Second Time Around

Book Two of the Time Lottery Series

SECOND TIME AROUND

Nancy Moser

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Epilogue

Discussion Questions

About the Author

Also by Nancy Moser

Copyright

To my dear parents through marriage:
to Beverly and in loving memory of Bill.
Nothing made me happier than becoming a Moser.
Twenty-nine years and counting…

ONE

2003

Whatever is has already been,
and what will be has been before;
and God will call the past to account.

Ecclesiastes 3:15

Bangor, Maine

The car plunged off the cliff.

“No!”

David Stancowsky catapulted from sleep in time to hear the final echo of his cry fall away in his empty bedroom. In his empty house.

He gave himself the requisite ten seconds to allow his breathing to return to normal. There was no need to turn on a light, because he slept with one on. He grabbed the hand towel, which he placed on the bedside table every night, and rubbed his face roughly, then wiped his balding head. Would he ever be free of this nightmare?

Millie. Her car flying off the cliff. His fiancée dead.

Over the past forty-six years he’d come up with many scenarios as to how and why it had happened. Bad brakes, speed, she’d fallen asleep… One police officer had even broached the idea of suicide, but David had cut him off. How dare anyone even suggest… Their life together had been perfect, their wedding imminent. They had their entire lives in front of them.

If the crash had happened today, modern forensic technologies would have been able to show him exactly what had happened. But in 1958, a car that crashed into the ocean was lost, and a splintered guardrail told all the story that could be told.

Or that would be told.

David burrowed back into the covers, arranging his two body pillows on either side of him, remaking the moat that he nightly created in the middle of the king-size bed. Once settled, he adjusted the pillow for his head around his ears.

Drowning out the silence.

If only…

Atlanta, Georgia

They’d buried her mother a week ago.

Vanessa Caldwell sat in the lawyer’s office with her husband, Dudley, ready to hear the will of a mother she hadn’t had contact with in thirty-four years.

The lawyer had his back to them as he fiddled with a VCR.

“Can we please get this over with?” Vanessa asked. “I have things to do.”

Dudley put a calming hand on her knee and gave her a
behave yourself
look
.

Vanessa didn’t feel like behaving herself. She wanted this over. At her father’s request, she’d skipped the funeral. Gladly. She wasn’t in the mood to play the grieving daughter before a crowd. What little grief she did have was a one-act show that would be played out best here, as a way to expedite this last necessary step before she left the whole incident behind. And if she didn’t have to act at all? That would be even better. She’d play it by ear.

Actually, she was interested in the will more for curiosity’s sake than a desire to get anything. Whatever pittance her mother might have left her meant nothing. Materially, she and Dudley were more than well off, so a few extra dollars would merely be added to their bank account. And from a sentimental point of view? There was no sentiment left. At age sixteen, when her parents divorced, Vanessa had chosen to live with her banker father rather than her independent, hippie mother. She had no regrets. Until Vanessa’s marriage to Dudley, her father had provided the material requisites of life, while in return, Vanessa had filled the void caused by her mother’s absence. The truth was, her father was a weak man. He would have fallen apart if it hadn’t been for her capable presence. They’d been a good team, the dependent and the dependable.

Bottom line: He was Daddy. This woman who’d died was Mother.

“There,” the lawyer said, finally facing them. “Sorry for the delay. These machines make me all thumbs. Are you ready?”

“Sure.”
Whatever.

He pushed the PLAY button and moved out of the way. Vanessa could only assume the old woman who came on the screen was her mother. She looked like an aged flower child, her white hair long and unruly, the design on her East Indian top punctuated with beads. Vanessa would not have been surprised if she’d flashed a peace sign.

Yet when the woman started speaking, when she said, “Hello, Nessa,” the voice spiked a connection, a memory to Vanessa’s childhood before her mother had abandoned them. Vanessa felt the faintest hint of warmth, startling her with the knowledge that such an emotion
had
existed between them. Once.

“I hope you appreciate how this old free spirit is resorting to something very establishment by making this video for you, Nessa. But I see no other way to talk to you, to tell you what’s on my mind and my heart. I hesitate to leave you anything because that’s where your father excelled. I never could compete with that, nor could I compete with—or condone—the heady manipulation of people and events that is the hallmark of your father’s life. There is no peace in such an attitude. No peace with the world, with God, or with oneself. We both know that what Yardley Pruitt wants he gets one way or another. But you need to know that I wanted you, Nessa. I fought for you in the courts. You remember that, don’t you? I fought for you, but since your father could always make justice sing his own tune, I lost. I lost everything. I lost you, then lost sight of you… Are you married? Do I have grandchildren?”

