Second Chance (Cold Springs Series Book 1) (4 page)

Sam hadn’t seen him smile before, and it suited him.  Not just suited him.  It lit up his whole face.  He was rough and brawny like one of the heroes in her mother’s romance novels. Sam felt heat rush to her cheeks.    

She stood in the kitchen as he left and came back with a toolbox.  “So you became a handyman.”

“Contractor.”

“Sorry... What’s the difference?”

“Handyman doesn’t sound very professional.”  He winked.  “Sorry about your aunt, by the way.”

“Yes, well…thank you.  I appreciate that.” 

“I think you’ll make a go of it here,” he said, his voice husky, deeper than she remembered.

She smiled.  Ian was the first person besides Burt who believed in her.  Even if he did want her to hire him as her handyman.  She’d take it. 

“Are you sure you have time?” She didn’t want to take him away from anything he needed to do. “Can I pay you for your trouble?”

He seemed hesitant for a minute then scratched his head. “Burt said you know a lot about contracts?”

“I used to I suppose. Why?”

He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to take a look at this and see if it’s legit.”

He handed the paper to Sam. “It’s a maintenance contract I was just offered. My first one. I’ve never really dealt with them before, and I really want to sign it, but I’m not sure about some things in it. Could you take a look at it and let me know what you think?  I’ll pay you, of course.”

Sam briefly glanced at the document. She didn’t mind returning the favor for Ian, but a maintenance contract and a book contract were two entirely different animals.  “I really don’t have any experience with anything other than publishing contracts.”

“It’s all the same legal bullshit, right?”

“Well, perhaps, in some way, I suppose.” She really didn’t know without studying it. “Can I take a day or two to look it over?”

“Sure. No problem.”

She set the papers on the counter. “I’ll start it tonight and see how it reads.”

“That’d be fine.  Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”  Sam was grateful for the opportunity to do the favor.  She felt better doing something for him, like she wasn’t beholding to him. Sometimes she hated that independent streak in her that felt she had to return every favor someone gave her. Years of living in the city, she supposed. Here in Cold Springs people just did things for others because they were being nice, not because they were trying to gain something in return.  

The next five hours went by in a blur.  Ian and Sam said next to nothing to each other.  Ian did as she instructed, boxing things up, lifting boxes, throwing them in his truck and taking them over to Burt’s back shed.  He made twelve trips and refused to take any money Sam offered to pay for the gas he used hauling the boxes.  When he left, she felt guilty for moving all of Aunt Jean’s possessions, exhausted, and also relieved.

Now, standing in the little apartment, it was exactly as she had expected it to be before moving here: empty except for the loveseat and the little kitchen table.

Her suitcases sat on the floor by the table.  Hoisting one onto a kitchen chairs, she unzipped it and proceeded to unpack. It really wasn’t that bad. When she had time, she would repaint the place, maybe in various shades of blues or greens, but now she just wanted to make this a real home.  A real home was a little closer now, but still far away with her furniture in storage. 

Pulling her cell from her back pocket, she dialed the moving company.  She had programmed the number into the phone before she left New York.  Thankful for preplanning, she got them on the phone and instructed them to bring everything to the second floor of her building as soon as possible.

Sam had stored her furniture and large belongings in a storage facility she supposed as a safety measure in case she had to go back.  Now she was determined to make a go of this place and cut a life out for herself in Cold Springs.  Something about her mother and sister implying that she would fail had set the decision for success in her. That was enough to convince her that she was in this for the long haul.  There was no going back.

Now as she looked around the little empty apartment, she felt herself become a little more at ease. She didn’t own much, nothing more than one person living alone for so many years would own.  She had Ian remove Aunt Jean’s bed to make room for her own when it arrived with the movers, and she planned to make do sleeping on Aunt Jean’s loveseat that she decided to keep.  It wouldn’t be the most comfortable thing to sleep on, but she could manage for a day or two.  She felt herself relax somewhat.  It would feel like home soon.  She wondered if Aunt Jean would approve.

~ * ~

Sam had offered to pay Ian Woods for fixing her front door, but he’d refused to take any money.  When she’d asked him what she owed him, he’d said the door was just a sample of his work.

Now, even as she worked scrubbing the dining room—she still had yet to tackle the kitchen which was the worst and most dreaded task at hand—she still couldn’t stop thinking about him.  She had stayed up late reviewing the maintenance contract he’d brought over, and it really wasn’t terrible. Although it could be better, were Sam in Ian’s shoes she’d really try to renegotiate it. 

She wondered if he had a family, a wife, kids.  With looks like that, he most definitely must have a girlfriend. His life was none of her business, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him.  There was something very different about him now.  It was like a totally different person in the same body—only a much more mature, sexier body. 

People generally as a rule did not change.  Something or someone must have had a major effect on him to bring about such a one-eighty in him.

She thought of her apartment in New York.  Life in the city suddenly seemed so simple.  In New York, all she had to worry about was her work and her comfortable apartment.  She didn’t have to worry about what Ian Woods thought of her.  Here…everything was just—

Small towns were just awkward.

A knock came at the door.  Sam could see Burt through the window.  She opened the door, thankful that people couldn’t just walk in at will now. 

“Hi, Burt.”

“Mornin’.”  Burt looked around the dining room as he entered.  “The place looks nice.”

“I haven’t done anything to it yet.”

“That’s what’s nice about it.  Looks exactly the same.  Where’s the coffee?”

Sam smiled and pointed to the right of the counter where customers would sit.  “I thought I’d put the coffeemaker there.”

He perched himself onto one of the high counter stools.  “Well, where is it?”

“It’s on order.”

Burt turned and looked at her as if she’d just sprouted horns.  “You mean to tell me you own a coffee house and you don’t even have a coffeemaker?  What’d you do with Jean’s?”

