Second Chance Spring Page 2

  “Can we get a horse?” Taylor asked as we resumed walking.

  I laughed. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Maddie, as predicted, had already fallen asleep, or so I thought. But as soon as Taylor ventured into the frequently visited topic of a dog, she bolted awake. “We get a dog!”

  “Come on, Daddy. You said maybe before.” Taylor turned her serious little face up to mine. With Taylor, you didn’t say yes unless you meant yes, and “maybe” was practically a binding promise that one day a yes would come.

  “I still say maybe.”

  Taylor huffed and dragged her feet the rest of the way home, but as I went through the exhausting work of feeding my daughters and putting them to bed, my mind turned over the idea. And when I sat alone on the couch in the living room, with a windy and wet storm rolling over the town, a glass of whiskey in my hand and a heavy sadness in my heart, I thought that maybe it would be nice to have a dog. For the girls, of course. But maybe for me, too.

  Maybe a dog was the thing that was missing.

  Sweat and Sugar

  Paige

  Now and then I got a Monday off when our new doctor worked, so I took my time waking up on a day I would normally have been rushing around. The blustery storm that had lasted all weekend had littered the streets with leaves and small branches, but it also felt like it had washed the world clean. I leashed up Bobo, my mutt, and then I locked my front door, tied my key onto my sneaker laces, and stood on my front walkway, swinging my arms and warming up my shoulders. Bobo sat expectantly at my side, looking up at me with chocolate eyes. He was used to this routine. Since he got to run at the end of it, I was pretty sure he thought waiting for the warm up was worth it. I took five more minutes to warm up my legs, watching the neighborhood move around me as I did so, smiling out at the steady rhythm of my hometown.

  Baltimore would not be like this, I knew. If I accepted the spot at the bigger practice, I’d probably have to join an actual gym instead of running through the streets—and Bobo would become an apartment dog. I’d have to warm up and work out surrounded by other sweaty bodies, loud gym music and blaring televisions. But, I told myself, it was probably a small sacrifice to make if it meant moving up to a more serious work environment—an office where I’d treat more interesting symptoms than runny noses. I wasn’t sure Bobo was going to agree with my logic. But in general, as long as he got belly rubs and the occasional treat, he was a pretty easygoing dog.

  As I ran in place, warming up my hamstrings, I let my eyes fall on the house diagonally across the street from mine. The man who lived there was outside corralling his two little girls, trying to get them into the car without much luck. He lifted the tiny blond girl in his arms and put her into the backseat, leaning in to buckle up her car seat, while the older girl wandered around the side of the house.

  The girl was calling something to her father and pointing to the backyard, but it was clear he hadn’t heard, and by the time he stood back up, looking around for her, she’d disappeared.

  “Taylor!” he called, and the panic and exhaustion in the voice that drifted through the clear air pulled at something inside my chest.

  The little dark haired girl reappeared, and the man scooped her up. I couldn’t hear his words, but heard the stern but relieved tone of his voice as he carried her toward the car.

  I knew I was staring, and I might have done a few more quad stretches than were generally required before a run, but something about the scene fascinated me. I’d never gotten to know the little family that had moved in across the street six or seven years ago. I’d met the wife a few times when they’d first moved in. She’d come to a book club I used to belong to, and I had bumped into her at the grocery store once or twice. But after a while, I’d stopped seeing her out and about, and a couple years ago, I’d heard that the young woman had died suddenly, and my colleagues at the hospital said it was an aneurysm. Sudden and catastrophic.

  The neighborhood had rallied, of course, taking casseroles and muffins to the doorstep. And that had really been the only time I had spoken to the man, his eyes swimming with grief as I’d handed him a loaf of banana bread and a bag of chocolate chip cookies for the little girls.

  I had felt sorry for them then—his sadness had been palpable and heavy, even there at the doorstep, and I’d wanted to reach out and touch him, do anything to help lift that heavy mantle of weariness from his shoulders. How difficult would it be, I marveled, to be left alone with two children so young to care for on your own? Not to mention the aching sadness of losing someone you love?

