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  Second Chance Love

  By Shawn Inmon

  ©2015 by Shawn Inmon

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Kindle Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author.

  Cover Design/Interior Layout: Linda Boulanger

  www.TellTaleBookCovers.weebly.com

  Published by Pertime Publishing

  For Dawn Adele – both my first

  and second chance at love.

  November 1973

  Annie Templeton glanced up at the venerable 7-UP clock in Gus's Diner, rolling her neck to work out the fatigue. It was 6:45 PM. The end of her shift was still hours away. She swept a quarter, dime, and nickel into her pocket—enough to buy a gallon and a half of gas, had she owned a vehicle--then stacked the used tableware and carried it back to the dishwashing sink.

  The door's bell rang. That was both good and bad. Good, in that Annie shared a tiny one-bedroom apartment with a roommate, was behind on her share, and could use all the tips she could get. Bad, in that she had been working since late morning, and had hoped to sit down for a cup of coffee with Margie, the cook, before it was time to start the closing duties.

  The new arrival looked thirtyish and round-faced, showing signs of future jowliness, and wore a suit and tie far handsomer than his own face. Not a lot of Gus's clientele wore tailored suits. Before he settled into his seat, Annie stood ready with the coffee pot. He smiled and flipped his cup over with a porcelain clunk.

  Like most people, he looked handsomer when he smiled. Annie, a tall, graceful woman with long, thick dark hair, smiled back as she poured the coffee. She was that sort of person who gave off a slightly damaged vibe; not quite a 'victimize me' feel, but enough to appeal to the sort of man drawn to women with problems. She was twenty-nine. A dozen years of waiting tables, cleaning hotel rooms, and factory work had engraved their story on her face and heart.

  “What’s the special tonight, uh…Annie?” the man said, looking at either her nametag or her chest, or both.

  Annie laughed. “Special? Why, everything’s special here at Gus's.”

  He narrowed his eyes a bit, an expression she could not decode. Annie retreated behind her Waitress Smile, handing him a single-sided, laminated menu with half a dozen choices. “Everything we have is right on there. I’ll give you a minute to make up your mind.”

  She headed to the back to run a load in the dishwasher. As Annie passed the kitchen, Margie's eyes asked a question. Annie laughed a little and shook her head.

  Forty minutes later, the gentleman in the suit finished his chicken-fried steak and laid a ten-dollar bill on top of the tab, which came to $2.27. Waitressing had taught Annie not to assume a tip until the customer made the fact clear. “I’ll get your change and be right back.”

  “The rest is for you.”

  Annie tilted her head a bit to the right, but stuck to the manual: identical reactions to all tips. “Thank you very much,” she said. "I hope you enjoyed your meal.” Considering that $7.73 had more than doubled her shift's tip take, that wish required little effort. She turned to go, but the man reached out and laid his fingertips on her wrist.

  Here it comes.

  “You know, there’s a new nightclub downtown called Chez Paris. It’s jammed every night, but I can get us in. What do you say?”

  “I’ve been working since before the lunch rush started, I’ve still got two hours of filling ketchup bottles and washing dishes, and all I’m looking forward to is going home. I have a shift tomorrow morning," she finished, not unkindly. "But thanks for the invitation. I don't think a man as well turned out as you will have any trouble finding a date.”

  I flattered him. What made me do that?

  “Like you, I work too many hours to get in much socializing, but I understand. No problem.”

  Annie finished her shift, went home to bed, then got up to another day like the one before. He returned that evening, once again after the dinner rush was over, and he struck up another conversation. He got around to asking about her next day off, which she said was Friday, and left another oversized tip.

  Thursday evening he was back again.

  “You must really like our cooking, or something, since you keep coming back.”

  “Or something,” the man said. “By the way, I never introduced myself. I’m Jeff.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jeff,” Annie said.

  “Since you’re off tomorrow, what do you say to coming out with me tonight?”

  While Annie searched her mind for a nice way to decline, Jeff went on: “If nightclubs aren’t your scene, I get that. The new John Wayne movie, The Cowboys, is playing at the Rialto. I love John Wayne. How about if I pick you up tomorrow night and we go see it?”

  “Gus says I’m not supposed to date the customers.”

  Jeff looked around, a bit theatrically. “I saw the cook. She doesn't look like a Gus. Is there a Gus here that I haven't noticed?"

  “No. Gus hardly ever comes in any more.”

  “Well, I promise not to tell him. What’s the name of the cook?”

  “Margie.”

  Jeff raised his voice a bit, to carry. “Hey, Margie, how about you? Are you going to tell Gus?”

  Margie turned her back and went into the walk-in freezer.

  “Can I assume that Margie did not just head back to Gus's office in the freezer to rat on you?”

  Despite herself, Annie laughed. She had a hard time remembering how long it had been since her last real date. She’d been kind of seeing a construction worker named Bill, whose idea of a date involved pizza and TV at his place. That dreaded thirtieth birthday was coming up in January, and she felt her youth draining away.

  “Okay.” She wrote her address on the back of an order ticket. “What time?”

