Second Chance Love (20 page)

Her eyes had grown hazy. She was still talking to Elizabeth, but her mind was far away, lost in the memory. Elizabeth held silent.

“A little after nine that night, the four of us gathered our things and left for home. Jefferson had picked us up, so we were all in his Cadillac Coupe de Ville. He had just picked it up from the dealer. The weather was terrible that night, cold and rainy. Jefferson was far too drunk to drive anything, so I suggested we call a cab. Jefferson and Charles wouldn’t hear of it. I guess the idea that he was unable to drive his brand new Cadillac home was unacceptable to Jefferson's male ego.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Charles and Jefferson were in the front seat, and Lilly and I were in the back. When we were about a mile from our house, Jefferson made a right turn at a red light. You're supposed to stop first, but he didn't, and he was going faster than he should have been. I think he realized too late that this was his turn. Anyhow, he swerved hard and slammed on the brakes, and something thumped against the car, like we'd jumped a curb or run over a tree limb or something. Lilly and I weren't drunk, but we weren't very alert, and it was disorienting. The windshield wipers were going, one of the headlights wasn’t working. I remember it in a kind of hazy way.”

After a few moments of silence, she went on.

“The men got out of the car to see what the damage was. Charles was a very in-charge sort of man. I rarely saw him get rattled by anything. When he got back into the car, he was shaken up.”

“What had happened?” Elizabeth asked.

“When I looked at Charles, I knew it was something horrible. Charles said, ‘We hit someone. I…I think he's dead. We need to call the police. Right now.’ This was 1983, though. There were no cell phones, and we were in a residential neighborhood with no payphones. We had no immediate way to call 911. Jefferson said that he would take us home and call the police from there.”

“And did he?”

“No. Once we got to our house, Charles told me to make coffee, while he and Jefferson disappeared into his study. When I took the coffee in to them, Jefferson was on the telephone, but it was with his lawyer, Mr. Grogan, not the police. A few minutes later, Mr. Grogan was at our house. He picked Jefferson and Lilly up and they left. Later, I found out that he had called the police and told them what had happened, but he arranged it so that Jefferson didn’t have to go to the station for questioning until the next morning. When he was sober.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide. “Oh. Oh, my.”

“I don’t believe he could get away with that today, no matter how good his lawyer might be. Times were different then. The next day, I learned that Jefferson had hit and killed a young man, walking home from his shift at McDonalds.” She stopped for a long moment. “He was only twenty-three, with a young wife at home. As I recall, the impact caused his head to hit the pavement with lethal force. Since Jefferson was completely sober by the morning, and since they had alerted the police the night before, no charges were ever filed."

"So there were no consequences at all?"

"As I understand it, Jefferson reached some sort of financial settlement with the young widow. She moved away, and everyone forgot that it had ever happened. It wasn't made public, of course.

"After that night, I rarely saw the Stantons again. Ten years later, they were both killed in another car accident, where Jefferson rammed into a bridge abutment. I always wondered if he was drunk when that happened as well. Probably. It was a one-car accident with no survivors, though, so there wasn’t much to investigate.”

Margaret looked at Elizabeth, seeming to come back to the present day.

“By that time, Chelsea was a grown woman, but I still felt like I should do what I could to help her here and there. I recognized that she had a cruel streak, but I did my best to look past it.” Margaret reached out and patted Elizabeth’s hand. “In any case, I wanted you to know that you have more in common with her than you knew.”

Elizabeth smiled, if a little wanly.

“I feel like I know your character now, Elizabeth. I trust that you would never use this against her.”

“I never would.”

Chapter Thirty

On the day of the event, Elizabeth waited for something to go wrong. The caterers could fail to show. A freak snowstorm. A zombie apocalypse. Anything.

Things went wrong, of course, but none were actual disasters. Bertram’s Linens delivered gold and green tablecloths instead of the gold and brown Elizabeth had picked out, and the representative did not understand why anyone would object. A deliveryman dropped an entire case of fluted glasses, which shattered in a cacophony of broken glass and curses. Three waitresses called out sick, leaving the serving crew short-handed. Elizabeth stayed calm, improvised, and persevered.

