug. “Seriously, Steve. What are you doing here? Don’t you have a company to run?”

“Oh, it pretty much runs itself these days. Well, not quite, but it won’t miss me for a few minutes. I was so tangled up in seeing you again that I forgot to tell you—I have to go out of town today. I'd rather cancel the trip, but I’m scheduled to give a keynote address, and I can’t get out of it.”

“There’s no reason you should,” Elizabeth said.

“Well, I can think of more than one, but it doesn’t matter because I have to go. Anyway, after that trip, I fly straight to Japan to talk to some potential investors, so I’ll be gone almost three weeks.”

Three weeks? Ouch.
Elizabeth forced a smile. “Okay, see you when you get back.”

Steve raised an eyebrow and gave her a mock-wounded smile. “You could at least
pretend
that it’s bad news that you’re not going to see me for three weeks. I’m going to miss you.”

“Forty-eight hours ago, I hadn’t seen you in twenty years. I think I can manage three weeks now.”

“Always-Practical-Lizzie,” Steve said, a name he had tagged her with in high school. “Anyway, my reason for coming by, other than to get my ego dented, was to see if you would go with me to the Winterland Gala. It’s a charity event on January 18
^th
to raise money for literacy projects in the inner city.”

“Oh, Steve, I’m sorry, but I can’t. I don’t have anything to wear, and… I would be uncomfortable.”

“Why? You’d be with me. And I can buy a dress for you. What’s your size? I can have a dozen dresses sent over here this afternoon. Just pick out one you like.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I was afraid of this. Steve, I can’t let you buy me a dress, especially not from someone that delivers them here to the bookstore. Do you know how expensive that is?”

Steve opened his mouth to object, but Lizzie cut him off.

“You’re about to say that the cost doesn’t matter, but that’s because you have money. It matters to me. I…”

Gail stepped forward, put her hand on Elizabeth’s arm and spoke over her: “Mr. Larson, Miss Elizabeth will gladly accept your invitation. No need to send her any dresses. We’ll take care of everything. What time does she need to be ready on the 18
^th
?”

Steve looked from Gail's expectant gaze, to Elizabeth's deer-meets-headlights consternation, and back to Gail. “I’d like to pick her up around six. Cocktail hour will start around seven, but I’d rather skip that and go out to dinner first.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to begin an epic recitation of objections, but Hurricane Gail squelched them. She turned to face Elizabeth. “Honey, I have been watching you sitting in this shop doing nothing for ten years. You’ve got to get out and live while you can. Look at me. What’s the greatest excitement in my life? When the Bachelor hands out his final rose or when they announce the new Dancing with the Stars cast? Is that what you want?”

Elizabeth stood silent for two seconds.
He looks amused, darn him! And darn Gail for committing me to this
. She took a deep breath and said, “Okay. I’ll go. But if you leave me alone with a bunch of social X-rays, I will kill you.”

“Oh, Tom Wolfe reference. Bonus points! Great, I’m not getting back until the day before the Gala, so where do you want me to pick you up? At your place?”

Elizabeth pictured herself getting dressed and ready in her small apartment with the tiny bathroom and her white Persian cat Sebastian jumping up on her every two minutes. "Pick me up here.” Gail nodded and smiled.

“Okay, then. It’s all settled,” Steve said. A wistful look crossed his face. “I really will miss you, Lizzie. I hate having to leave so soon after finding you again. Can I have a cell phone delivered here to the shop for you, so I can call you?”

Elizabeth shook her head, firmly, twice. “Out of the question. I won’t take expensive gifts from you, Steve. It’s not right. If it’s an emergency, you can call me here at the shop. Even if it’s after hours, there’s an answering machine.”

Wow. Not far removed from smoke signals and semaphore. Come to think of it, I don't see any computers in here.
“I might like to talk to you when it’s not an emergency," he said quietly. "I remember our three-hour phone calls and our parents pounding on our doors, telling us to hang up the phone.”

Elizabeth softened, then recovered. “I know, and those were nice times. They’ll just have to wait for a while. We’ve got lots of time. Let’s not rush it.”

“All right,” Steve sighed. “Well, I’ll miss my plane if I don't get going.” He wanted to lean in and give Elizabeth a goodbye kiss. Gail watched expectantly, as if watching a drama unfold from the studio audience seats on
Dr. Phil
. “Bye, Lizzie. I really will miss you.” He reached out and touched her hand briefly, then turned and left the shop.

Gail cocked both eyebrows at Lizzie, glanced at the antique clock on the wall, then back. “It is 9:15. I have 45 minutes until I have to open the store. Now, spill.”