SECOND CHANCE
AT FOREVER
A contemporary romance
by
NATALIE J. DAMSCHRODER
Echelon Press
Publishing
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by
Natalie J. Damschroder
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by
the U.S. Copyright Law. For information,
please address Echelon Press 9735 Country Meadows Lane 1-D,
Published by arrangement
with the author.
ISBN 1-59080-005-2
Cover illustration
Copyright © 2001 Stacey L. King
Dedication
This book can only be dedicated to my husband, Jim, who has
unswervingly offered physical, emotional, and often exasperated support in my
drive to succeed. Second Chance at
Forever would never have been completed without him.
Lisa Mondello gets equal
credit for helping this book get written. She
helped get me back on track even when I found myself miles away. And, of course, to McKenna, who finally was born so I could
unblock my creativity and continue writing.
Many thanks go to Holly
Fuhrmann, Susan Meier, Erin Hytrek, and Diana Rowe for offering their
experiences and expertise to help make this book realistic. Of course, any errors are mine.
Finally, I must pay
tribute to Karen Syed, Luci
Books
by Natalie J. Damschroder
Hunter's Song,
Avid Press LLC,
Angie Detmer had known her
recovery from the depths of despair would be a difficult one. She'd assumed, however, that the stumbling
block would be something a bit more challenging than a double mattress.
She
puffed and groaned her way backward up the stairs, dragging the floppy mattress
one step at a time.
Every fourth step or so she cursed Jazmine for not telling her the
apartment was on the third floor, and herself for never asking.
Of
course, at the time, she hadn't much cared where the apartment was. She still didn't care, except that she had no
one to help her move in. Jazz was out of
town. Her other old friends, the
Bedrosians, had given her a job, so she wouldn't ask them to give her manual
labor, too. Besides, they had to run the
shop. And she
knew no one else in D.C.
Loneliness
would have overwhelmed her if she hadn't already been steeped
in it. She paused at the second floor
landing and dragged her arm across her forehead, wishing she had something to
drink.
As
if on cue, the two apartment doors on the second floor opened, and twin little
old ladies stepped out. One carried a tray bearing a pitcher of
lemonade, complete with fresh lemon slices, and a glass. The other carried a plate of chocolate chip
cookies. They wore matching housecoats,
one with flowers, and the other with stripes.
Each one beamed at her from beneath a full head of snowy hair.
"Hello,
dear," the one with the lemonade said.
"Flossie and I thought you might like a snack."
"Yes,
it's awfully hot today," Flossie added. "Myrtle and I don't want you to
overdo."
Grateful
for the excuse to take a break, Angie leaned the mattress against the wall and
dusted her hands on her jeans.
"Thank
you," she said, stepping forward and lifting a full glass off the
tray. Aware of the ladies'
watchful stares, she took a tentative sip.
The beverage was tart and sweet but not too much of either. Her taste buds had been sleeping for the past
few months, but the lemonade tasted like ambrosia. Suddenly aware of her thirst, she gulped it
down. Flossie giggled.
"Wonderful! Here, dear, take a cookie." She offered the tray. The cookies were melt-in-your-mouth
perfect. Angie ate two, noting how
physical activity revved the appetite.
"Thanks,
ladies. I need to keep moving if I'm
going to get this done before dark."
She renewed her grip on the mattress, then
paused. "How rude of me." She dropped the mattress again. "I'm Angie Detmer. I guess I got so focused on my task that I
didn't think." She held her hands
awkwardly, aware of the film of dust on them.
The ladies beamed brighter.
"Oh,
we know who you are, dear," Flossie said.
Myrtle nodded.
"Yes,
Jazmine told us so much about you.
Welcome to the building."
"Thank
you." She tilted her head,
wondering exactly how much Jazz had
told them. Had she mentioned Todd's
death, and the will? Or
the mistresses that made the will moot?
No, she decided. Flossie and
Myrtle still beamed at her, without a hint of pity or disdain. She smiled, glad to
have a clean slate with her new neighbors.
"I'm
glad to be here." She stood for a
moment, torn between social pleasantries and the work ahead of her. Myrtle seemed to sense her dilemma and moved
toward her own doorway.
"We
won't keep you, dear. Do come visit when you're settled."
"I
will," Angie assured her, then bent to grab the
corner of the mattress again.
But Flossie frowned.
"Don't you have someone to help you? Those seem awfully heavy."
Angie
shook her head and began pulling.