The woman on the video sniffed then rearranged the flow of her broomstick skirt. “Life is often difficult, Nessa, but I’ve found it’s best to ‘rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.’” She smiled at the camera. “Wise words. If only we’d listen.”

She gave her head the slightest shake and continued. “But I mustn’t digress. The message I want to leave you with, dear daughter, is one of regret. My deep regret, and my desire to relieve you of your own. The truth is, I don’t know how your life turned out. Are you happy? Are you fulfilled? Through the years I’ve seen a few clippings of your father’s life—bank PR stuff—but never any mention of you. Your father’s penchant for manipulating every breath of those in his domain under the guise of need cannot have been to your advantage. It grieves me to think about how many chances you may have missed to find your true character just by the fact that you are your father’s daughter.”

Her mother sighed deeply. “I would have given you those chances, Nessa, by letting you blossom out of your own dreams and desires, instead of letting your father maneuver your life and emotions by playing the guilt card. I would even have let you fail, face consequences, and earn things on your own merit—not by having the right connections. This is a lesson I’ve learned in my own life. It’s one I cherish. But every instinct, every fiber of my being doubts that you’ve ever been afforded the opportunity to grow in yourself, your faith, or your character. From the moment you chose your precious daddy—”

“That’s enough!” Vanessa said. “Turn it off.”

The lawyer hit the PAUSE button, and Dorian Pruitt’s face froze oddly on the screen. “You really need to let her finish, Ms. Caldwell,” the lawyer said.

Vanessa stood, gathering her purse. “I see no reason to listen to my mother now, when she didn’t have the decency to contact me in decades. You heard her. She doesn’t even know my married name. She knows nothing about me. I’m going to be fifty this year. I am past the age of needing to listen to my mother. Especially an odd, estranged one.”

Dudley pulled her arm. “Come on, Vanessa. Just a few more minutes. What can it hurt?”

She was weary of the whole thing. “It hurts plenty when she says Daddy has ruined my character by being kind to me, nice to me, needing me, loving me. That’s absurd. He’s a wonderful man.”

Dudley cleared his throat.

She glared at him and clipped each word. “Don’t start.”

He adjusted himself in the leather armchair. “You know I won’t, but maybe I should. What your mother says makes sense. You have to admit he does push our guilt buttons a lot.”

“We don’t help him out of a feeling of guilt, we help him out of love. I am no one’s pawn.”

He shrugged and pointed at the screen. “I like her. I wish I’d known her.”

“You can’t like her
.
”
I won’t allow it.

He sighed. “I’m not your enemy, Vanessa. And if you’d stop being so defensive and finish listening to the video, you might discover your mother isn’t either.”

It was not like Dudley to confront her. Theirs was a flat-line relationship. Any deviation above or below that line was quickly dealt with in the fervent pursuit of the status quo. “How can you be on her side? My father and I are the ones who were left behind when she ran out on us.”

The lawyer stepped between them. “Ms. Caldwell. Please listen to the rest of the video. It was your mother’s wish that you see it.”

“So she can belittle my father and me?”

He patted the back of her chair. “Please.”

It was evident they were not going to let her leave until this was finished. So be it. She returned to her seat.

The lawyer messed with the remote. “How do I back this thing up a few seconds?”

“Here,” Dudley said, reaching for it. “Let me do it.”

He relinquished the control, and Dudley made the picture dance backward before hitting PLAY.

Vanessa’s mother continued. “…the moment you chose your precious daddy… you don’t realize it, Nessa, but your entire life changed at that moment. What could you have become, what kind of person might you be now, if we’d been allowed to keep our mother-daughter relationship alive?”

What was this “allowed” business? Her mother was the one who’d made the choice never to see her again.

Her mother put a hand to her chest. “I know my life would have been richer for it. And maybe all my worries about your father’s influence are moot. Maybe your life is full of joy and purpose and all good things. The tragedy is, I don’t know. And so I must go on what I suspect. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but my greatest hope for you stems out of my greatest fear.”

Vanessa crossed her arms. Joy? Purpose? Good things? She’d like to shove those blessings in her mother’s face. It was disconcerting how correct this woman was about how Vanessa’s life
had
turned out, as well as her father’s continued presence. And yet, it was also annoying. Her mother was acting as if it was inevitable that her life was less than perfect, full of weakness, and void of meaning. Vanessa knew exactly what she was doing. And if anyone was controlling things, it was she. Not her father.

“…giving you all my possessions—such as they are. And I want you to know that I’ve been very fulfilled being a second-grade teacher. It has not brought me your father’s kind of riches, but it has made me rich. Find that kind of wealth, Nessa. Find the wealth that comes from having faith, from trying your best, and from doing good out of love, not out of guilt or as a power play. I love you, flower-baby. Always have. Always will.”