Steve showed up an hour before start time. The ballroom had been transformed into an autumn wonderland. He waved to Elizabeth on the other side of the room, then watched her in wonder as she walked toward him in the shimmering, form-fitting dress that was modest in design but devastating in effect. "Well, hello there, Steve," she said, as if greeting a longtime customer at the bookstore.

"Looks marvelous, Lizzie. Do you need me to rake leaves?"

She laughed. "No, don't give me a rake. I might use it in a terrible way on the next service that proves it cannot follow simple instructions."

“You should have seen the look they gave me when I pulled up in the Taurus. I think, with the tux, they assumed I was the maître d'. Lizzie, you’ve done a wonderful job, especially on such short notice. Mother will be so proud.”

“I wish she could be here,” Elizabeth said, pausing long enough to give Steve a lingering kiss.

“She may as well be. This area will be under the surveillance of what I call the 'Old Biddies' Telegraph Service.' She’ll get more detail than if she had a private TV feed. Can I be probably the one thousandth person to tell you that you are stunningly beautiful?”

“No, but you can be the first. Thank you, Honey. I haven’t had a moment to worry about it, but it’s nice to hear.”

“Is your emcee here?”

“Yes, Tess's been here for an hour. She offered to help me get things set up, just like she did at our book club meeting, but I wouldn’t let her. I introduced her to Gail, which may or may not have been a good idea."

"Look on the bright side. Gail won't ask her how to get past writer's block, or where she gets her ideas."

"Or anything else. I do need one favor of you, Honey."

"Name it."

"Will you introduce Tess for me? I don’t want to go on the stage.”

“A small thing to ask. Done."

With a smile, she brushed her lips against his cheek and was gone.

At 7:15, Elizabeth was backstage when Max’s voice issued from her phone. “Elizabeth, you have an incoming call from Margaret Larson.”

It was one of the only two callers she would have answered, just then. “I’ll take that call, Max, then mute everything for the next three hours.”

"Hello?"

“Good evening, Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Margaret. We’re just getting underway here.”

“I know. I just called to tell you to break a leg. Please don’t be worried about anything. You’ve done the work, now try to just relax and enjoy yourself.”

Elizabeth peeked around the curtain and saw that the ballroom had filled up with people, mingling and looking over the silent auction items. There was Chelsea Stanton at her usual prime table, front and center, immaculate and smug, as if she couldn’t wait for something to go wrong. A vaguely handsome but vacuous-looking man sat next to her, hanging on her every word.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Thank you. If I’ve forgotten something now, it’s too late. I’m sure we’ll be fine. I’ll call you when it’s all done and let you know how much money we’ve raised. ‘Bye, Margaret.” As she put her phone away, it dawned:
it was nice to hear from her
.

She turned to Steve and Tess. “Okay, you’re on,” she whispered.
Anyone but me. Bless you, Steve and Tess
.

As Steve walked to center stage, a spotlight hit him. Applause rippled through the crowd.

“Good evening,” Steve said. No one seemed to hear him, mainly because he had forgotten to turn the microphone on. He gave a sheepish look, clicked the button on the side, and repeated: “Good evening.” This time his voice carried throughout the ballroom, and the applause grew louder. “Welcome to
Autumn Wonderland,
in support of our local arts community. This is our biggest fundraiser of the year, so please dig deep. As some of you may have heard, I’ve hit some choppy financial waters.” Small titters of nervous laughter. “That means that in addition to introducing our illustrious emcee this evening, I’ll also see you in the valet booth after the show.”

Scattered titters of laughter, but it was forced.

“But enough about me. It is my sincere honor to be able to introduce to you, our mistress of ceremonies for tonight’s event, the author of the
New York Times
bestseller
The Sky Cries Mary
, please welcome: Tess Lincoln!”

Tess emerged from behind the curtain to a loud ovation, including several exclamations of praise for the book. Tess Lincoln was in her mid-sixties, solidly built, with long, silver hair that she had braided and pinned up for the occasion. She was wearing a long, colorful dress topped off with a large, eye-catching amulet.

Tess took the microphone from Steve, gestured at him and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for stand-up comedian Steve Larson!” This time everyone laughed. Steve blushed and hung his head as he hustled offstage.

