Second Chances (5 page)

One afternoon, overwhelmed by the cacophony of family reunion noise and chaos, Pashmina sought refuge in the quiet comfort of a familiar café. The warm sun and soothing murmur of nearby conversations had her nearly dozing when a man slid suddenly into the empty seat across from her, startling her wide awake.

He had a few more lines on his perpetually tanned face and his once thick brown hair was now a mop of soft steel curls that tumbled wildly on his neck, but his roguish smile and shining eyes like crystal blue pools were just as she remembered them. She’d have known him anywhere. “You’re late,” she smiled at George, “about twenty-nine years late in fact.”

“Twenty-eight years, six months, and three days actually,” he corrected her casually drinking from the tea cup in front of her. His bright expression dimmed and he waved the waiter over, “Ouzo please and plenty of it.”

Pashmina laughed, secretly grateful for the fortifying liquid. So many years had passed since they’d last seen each other, what must she look like to him now? “Am I so scary you need liquid courage to face me?”

“On the contrary Pashmina, you’re exactly as I remember you, lovelier than ever.” George’s eyes glowed like sapphires and he shrugged, uncharacteristically shy, “but after all this time, nerves of steel would be useful right now.” Reaching across the table, he grasped her hand firmly in his. “How are you?”

His skin was rough, calloused but warm and Pashmina relaxed immediately, the way she used to whenever he touched her. Blushing, she pulled the traitorous hand into the solitary confinement of her lap where it twitched lonely and alone, much like she’d been when George Levendakis entered her life.

She’d been married only nine months, with Harry away at sea for the last two, when she first met George at a lecture for novice writers. He was an investigative journalist for the Athens daily newspaper, and one of four panelists who spoke about the challenges of becoming a proficient and published author, the very thing Pashmina dreamed of becoming. Engaging and funny and knowledgeable, George was a standout panelist and she’d sought him out at the post-lecture coffee hour.

She found him easily, a lone figure in the midst of a growing group of giggling girls. No surprise there, Mr. Levendakis was brilliant and gorgeous, and she didn’t have a prayer of breaking through the ever-expanding estrogen barrier surrounding him. Feeling thwarted and disappointed she moved to leave when a familiar voice called out to her.

“Darling, there you are!” She turned slightly to see the crowd parting like the Red Sea and George crossing through it directly toward her. “I’m so glad you could make it. It’s lovely to see you,” he exclaimed grinning from ear-to-ear. Taking hold of her elbow, he guided her toward the coffee station, his lips whispering conspiratorially against her ear, “Save me, please.”

“I don’t understand,” she started, overwhelmingly conscious of her tingling ear. “How can I help you Mr. Levendakis?”

“Call me George, please, and believe me you’ve already done more than you know.” He winked, flirtatious but mischievous as a little boy making Pashmina laugh.

“Well I’m not sure what I’ve done to make you so happy, but it was my pleasure,” she said smiling. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for the inspiring talk you gave tonight.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Smiling warmly in return, his eyes roamed the contours of her beautiful face. “But you have me at a disadvantage Ms.?”

“Mrs.,” she corrected, wondering if she’d only imagined his eyes dimming at the assertion. “Pashmina Papadakis, I mean Lynch.” Blushing lightly she explained, “I haven’t been married very long.”

“Timing’s never been my strong suit,” he lamented, mesmerized by the growing blush heating Pashmina’s soft cheeks into blossoming roses and he felt his own blood warm in response. “But fate must have brought us together for a reason don’t you think?”

George’s voice poured over her like satin, silky and smooth and Pashmina struggled to breathe. A wayward coffee cup smashed nearby providing a welcome distraction as she mentally pulled herself together. “I’m sure fate had nothing to do with it Mr., I mean George,” she corrected herself. “We make our own decisions, our own choices. For example, I chose to come here tonight.”