  “The movie starts at seven. How about if I pick you up at six-thirty, and I’ll take you to a nice dinner after. Somewhere that Gus will never find us.”

  Annie's nod changed her life forever.

  Despite a valiant effort, Jeff didn’t get Annie into bed that first night, nor on the second. The third date was the charm, for Jeff if not for Annie, who had hoped a well-heeled lover might be a better lover, much to her great disappointment.

  They got together a few more times, but Jeff grew increasingly distant, then stopped calling. Three weeks later, her normally steady biological clock did not go off at the appointed time. A visit to Planned Parenthood confirmed the logical conclusion.

  While Annie didn't miss Jeff, she needed to get in touch with him. He had never given her his phone number. Still, men like to talk, and moderately successful men like to talk about their successes. With a few leaps of logic and some detective work, Annie tracked him down at work. Jeff turned out to be a company vice president. And there she hit the wall: Jeff's secretary, who defended the ramparts of Jeff's access with veteran skill and determination. She could not meet him, and he did not return her messages.

  Annie finally decided to wait outside his office building. After three hours, just as she was ready to give up, she saw Jeff and two other men come out. She waved and caught his eye. Indecision passed across his face. After a moment’s hesitation, he said something to the other two men, then walked toward Annie. When he
was still ten feet away, he said, “What, Annie? You’ve got to quit calling for me at work.”

  “I’m pregnant,” Annie said. Her voice was calmer than her thoughts.

  “You don’t know that it’s mine.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll pay for an abortion, but that’s all you’re getting out of me.”

  Annie felt the blood drain from her face. Any remaining illusions disappeared.

  “I’m not going to have an abortion.”

  “Listen. Annie. I’ve got to run; I’m late. I’ll be in touch with you in the next few days.”

  The other two men pulled up in an Audi sedan. Jeff jumped in the car and was gone.

  At least he won't see me cry.

  Four days later, a Certified—Return Receipt Requested tag appeared in her mailbox. She went to the post office, signed, and collected a manila envelope addressed to “Andrea Faye Templeton.” The return address was for Anderson, Jenkins and Grogan, the city's largest law firm. She waited to open it until she was outside the post office.

  Dear Ms. Templeton:

  We have been retained to facilitate an understanding regarding your current situation. Our client, who accepts no responsibility or liability for your medical situation, is nonetheless willing…

  Filtered of the legal ass-covering, the law firm would pay reasonable hospital costs relating to the birth. They would also pay her $1000. In return, she had to agree never to contact Jeff again. There was a triplicate agreement inside the envelope, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope.

  When Annie got home, she read it again. Numbly, she signed. She removed the bottom copy, shoved the other two back in the envelope, then laid down on her bed, buried her face in her pillow and wept.

  She woke up two hours later, washed her face, and put on her makeup. She walked the block and a half to the nearest payphone. She dropped a dime into the slot, dialed a number and waited. A slurred man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Bill. It’s Annie. I’ve missed you. How about if I come over and we watch some TV?”

  Less than a month later, at Annie’s prompting and to Bill’s surprise, they stood in front of a Justice of the Peace and said their vows. Seven months later, Annie Coleman bore a healthy female infant weighing seven pounds and two ounces.

  Annie christened her Elizabeth Lynn Coleman.

  Chapter One

  December 23rd, 2013

  Elizabeth Coleman poked at the embers in her fireplace. She pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders. “No matter what I do, it’s so cold in here.”

  That wasn’t completely true. She could always turn on the electric heat for a few minutes. That would take the brittle chill off the room. She was already concerned with how she would pay her electric bill when it came due, though, so she left the thermostat at 58. Time to move about a bit, get the blood pumping.

  Her apartment was too tiny for her to walk very far in a straight line, but she walked laps from her living room to her kitchen and back. That wasn’t saying much, given that her kitchen amounted to little more than a closet with a few appliances. Some nights, when she lit candles in each room to help out the fireplace, her place felt cozy and cheery. Tonight, the wood in the fireplace was too damp to burn very well, and she wouldn’t have more candles until payday on Friday.

  As she passed around the kitchen for the third lap, Sebastian jumped up on the counter and said Brrrrrtt. Brrrrrrt. She plucked him off the counter and nuzzled him under her chin, luxuriating in furry warmth on her icy fingers.

  “Why don’t you meow like other cats? Is that your ‘I’m hungry’ noise, or your ‘I want attention’ noise?”

  Brrrrrtt.

  “All right, hungry it is.”

  She got the can opener out, opened a can of Feline Feast and spooned it into his bowl. While she had the can opener out, she did the same with a can of Spaghetti O’s, took both bowls back to her sofa, and sat as close to the fireplace as she could without actually climbing inside. She looked out the frosty pane of her small window, watching it move slightly with the wind gusts. A streetlight spilled a yellowish glow over the snow that was starting to stick outside.

  “Looks like it’s going to be a white Christmas, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian, dinner finished, responded by jumping onto the sofa and sniffing her spaghetti. Elizabeth smiled and stroked his long white fur with a sigh. “Go ahead, little piggy. I don’t want it.”