“It wasn’t working.  So I ordered another one.  A bigger one, so we can serve even more coffee.” Sam smiled, thinking she’d finally won Burt over with the promise of a never-ending supply of coffee.

Burt gave her that look that screamed disapproval.  “I could have looked at it for you.  You probably didn’t have it plugged in.”

“I plugged it in.”  Sam went back to cleaning. 

“What am I supposed to do now?  I came here for coffee.”

“Um…we don’t open for another week.”

“We?  Who’s we?”  He pointed to the yellow mug on the counter.  It now contained lukewarm coffee.  “Where’d you get that?”

“I made it.”  She smiled.

“With what?  That newfangled coffeemaker that’s on order.”   He made air quotes with his fingers.

Sam tried not to laugh.  It was good to be back around Burt’s humor. It made her feel welcome and wanted here—in a strange sort of Burt way.  He was eccentric and kind and was the model of small town and big hearts, just like Aunt Jean.  Seeing him was the closest thing to having Aunt Jean here with her now.  “It just so happens to be instant coffee.  Can I get you some?”

Burt made a face.  “You’re going to be running a place that serves coffee and you try to kill me with instant?  I’d rather go without.”

The door suddenly opened and Mother and Theresa came in.  Both were dressed in stylish matching tan linen slacks and fuchsia tees with matching cardigans.

“You two look alike,” Sam said.  She wondered where they were off to.  Always somewhere.

“We’re having our portraits done,” Theresa answered.  She looked around and frowned.

“For a book event?” Sam asked. 

“No, it’s just something we planned.”  Mother waved her hand as if it were nothing.  “Long before you came back.  Burt.”

“Madeleine.”  Burt folded his arms over his chest. 

“I expected to find you here.”  Mother’s dislike was obvious.  “There’s no bringing Jean back by wasting time here.”

“Wow, that’s harsh.”

“Well, you act like she’s the only family you ever had.”

Sam knew the remark had cut, and she was surprised when Burt remained silent.  There had never been kindness between Burt and Mother.  In Mother’s eyes, Burt had never been good enough for Aunt Jean.  Or maybe he was too good.  Sam didn’t really know the cause of their animosity toward one another.  It wasn’t her place to know. 

However, since becoming a resident of Cold Springs, Sam didn’t think she’d have a choice but to know, unfortunately. 

“We were just going into the city and wondered if you needed anything.”

Theresa went to one of the windows and touched the yellow chicken curtains.  “You’re not keeping these are you?”

“Until I get something new,” Sam answered.  Tacky curtains were the least of her worries at the moment. 

Mother whipped a notepad and paper out of her large handbag.  “Curtains,” she muttered to herself as she counted each window.  “We’ll stop by the mall.”

“I thought you were going to reupholster the booths.”  Theresa wrinkled her nose to exemplify her distaste.

“I plan to when money starts coming in.” Sam tried to hide her irritation. She didn’t want her mother picking out her curtains any more than she wanted Theresa’s decorating ideas.  Jean’s wasn’t a place people came to for atmosphere.  It never had been.  People came for hot coffee and hearty, home-cooked food, which was what Sam intended to give them.  Eventually, she planned on replacing the less-than-pretty things like the booths and the cracked tile in the bathroom, but it could wait until she was making a profit.  Now was not the time.

Mother adjusted her purse onto her shoulder.  “Jean never cared what the place looked like.”

“Jean worked damn hard here.” Burt spun around.  His arms remained folded across his chest, his angry gaze on Mother.

“I never said she didn’t.”

“See that you don’t.”

Mother sighed.  “My sister never had a knack for décor.  That’s all.  She did work hard here.  Too hard.  I don’t want to see my daughter working herself into an early grave like Jean did.”

“I’m used to hard work, Mom.”  Sam appreciated her mother’s concern.  Being a literary agent was hard work, but it was different.  Sam surmised she was in for a surprise once the reality of running a restaurant kicked in, but she looked forward to the challenge.  It was a much-needed change of pace and a chance to carry on Aunt Jean’s legacy.

Remembering Burt’s coffee, she went to the stove behind the counter and lit the burner to heat up some water.  Nothing.

“Darn.”

“Not working?” Burt asked. 

“What?”

“It was just a minute ago when I made my coffee.”  Sam filled a cup of water and stuck it in the microwave to heat.  “I’m afraid your coffee won’t be the best this morning, Burt.”  She glanced toward her mother and sister.  “Coffee?”

“It’s instant.” Burt smirked.  “Better run.”

Mother adjusted her purse.  “We’ve got to be going.”

“That’s too bad.” Burt chuckled.

Sam sighed.  “I’ll call someone later.”

“Call Ian,” Burt said. “He’s local and he’s good.  Won’t cost you an arm and a leg.”

“Ian Woods?” Mother and Theresa said the name with the same unbelievable tone.

“No,” Theresa snapped.

“Absolutely not.” Mother agreed.

“Ian paid his dues.” Burt spun around in his chair, his tone heavy with the same defense he held for Jean.

Sam sat down at the counter.  “What do you mean ‘paid his dues’?”

“He murdered someone!” Mother proclaimed.

Sam nearly choked on her coffee. “Right in cold blood.”

“Who—”

“I don’t know.  Does it matter?  He’s a murderer.”

“That’s not what happened, and you know it.” Burt shot her a venomous look.

Sam thought for a moment.  As an agent, she’d read countless murder mystery manuscripts.  Like books, real life always held two sides to the story.  “Maybe it was an accident.”

“It was no accident,” Theresa said.

“Does it even matter?” Mother asked. “He’s not trustworthy.”

“He’s more trustworthy than you,” Burt shot at Mother.