  But over the years since then, he’d seemed to manage. He’d never asked anyone for help as far as I knew, and the little family mostly kept to themselves. I saw him at the park sometimes, wagon and snacks in tow as he watched the little girls scramble over the old wooden structure where I had played as a kid. I’d extended a workout there once because he’d been playing with them—not in that half-hearted way most parents seemed to do, one hand on their phones while they pretended to participate in their children’s adventures. He’d actually clambered up to the top of the structure and was calling out cannon directions for his oldest while the littler girl excitedly pointed and jumped at his feet, helping him use the telescope. They’d been battling pirates, I had decided. And I’d been impressed by how much fun they seemed to be having, how wholeheartedly he seemed to be playing with his daughters.

  Now the man was backing out and then disappearing down the neighborhood street in his blue sedan, and I remembered that I was supposed to be out for a run. Bobo hadn’t forgotten, nosing me into action by leaving a big wet spot on my thigh.

  “Okay, buddy,” I told him.

  I set off in the same direction my neighbor had gone, starting at a gentle trot and eventually working up to a leg-stretching, lung-challenging pace for as long as Bobo could handle it. It was more of a workout for him than me, since his legs were so short. He was not made for running, but he had a very positive attitude about the whole thing. I loved running through the quiet Monday morning streets, enjoyed the scent of fresh rain in the air, and the smell of something green and fecund mixed with the salt air of the Bay nearby. Bobo smiled up at me from my side.

  Maybe it was because I was in the process of deciding whether to leave, but I found I was becoming nostalgic about the charms Singletree had to offer, and I told myself to stop letting it rattle around in my brain. My mother was nostalgic enough for the whole family.

  I wrapped up my run in the town square, cooling down on the grass for a few minutes before tying Bobo to a heavy chair outside next to a water dish and stepping through the doors of my mother’s cafe, now called The Muffin Tin.

  “Paigey girl!” Mom called from the counter. “So good to see you survived.”

  I shook my head, “What are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t call or text after driving home last night. I was awake all night imagining you in an accident.” My mother’s face took on a dramatic wide-eyed look.

  “Really, Mom?”

  A wide smile broke out on her face. “No. You know I’m blessed with the sleep of the dead. But still, it’d be nice if you spared a thought for your aging mother now and then. I worry.”

  I went behind the counter and poured myself a cup of coffee, kissing Mom on the cheek. “I spare plenty of thoughts for you.”

  Mom smiled and waved a hand toward the cinnamon rolls and muffins beneath the counter. “Can I tempt you?”

  “This is why I have to run,” I said. “But no. Today is Monday. Another day to start my healthy eating plan. I’m going to be good.”

  “Fine. Let me know when you’re done being good. I just finished a batch of your favorite pumpkin muffins.”

  I groaned, thinking about how soft and warm those muffins would be. “I’m staying strong, Mom.” I took a seat at the long counter and fished a sheet of the abandoned town newspaper from the stool beside me. The news in Singletree was limited to school events, fundraisers, and a
few burglaries now and then. It was the type of small town where it really did seem like nothing ever really happened. The front page carried an “upcoming events” box that called out the annual Cherry Blossom Festival in large block letters. “Are you planning the cakewalk again, Mom?”

  “Who else would do it if I didn’t?” Mom pretended to be annoyed, but I knew she lived for the Cherry Blossom Festival. And every other festival this crazy town put on.

  “Someone would, I’m sure.”

  “You’re helping too.”

  How could I tell my mother that if I took the job in Baltimore, I might not be around for Festival this year? “Of course I am.”

  “You know, Paigey,” Mom began, and I could see the wheels turning in her matchmaking brain. “A nice young man was in here this morning that I haven’t met before. Very handsome.”

  “And?”

  “I got his card for you. He’s an insurance adjuster. Just in town for a few days, but he seemed charmed by the place.” Mom handed me a business card and then scooted off to help customers.