  Sebastian began taking delicate little bites that soon enough left him licking the bowl clean. Elizabeth carried both bowls into the kitchen and put them in the sink. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the kitchen window and stopped to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She was still pretty, but could see hints of her mother’s middle-aged face looking back at her. She smiled a little. Her beauty had never been important to her. Its decline wouldn’t impact her much.

  Back in the living room, she let the Murphy bed down from its hiding place, got her pillow out of the closet and slid under her grandmother’s comforter. No one could craft a comforter like Grandma. She clicked her bedside radio on quietly and heard Nat King Cole singing “The Christmas Song.” Sebastian curled up against her chest, his purring soothing as always. She picked up the small paperback anthology she had brought home from work and opened it to O. Henry’s The Gift of the Magi. Before too long, the warmth of the comforter and Sebastian made her sleepy. She turned out the light and watched the small flames of the fireplace dance as she fell asleep.

  Chapter Two

  Across town, Steve Larson sat in his Mercedes SLS, the windshield wipers sweeping away the powdery snow. He punched the code into the pad at the security gate that led to the underground parking garage at his condo. While he waited for the gate to rise, he touched a button on his phone. “Suzi, what do I have scheduled for tomorrow?”

  A warm, contralto voice answered, “Nothing, Steve. Your schedule is empty tomorrow. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  He caught himself before telling Suzi that he was aware of the day. It was hard not to be aware, with all the lights and music and ho-ho-ho’ing, but Suzi was just the artificial intelligence app in his phone. Lately he had developed a tendency to carry on conversations with 'her.' It worried him enough that he spent more time talking to Suzi than with actual human beings. Even more worrisome was that he liked Suzi more than any real person.

  He pulled down into the garage and into his assigned spot. He decided to walk up the stairs from the garage to the lobby instead of taking the elevator, trying to work off at least a few drops of the biscuits and gravy he'd just eaten at Maybelle’s Home Cookin’ Diner. That morning's look in the mirror had betrayed far more softness around his middle than he liked. He had a gym membership, of course, but never managed to get there.

  He nodded and smiled distantly to the doorman on his way to the elevator. He whistled tunelessly while waiting for the doors to slide open, then stepped quickly inside. He inserted his pass card and pressed the button marked PH. Forty-seven stories later, the doors opened onto his private hallway. He keyed his access code into the door and walked into his sanctuary, the place where he could shut out the rest of the world. The lights were dim, and the curtains were closed tight.

  “Suzi, I’m home.”

  “Welcome home, Steve.” The lights brightened, a fire whooshed into life in the fireplace, and Elvis began singing Blue Christmas from recessed speakers.

  “Suzi, how about a different channel for music. Let’s try classic rock.”

  Bob Seger’s Little Drummer Boy filled the air.

  Steve sighed. “Suzi, I don’t like that one either. Try my oldies channel.”

  Brenda Lee began singing Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.

  “Music off, television on.”

  A television screen suitable for a miniature movie theater rose out of a built-in stand at the far end of the living room. Jimmy Stewart was running down a street, waving madly.

  Of course. It’s a W
onderful Life. What else could it possibly be?

  "I give up. Suzi, television off.”

  The television went black and retracted into the stand. Steve walked into the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey, neat. It was probably just as well Suzi couldn't tend bar. If he couldn’t avoid Christmas altogether, he could at least drink enough to banish it from his mind. He took his drink into his bedroom.

  “Suzi, can you find me some goddamned music that isn’t Christmas music?”

  “I’m sorry, Steve. I don’t have a track listing for goddamned music.”

  Usually, it made him chuckle a little when he tricked Suzi into cursing, but it was late and he was too tired to care.

  “Never mind. Suzi, lights out.” Steve sat on the edge of his bed in his darkened room, looking out at the city lights. They twinkled and spread out below him, reflecting on the fallen snow. More snow swirled and batted against his window, but found no purchase.

  “Go to sleep, Suzi.”

  “Good night, Steve.”

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth awoke before the first weak rays of light came through her apartment window. She slid into a well-worn pair of slippers and splurged by turning the electric heat on for a few minutes. She put water on to boil for tea and jumped back under the covers to stay warm while she waited. A dinky apartment had a few benefits, one being fewer chilly steps on cold mornings.

  A few minutes before 9 AM, she was unlocking the front door at The Prints and the Pauper, the used bookstore she had worked at for nearly twenty years. The store was closing early today, but she wished it wasn’t. There was nowhere else she wanted to be, but Mr. Bartleby insisted.

  “I wish you’d take the entire day off and go and enjoy yourself,” he had said. “But, if you insist on working, make sure you close up by three. No one will be out looking for dusty old books after three o’clock on Christmas Eve, surely.”

  He was right, of course. The store got no customers that day and only one visitor: Mr. Miller, the mailman, dropping off a few bills and circulars and wishing her Merry Christmas. She sat in her comfortable spot behind the counter, reading while watching people stream in and out of the department store across the street. By 3:15, she knew she couldn’t delay the inevitable anymore, so she bundled up in her sweater and bulky coat and started her walk home. She had chosen her little apartment many years before for its proximity to her job. On wintry days like this, that choice paid off in reduced suffering.