"I don't need help, thanks." She wiggled the bulky mattress around the
corner, only half-aware of the women whispering about someone named
Michael. Their tone was vaguely
appalled, even fearful. She paused
again, about to see if she could help, but heard both apartment doors close
before she could maneuver past the mattress.
Finally
she got the darned thing into the bedroom and let it fall onto the floor. She barely stopped herself from dropping with
it. She couldn't afford to rest. She still had half a U-Haul to unload.
She
was plodding down the stairs when it happened.
A flare of light penetrated the haze she'd looked through since her
husband's death. The front door, which
she'd propped open as best she could, opened wider. The rest of the world remained dim,
colorless. But
the fog seemed to melt around the man who stepped into the hallway.
Angie
stopped on the second step from the bottom and blinked. Then blinked again. Nothing changed. The man hadn't noticed her yet. His keys chattered as he unlocked the door of
the first floor apartment. His t-shirt
should have seemed faded, stretched as it was across yard-wide shoulders and
straining around baseball biceps. But the royal blue glowed, contrasting with the inky black
bike shorts sprayed onto his thighs. Her
gaze strayed to muscles spandex didn't hide.
Sweat darkened the material in interesting places.
Then
she realized she could see those places because he'd turned toward her. Her eyes shot to his face but skimmed as they
passed. She barely had time to register Wow before his emerald eyes pierced her.
Pierced her?
She
almost laughed; so ridiculous was the notion.
Eyes couldn't pierce, no matter what the novelists and lyricists
said. They were simply bright, most
likely the product of contact lenses. He
had that kind of look—like a cover model, or calendar hunk. The kind of man who strategically dampened his
hair to make it look like he was sweating.
With
a regal nod, she swept past him. She
could feel him watching her walk down the hallway. Her breath hissed out as she crossed the
threshold, releasing the whiff she'd inhaled of pure male that testified to his
authenticity.
But she didn't have time to be curious. She heard the patter of slippered feet coming
down the stairs as she stepped onto the front stoop. Maybe this guy was
the Michael they'd been talking about earlier.
She climbed into the truck to drag a six-drawer dresser toward the
tailgate, then jumped to the street. She cursed the massive lump, an heirloom from
her maternal grandmother. The damn thing
had survived nearly a century without a nick, and she would be lucky to get it
out of the truck without smashing it on the pavement. She wished she hadn't let her former
employees help her load the stuff. If
she'd known how difficult it would be to unload alone, she'd have left a lot of
it behind.
Suddenly
the weight of the wood against her shoulder lightened.
"Get
out of the way."
The
man's voice penetrated the cotton that muffled every other noise she'd heard
since Todd's death, just as the sight of him had penetrated the matching
fog. It had to be the guy
from the hallway. Shrugging, she stepped
back. Muscle Man gently slid the dresser
to the ground. Angie had to be
impressed. Not only by his strength, but
by his control. And
his arm span. As she began to thank him,
though, she realized he was scowling at her.
"You
shouldn't be moving heavy furniture."
His gaze swept up and down her figure in reproach. Angie bristled.
"When
did you become my boss?"
"I'm
not trying to boss you." Now she
saw that the look in his eyes was concern, not criticism. "It's dangerous for you to be working so
hard."
"Oh?" Anger began to bubble in her. She propped her elbow on the side of the
truck and glared at him. "And just
what does that mean?" She prepared
a comeback for the inevitable assertion that women weren't strong enough for man's
work.
"It
means you could lose your baby."
"Oh."
How
did he know? Had Jazz told him? She'd sworn—no, she hadn't told anyone. Not even Jazz. She looked down,
half expecting that she'd started to show overnight. Maybe her face looked fuller. But what guy would
notice the 'glow of pregnancy' in a woman?
Only old ladies recognized it.
That
was it. Flossie and Myrtle had probably
guessed.
Now
that she wasn't distracted by that mystery, she
flushed with shame. She should have
thought of the dangers. She wasn't
ignorant of the details of pregnancy. But since she still didn't know how she felt about her
situation, she'd ignored those details.
Well,
she didn't have a choice. And it was none of this guy's business that she had no one
to help her, or that she'd forgotten she was pregnant. She feigned a cavalier attitude and hefted
two drawers. "Is that all?"
Muscle
Man followed her, grabbing her upper arm at the door.
"Angie,
I can't let you do this."
"Excuse
me?" She fixed a pointed look on
him. "And you are?"