  This was completely typical. My mother was determined to set me up with anything on two legs that seemed vaguely single. It was touching and humiliating all at the same time. When she came back my way, I said, “Okay, Mom.”

  “You’re going to call him?” Mom clapped her hands in front of her.

  “No, I’m not going to call a random stranger because my mother told him I’m single and desperate and in need of a companion. I was saying ‘okay’ to appease you.”

  “I don’t feel very appeased when you put it like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  I read the rest of the small paper and finished my coffee, then bid my mother goodbye, woke my sleeping mutt, and strode slowly home to enjoy the remainder of my day off. I turned up the music in the living room and danced through the house with the vacuum cleaner, spent some time in my garden as Bobo looked on, and even managed to make my lunches for the rest of the week to take to work. Healthy eating, accomplished.

  And despite the perfect day, the abundant sunshine, and the fact that I’d maintained enough willpower to avoid the pumpkin muffin even after my mother had put it on a plate under my nose, I felt strangely empty. I was certain it was just the simplicity of my small town life. Baltimore would change everything.

  It had to.

  That night I hadn’t meant to become a pervy spying neighbor. And in my defense, I wasn’t exactly trying to do any pervy spying. It just kind of happened.

  I’d poured myself a glass of wine and was carrying it to the living room, passing by the big window in my dining room that looked out across the street, and there was a beacon of light shining from the house a couple doors down across the street. The hot neighbor with the little girls.

  It wasn’t a beacon, not really. It was more like a fascinating movie rolling out for anyone to see. He was there, in his garage, which was lit up inside with a golden glow, and he was in the middle of it, shirtless. My neighbor was beating the living hell out of a huge heavy bag suspended from the ceiling of the garage. A faint beat echoed across the street, and as I narrowed my eyes—which, weirdly, seemed to help me hear better—I could tell it was coming from over there.

  The night was soft and dark everywhere else, but the light shining out of his garage made it impossible not to watch for a while.

  He moved like a pro boxer, light on his feet, with his hands up in front of his face. And every time he hit the bag, it rocked, and the muscles all along his arms and across his back rippled with the exertion. The light from his garage caught the shine on his skin, the perspiration only serving to emphasize that muscled torso even more.

  I stood there for a while, mesmerized. My own house was darkened, except for the room I was heading for, and I knew he wouldn’t be able to see me if he glanced this way. And I used that as an excuse to watch, struggling not to salivate, as my neighbor worked out.

  He. Was. Incredible.

  And I wished I had never seen him working out because now I’d never get the image of those rippling muscles out of my mind. He was sturdy, strong and lean … and he seemed like the perfect father.

  And just like that, I had a serious crush on my neighbor. One I’d go ahead and keep ignoring, because it certainly wouldn’t make any difference to my own plans either way.

  The Invisible Tibetan Mastiff

  Cormac

  Weekdays were almost all the same, punctuated only by the unpredictability of having children. Monday morning went smoothly, despite Taylor’s recent adoption of a completely invisible Tibetan Mastiff (she heard about this breed on some show on television about the world’s biggest breeds.) Everything was going smoothly until the Mastiff, Tinkerbell, needed to “tinkle” before we could go to daycare and school. I chased Taylor into the backyard, and then carried her, protesting, to the car.

  “But Daddy! Tinkerbell isn’t finished! Big dogs have a lot of pee and it takes a long time! We need to wait!” She flailed her arms and legs as I deposited her into the car seat and tried to strap her in.

  Kids have this strategy they must all discuss in some underground kid chat room or something—this thing they do when they don’t want to get in the car seat. They make all their limbs stiff and turn their spine to an iron rod so you can’t get the harness around them, and Taylor adopted the “board baby” posture now. “No, Daddy! Tinkerbell needs us.”

  I took a deep breath and looked my oldest daughter in the eye, the last of my patience just about gone. “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. I have to get you to school and your sister to daycare and get back here in time to get on the phone. Tinkerbell is a big dog. She can take care of herself.”