With a slight bow he conceded her point. “And I decided I couldn’t let the gorgeous woman sitting in the fourth row, fifth seat from the left leave before I knew her name,” he teased.

Trapped in his piercing blue gaze, Pashmina was nervous. She should leave, that much she knew, but she was captivated. And flattered. Attempting to bring the conversation back to safer ground she inquired, “You’re a newspaper reporter, are you also a novelist?” George’s handsome mouth lifted in a crooked smile making her wonder what it would be like to kiss those full masculine lips.

“Not yet,” he answered pulling her gaze back to his, “but one day I will be. I just need inspiration and the right story.” Still smiling, he pressed his lips to her hand, “the good news is my inspiration just arrived, and I’m sure the rest can’t be far behind.”

Pashmina’s throat was dry and her knees felt like jelly. Get a grip you’re a married woman! She thought about Harry; only a few more months and he’d be home. Then finally they could start building a life together with a home of their own and children. “We’ll have so many babies we’ll have our own football team,” he’d crowed pulling her close for an impassioned kiss, “or at least we’ll have fun trying!”

She sighed. Her heart happily belonged to Harry she just wanted him home, desperately. In the meantime, this naval wife would put her heart into other passionate pursuits. Since she was a little girl, she’d kept a diary, loving the feel of the pen in her hand, the way it moved at her command putting thoughts and feelings on paper. But as she’d grown older, the girlish musings of her journal entries got old too and a new dream was born.

“Are you an author?” George’s question interrupted her thoughts.

“Trying to be,” she admitted, slightly embarrassed. “I mean I’ve written a few short stories but nothing that would knock your socks off and I’ve never had anything published.”

“Writing is the hardest thing about being an author you know.” Pashmina shot him a look of annoyance and he laughed. “I’m serious. Putting your ideas into words that other people connect with is an enormous challenge but if you’re successful, there’s no greater honor.” Sweeping his hand through the air he painted a picture, “Just imagine, millions of people waiting to get their hands on your book, the next great novel from Pashmina Papadakis.”

“Lynch,” she said dreamily, relishing the image he created, “the next great novel by Pashmina Lynch.”

George frowned. “Not quite the same ring to it but …” Standing so close he could almost hear her silent wish and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to make it happen. Beneath that pure feminine exterior was an ambitious young woman eager to break out but not sure how. Maybe he was crazy, he’d only just met her and he didn’t really know anything about her, nor was it a habit of his to help other people, even beautiful women like Pashmina, but right now making her dreams come true was the only thing he wanted to do.

Excited, he grabbed her hands. “Pashmina, let me help you. I can coach you. I can introduce you to people in publishing. We can work together, you on your book and me on mine. Please, just say ‘yes’.”

He pleaded with her like a puppy dog begging for a treat and Pashmina laughed, delighted. George Levendakis, the practiced investigative writer so skilled he was being hailed as the next Carl Bernstein, wanted to work with her! Thank you, guardian angel.

Their ‘tutoring’ sessions began that night as they talked over coffee and into the following months meeting several times a week to discuss writing processes, create plot outlines, and of course to write, she at her typewriter, George tapping away next to her on his. At times their discussions were heated both of them having their own strong opinions on things, and other times they wrote in companionable silence but always, Pashmina was happy reveling in the friendship they shared. In fact, she was depending on it more and more every day to fill the void caused by Harry’s prolonged absence.

In contrast to the emptiness around her, George was vibrant and warm; he believed in her, believed that she could be a great writer, and he made her feel beautiful with his silly incessant professions of desire. Like the prize at the bottom of a box of Cracker Jacks, she felt cherished. George loved her and she was deeply fond of him. What woman wouldn’t be? He was charming and funny, attentive and attractive, and he pursued her relentlessly until she couldn’t resist him any longer.

In retrospect, she supposed their affair was inevitable. That’s what happens when an ardently amorous man and an infatuated young woman jump off a cliff together. It was fast and furious and passionate and it was wrong. Pashmina knew it and was consumed with guilt and remorse. George was a terrific guy but Harry was her husband, he was the one she wanted to share her life with. The connection between them had to end.