"I'm
sorry." He dropped her arm. "Michael Ripley. I'm the building's superintendent. Jazz is a friend of mine."
Angie
nodded in understanding, then turned again, hoping
he'd give up. She was halfway up the
stairs before he caught up to her.
"Let me help you!" Frustration put a growl into his voice, and
he snatched one of the dresser drawers from her. Angie shrugged and kept going. It was easier not to argue. But her awareness of
him behind her grew as they climbed the stairs.
Heat slid from the back of her neck, down her spine, her legs, and into
her ankles. She knew that if she'd had
eyes in the back of her head she could have watched his gaze follow that same
path.
When
they reached the third floor landing she strode through the door and into the
bedroom. She tossed the dresser drawer
onto the mattress, and spun to exit again.
Except her way was blocked by a mile-wide
chest. An urge flashed through her to
burrow into that chest like a rabbit into its hole. Alarmed, she hid it by glowering at him.
"Why
are you in my bedroom?"
"This
is where you went." His grin
vanished as she tried to pass him.
"Wait a minute. I want to
talk to you."
Since
he blocked the whole doorway, she had no choice. She folded her arms and waited. But now that he had
her attention, he seemed uncertain what to say.
"Flossie
and Myrtle are right, aren't they?"
He placed his hands on her shoulders.
"You are pregnant."
She
avoided his gaze so he wouldn't see the truth in her eyes, knowing that doing
so admitted her guilt anyway. She asked
herself why she didn't pull away. This
stranger had no business prying. But she didn't want to move, and that made her angry again.
"Did
Jazz appoint you Moral Guardian, too?"
He
grimaced. "Kind of. She didn't say so outright, but she wants me
to watch out for you."
Anger
flared higher. Angie jerked out of his
grasp and stuck her fists on her hips.
"She has no right to do that."
But she couldn't aim her anger at her
friend. Jazz had offered this apartment,
and a friendship Angie had ignored for too long. Besides, Jazz didn't know about the
baby. Her frustration redirected itself
to the man in front of her. "I've
been taking care of myself for a long time, and no self-appointed knight is
going to charge to my rescue. Got
it?"
Michael
nodded, then folded his arms, and leaned against the bedroom doorway. "Not to ruin that nice fire you've got
going there, but how are you going to lug that three-hundred-pound dresser up
two flights of stairs?"
"It's
not three hundred pounds." But as quickly as the anger had come, it went. Angie slumped, and shrugged. "I'll manage it." She turned, but Michael stopped her once again,
this time with his hand on her wrist.
His warmth seeped into her. First
the sight of him, then the sound, now the feel.
She had to figure out what was going on with this guy. After a moment she realized he was talking,
and squinted at him.
"…So
I can call him, see if he can help bring up some of the heavier stuff. You can buy us pizza in return."
Angie
thought about the twenty-dollar bill in her purse that was all she had until
her first payday, almost three weeks away.
She thought about the meager supplies she'd stocked the kitchen with
before starting to unload her furniture.
Then she thought about the furniture—the dresser, and the mammoth sofa
she'd taken from the curb during some little town's Big Trash Day, and the
solid oak kitchen table. Originally
she'd pl
Now,
imagining unloading it by herself made her feel like it was all resting on her
shoulders, literally. So
she nodded. Michael slipped past her
before she could change her mind, and began trotting down the stairs.
"Brian
only lives a few blocks away," he called back. "If he's available, he'll be here in
minutes. We'll have you unloaded before
nightfall."
While
they waited, they brought up the rest of the drawers. Angie stopped Michael before he went back
down the stairs.
"Why
are you helping me, anyway?"
"I
told you. Jazz is a friend of mine, and
you're a friend of hers. She told me you
could use some help." He
shrugged. "Besides, I couldn't let
you move that furniture alone, pregnant or not."
"Well,
thank you. I really didn't know how I
was going to do it."
He
quirked an eyebrow at her. "You
figured you'd be able to drag that stuff up two flights of stairs?"
Angie
blushed. "I, um, didn't realize the
apartment was on the third floor."
Luckily,
before he could pursue that, a shout floated up from the foyer.
"That
would be Brian."
Angie
followed him downstairs. Brian leaned
against the bottom of the banister, smiling up at them.
"Hey,
man, thanks for coming on short notice."
Michael clapped him on the shoulder.
"Angie, my boss, Brian Trent."