  Tears welled up in Taylor’s eyes and her little cheeks turned red as she looked at me, bottom lip quivering. “Tinkerbell needs someone to take care of her too. Being big doesn’t mean you don’t need anyone.”

  I kissed Taylor’s cheek. I knew, even as I finally succeeded in strapping my little girl into the car and pulling out of the driveway as the tears ran down her cheeks, that she wasn’t talking about her invisible Mastiff. Damn, I was a moron. The words I’d just said to her about Tinkerbell—that big girls could take care of themselves—were far too close to the words her own mother had left her with before she’d gone out for a walk and then left us all for good, thanks to a sudden, devastating brain aneurysm.

  My tiny Taylor was the big girl. She believed she had to take care of her sister and her daddy. And herself.

  It hadn’t been what Linda meant when she’d gone out that morning: I’m going for a walk Taylor, you’re the big girl, so you’re in charge. Keep your sister and your daddy out of trouble! It had been lighthearted, almost a joke. But in the two years that had passed, Taylor had interpreted her words to mean something along the lines of “you’re big, so you’ll be on your own from here on out.” I knew we had the makings of a real complex here, but I didn’t know what to do about it.

  And I was going to be late.

  The complexities of life are multiplied by having two kids in car seats. You can’t just drop them off. You can’t leave one kid in the car while you take the other one in somewhere. You’re constantly parking and unbuckling everyone, then re-buckling and heading out again. And the odds of one kid randomly deciding not to comply with this re-buckling increased every time you got in and out of the car.

  This was what made parent drop off at the elementary school a blessing. When Taylor would comply, at least.

  “So today, when Mrs. Perri comes to the door, you go with her, okay?” I suggested as we pulled into the lot. I looked into the mirror, Taylor’s face was still contorted and red. Shit, the silent tears were the worst. My heart convulsed and I considered scrapping the whole plan and taking the girls to see a movie. But we’d done plenty of pretending we didn’t have to go on with our real lives. I needed to pull it together, and so did my daughter. Routine was good for us all. “Okay, Taytay?”

  “Yeah, Tay,” Madison sai
d helpfully.

  Taylor answered only through her open defiance of Mrs. Perri once the door swung open.

  “I’m not coming today!”

  I got out and joined the poor woman at the curb. “Rough morning, sorry.” I knelt by Taylor’s open door. “Come on, sweetie. You’re going to have an amazing day at school. I heard you get extra time on the jungle gym this morning—“

  “Mr. Whitewood, that’s not—” Mrs. Perri, for all her skill with children, did not seem to understand the concept of a small lie used to get a resistant kid out of the car.

  “And we’ll go to the wood park when you get home today,” I tried, cutting off Mrs. Perri before she could undo my hard work.

  Taylor seemed to be thinking about this.

  “And we’ll get some ice cream,” I added, using my last silver bullet as I checked my watch. I was going to have to start the conference call from the car. If it hadn’t been an annual review with my toughest-to-please client, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But it was—this client meant the difference between living comfortably and barely paying the mortgage. The stakes felt all too real when I was the only thing keeping my little girls in tutus and ice cream. Linda only worked part time, but it was just reassuring knowing there was another responsible adult to fall back on. Now? I was it. And I needed to make that meeting.

  My mind was on work as Taylor finally unlatched her harness and picked up the pink backpack from the floor. She’d said something under her breath as she’d unlatched, and I nodded eagerly. But I sensed my mistake when Madison started furiously clapping and squealing, and Taylor’s tears turned to a grin the size of Texas.

  Oh no. What had I agreed to?

  “After school?” Taylor asked, with huge round eyes so like her mother’s I’d say yes to just about anything. Except it seemed I’d already agreed to whatever this was.

  “Uh…” Shit, shit, shit.

  “You promise?” Taylor’s eyes shone and I only hoped I hadn’t said we’d all go to Disney World tomorrow.