In hindsight, saying goodbye to George wasn’t the hardest thing she’d ever have to do but it hadn’t been easy especially since George disagreed vehemently, alternately pleading and arguing with her not to destroy their relationship. “Don’t do this Pashmina,” he begged, “we have something other people only dream of.”

But if she’d had any doubts, Harry’s homecoming soon after was all she needed to set her straight and remember how much she loved him. And he loved her too. She’d seen it shining brightly in his eyes dark with passion. She’d felt it in the tenderness of his kisses and the gentleness of his hands as they skimmed over her warm, bare skin, reacquainting themselves with the curves and valleys of her body. Pashmina was in heaven.

Until Harry left suddenly for no reason, without any explanation and the bottom fell out of her happy little world. What the hell happened? Mystified, she tried to make sense of it all, futilely begging Harry to talk to her and seeking comfort from her mother. “You can’t force a heart to change the way it feels Sweetheart. Let him go,” she urged, stroking Pashmina’s long, dark hair as her daughter sobbed in her arms. “Let him go and the pain will go too. In time.”

Praying for time to fly and Harry to come back, she was less than enthused when George’s note arrived asking her to meet him at a local cafe. ‘It’s important Pashmina, a matter of life or death. Please come.’ George always did have a flare for the dramatic. She smiled slightly wondering what could be so imperative and debated the wisdom of going at all. The last thing she wanted was to fuel any false hopes of their getting back together.

To her surprise though, it was George who didn’t show as Pashmina waited for him well past their appointed meeting time. Annoyed, she was getting ready to pack it in when a messenger approached her table with a large manila envelope and a letter addressed to her:

Dearest Pashmina,

Forgive me. I promise you that nothing short of extreme circumstances would have kept me from you today and in fact the situation is dire. I have to go away for a while. I’m not sure where or for how long. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you without putting you in danger as well. Until I can return to you, I’m entrusting my heart and this package to your precious and infinite care. Please guard them well and wait for me.

Forever yours,

George

And just like that, both the men in her life were gone and Pashmina surrendered, finally giving into the grief and despair that followed her everywhere. Existing but not living she wandered through the days, listless, without purpose, conserving all her remaining energy until the hurt slowly scabbed over and she could breathe without screaming. After a while, the fog began to lift and gradually she began to feel more like herself again, young, and strong. And pregnant.

“What’s that for?” she snorted as Sofie shoved a pregnancy stick in her hand. Her dearest friend in the world, Sofie was the only living person who knew about her and George.

“Probably nothing,” she shrugged, “but maybe something.”

Pashmina was stunned. “You think I’m pregnant?” A mental calendar flipped through her head as she tried to recall her last period. Admittedly the throes of depression hadn’t been kind to her body melting away too many pounds, robbing the luster from her skin and hair; she’d barely noticed the absence of her natural cycle. “Impossible.” Crossing her arms defiantly, she winced as they rubbed against her full and tender breasts. Uh oh.

Thrilled at first, her initial joy was quickly squelched by the certainty that George was the father; and a father missing in action at that. Even if she wanted to tell him, she had no idea where he was or how to find him. If only it was Harry’s baby then everything would be right again, she’d go to him and they’d live happily ever after, but dreaming didn’t change the facts. She’d never try to pass another man’s baby off as Harry’s, she couldn’t do that to him but she couldn’t live without him either.

Ultimately it was Sofie who came up with the solution to all of her problems. “You need to leave Greece Pashmina. Go somewhere no one knows you and have the baby. People are always looking to adopt newborns, you won’t have any problem finding a good home for yours and then you’ll be free to go after Harry.

Pashmina was uncertain. “It sounds so simple.”

But Sofie was confident. “We’ll have to come up with something to tell your mother and your family, but I’ll help you,” she promised.