"My
pleasure. I always like to help a pretty
lady." He held out his hand.
Despite
the glib line, he looked sincere rather than flirtatious, and Angie smiled back
as she shook his hand. "I can't
tell you how much I appreciate this."
"Ah,
I owe him one." They walked
outside. "He keeps me in
business."
"Hey!" Michael grabbed Angie's wrist again as she
reached for an end table. "We'll
unload. Go upstairs and direct."
She
tried to protest, but they overruled her.
Normally she would have hated that, but circumstances didn't give her
that luxury. So
she went upstairs to "direct."
As
the day went on, Angie grew more and more exhausted, even though she wasn't
doing much. On the third trip up,
Michael asked if she wanted the nightstand to the left or right of the bed.
"Doesn't
matter." She pulled sheets from a
box and began making the bed. When he
brought in a beat-up rocker, he got the same response. And she hadn't
finished stretching out the bottom sheet.
A
few minutes later Brian asked if she wanted the box of dishes on the counter or
the floor.
"Whichever's easier."
"How
about this table?" The oak dining
table was a bit large for the kitchen.
"You want it behind the couch here?"
"You
decide."
Michael
frowned. He wasn't an interior
decorator.
"Lady,
if you say 'I don't care' one more time, I'm gonna leave everything in the
street." He let his end of the table
drop with a bang and scowled at the woman who seemed so tiny, despite her
height. The lack of any emotion in her
eyes disturbed him, especially after the heat he'd witnessed earlier.
Angie
tossed her hands. "I don't care, Michael." She seemed to hear the harshness in her
voice, because she winced and shoved her hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm sounding ungrateful. I appreciate what you two are doing for me, a
stranger." She tilted her face
toward him, and now, instead of reflecting emptiness, her eyes were bleak. "I've had my fill of difficult decisions
lately. I guess I don't want to deal
with the placement of the kitchen table."
She
crossed the living room and knelt next to a box of books, laboriously lifting
them out, one by one, and placing them on the built-in bookshelves. Every knot of her spine was visible beneath
the thin t-shirt. Michael could even see
her ribs when she stretched to place a book.
Pity
took hold in his heart. Jazz had told
him her husband died a couple of months ago.
He knew what she was feeling.
Loss, and despair, and worry that she'd never make it through. He wanted to tell her everything would be all
right. But he
couldn't lie.
He
angled his head toward the kitchen and he and Brian wrestled the monster table
into the little room.
"What's
going on?" Brian asked him when
they'd reached the foyer and were walking outside.
Michael
shrugged, feigning nonchalance.
"Jazz told me her husband died, then she
lost her home and her business. She's
pregnant, too."
Brian
whistled. "No wonder you wanted
help. She could kill herself trying to
move some of this stuff." He pulled
an oak chair that matched the kitchen table from the back of the moving
van. "I'm glad I was around."
"Me,
too," Michael said, lunging up into the truck to slide the remaining
pieces toward the tailgate. "I
asked her to buy us pizza, but…"
Brian
shook his head. "Say no more. I'll treat.
She looks like she hasn't eaten in days.
And you—"
He stopped.
"Don't
censor yourself, Bri." Michael leapt to the ground and pulled two
chairs behind him. "My situation's
not a secret. It's just a burden."
"Well,
it's my treat."
"Sure."
They
finished unloading the furniture and remaining boxes, and Brian went to
Michael's apartment to call for pizza.
Michael crouched next to Angie, who still sat on the floor. The box in front of her was full of pictures,
and she was staring at one she held in her hand. Michael tilted his head to look. The man in the photo stood next to a Porsche
and grinned at whoever was holding the camera.
His hand rested possessively on the vehicle.
"Handsome
guy."
Angie
was silent for a moment. "He was my
husband." Her tone was flat. Michael knew from experience that the lack of
emotion was a façade. Anyone else would
offer vague condolences, or platitudes, or an ear or a shoulder. But Michael kept his
mouth shut. He remembered too well the
urge to punch the next person who said they were sorry. No one could understand what it was like to
lose a spouse. No one but someone who
had.
Brian
came back in, his boots echoing on the wood floor. "Pizza will be here in a half hour. My treat." No one answered, so he dropped onto the sofa
and sighed. "You sure have some
heavy furniture, Angie. Must be
old. They don't make stuff like that
anymore."
"Mm. Most of the older stuff was my
grandmother's. They couldn't take
that." Her eyes widened and she
pressed her lips together. Then she
slapped a lid on the box, lifted it to drop the picture in, covered the box
again, and shoved to her feet to place it on the shelf. She dusted her rear and turned back to the
men.
"Thank
you, guys, for helping me." She
shoved her hands into her back pockets and rocked back on her heels. "I don't have beer, but I did get a
gallon of bottled water. That be okay?"
They
nodded, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
Brian raised one eyebrow at Michael.
"Are you sure you want to get involved in this?"
"No,"
he bit out, then lowered his voice. "I don't know what you think you
see—"
"I
have to tell you guys," Angie called from the kitchen, "that my
furniture doesn't absorb much sound. I
can hear you in here." She
re-entered the living room, cradling three sweaty glasses. She handed one to Brian, then one to Michael,
and sat on the sofa. "You can talk
about me, so long as you realize I know you're doing it." She took a long swallow, and Michael watched
her neck arch gracefully. His eyes met
Angie's when she tilted the glass back down.
For just a moment a connection flowed between them, an unreal bond that
broke when Michael finally sat in the easy chair and placed his glass on the
coffee table.
"So,
Angie, where'd you come from?"
Brian asked. "I saw the
truck has
"That's
where I'm from."
"The
city?"
"No."
"Upstate?"
"No,
the suburbs of the city."
"Anywhere
in particular?"
"No."
Obviously,
she didn't want to talk about it. Brian
gave up and they all sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Brian turned to Michael. "You performing tonight?" he asked.
Michael
shook his head. "The rest of the
week."
"Has
Falcon said anything about the gigs?"
"No. He
seems satisfied, though."
"Are you in a band?" Angie asked.
Michael shook his head. "Not exactly." He'd never gotten used to explaining what he
did. He tried to form tactful words, but
Brian took over for him.
"Our company, Black Tie, Inc., is a male dance
revue. I'm one of the owners, and Mike's
our star." His tone was proud, as
if he'd discovered Michael himself. The
truth was, Brian's brother had sold his half of the
business to him. Nick had been the one
to get Michael on stage.
He slid a glance at Angie, wondering how she'd
react. She wore a puzzled frown, and he
could tell the instant she figured out what "male dance revue" meant.
"Ohhh!" A twinkle lit behind her pale blue eyes. "Like Chippendales."
"We're better," Michael grumbled,
irritated as usual by the comparison to the national group. He hadn't set out to be a stripper, but like
everything else he did, he tried to do it well.
All the guys involved in Black Tie worked hard
to make it a classy organization.
"A few months ago we landed a big contract with
Larkin Falcon," Brian explained.
"He owns six of the biggest hotels in the city. Each one has a nightclub, all
different. One is high-class
elegance. Another is very hip-hop. They all cater to a different clientele, but
he wanted something to tie them together."
"And he chose strippers?" Angie seemed more animated than she'd been
all day. "Even in the elegant
club?"
"Black Tie isn't sleaze," Michael jumped
in. "We're not about sex and
slime. We're about fun and
excitement. Most of the women are
average students and housewives and business
executives, who don't have much time for themselves. We make them all feel special, whether
they're twenty-nine or ninety-nine. And
I hope they all get a good jolt out of whatever rut they're in and focus on the
good things in their lives."
His voice had gotten a bit strong, he realized, and
he stood and walked toward the kitchen.
Behind him Brian explained how they'd gotten involved with Falcon, but
Michael tuned him out.
When had he gotten so defensive about what he
did? When his college buddies Nick Trent
and Jeff Taylor had approached him shortly after Hope died, it had been
something to do. A good way to make
money, which he desperately needed.
Something new, that didn't remind him of his wife or the life they'd
shared. A job that didn't require him to
use his numb brain.
Over the past year his wounds had begun to heal, and
his brain to function. Hope wouldn't have
approved of his role in Black Tie. But she wasn't around to say so. That was what was bothering him, he decided,
and turned back to the living room.
Angie had slumped into the humongous sofa, her eyes
closed, worry lines etched into her forehead.
He put a finger to his lips and motioned Brian toward the door. He nodded, then slowly rose and tiptoed
across the room while Michael gently lifted Angie's feet and stretched her out
on the couch. He pulled an afghan from a
box on the floor and tucked it around her.
The urge to kiss her forehead hit him, and he almost laughed. He was acting like a father. But Angie needed
taking care of more than any other person Michael had ever met. With the possible exception of himself.