“I am honored,” Tess said, “to be invited to this event. As an author and artist, I understand how important it is to support and nurture the arts, especially in our schools and universities…”

Backstage, Elizabeth kissed Steve. “Thank you, Honey, for doing that. I don’t think I could have managed it.”

“That's okay. I don’t think I managed it, either,” he said.

“True, but I wasn’t going to mention that.”

“Thanks for your support,” he said, putting his arm around her and peering around the curtain. Tess was telling a story of how she had been a young mother, working during the day and attending community classes in the evening, and how important it had been to her when she'd won $100 in a citywide essay contest.

“Now
she’s
impressive,” Steve said. Elizabeth nodded; Tess was handling the crowd with poise. "Who's that sitting next to Gail?”

Elizabeth glanced over. Gail was sitting next to a dapper older man. At that moment, she caught Elizabeth’s eye and gave her a 'Look what I found!' expression. Elizabeth smiled and flashed her a quick thumbs-up.

The next two hours went by in a blur of heartfelt stories and jokes from Tess, outsized bids from the crowd, and record-breaking amounts of money raised for the arts.

When Tess rewarded the crowd with one last smile and “Thank you!” she walked off to a standing ovation.

“Take that, Thom Goodson,” Elizabeth muttered, then chastised herself for it. “Tess, you are a star. I knew you were going to be wonderful, but it went even better than I'd hoped.”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you have lots of stories to tell. Plus they were an easy crowd. They wanted to be entertained and they came with their checkbooks out. I knew right away we were going to do great, as long as I didn’t screw it up.”

“I think you’re too modest. I hope you’ll come by our
Locked Room Readers
again when your next book is out.”

“Anywhere mystery readers gather, I will appear,” said Tess, with a suitably mysterious smile.

Elizabeth wished Tess a good night, then walked out onto the deserted stage and looked out onto the floor. People were gathering up their things, writing out checks, and chatting in small groups. Gail waved from the back of the room, her arm in that of her new friend. Elizabeth waved back, took two steps down from the stage, then snagged her heel on the third step's carpeted edge. As she pitched forward, it occurred to her that she was about to faceplant in front of the departing crowd. Strong arms caught her at the last moment and set her upright.

“Oh!” Elizabeth said, and looked up into the deep blue eyes of the man she had seen sitting with Chelsea. “Oh, thank you, I’m so embarrassed—"

“Not at all. Happy I was standing here. I'm Simon Barsin.”

“Well, thank you, Simon. I’m Elizabeth—"

A silky, sweetly bitchy voice intervened. “Simon, I can’t leave you for a moment without you finding some stray kitten to rescue, can I? This is Elizabeth Coleman.” She said it as if introducing the help.

Chelsea. Of all people.
When Elizabeth had first met Chelsea in February, the socialite had seemed so midwinter-tanned, so put together, so intimidating.
Now Elizabeth saw her differently. Her mouth had too often pursed in scorn, or to issue a cruel putdown, so that now it looked mean and mealy. Her makeup couldn’t cover a murder of crow's feet appearing at the edges of her eyes:
those aren't laugh lines, but bitch lines
. Her youth and beauty were deserting her, leaving the unpromising question of what would fill their place.

“You remember, don’t you dear?” Chelsea said to Simon. “The one I told you about?”

Elizabeth gathered herself, smoothed her dress.
My father was unfortunate, but at least he paid for his crimes.
As she took a deep, calming breath, she remembered why Margaret had told her that story. She did not avoid Chelsea's eyes, but declined to favor her with a glance. “Thank you again, Simon. Very kind of you.”

As Elizabeth turned to leave, Chelsea strode forward as if to walk past her. Her low hiss reminded Elizabeth of other venomous reptile species. “Stealing Steve away wasn’t enough for you? Now you want Simon, too?”

Elizabeth stiffened, the implication too ridiculous for a reply. From almost out of nowhere, Steve appeared and put out a hand to Simon. “Hello, I’m Steve Larson. Sorry that you got involved in this unpleasantness. I think you’ll find that it sort of follows Chelsea around, though. Wonder why that could be.”

Chelsea stepped back as if she had been slapped. Anger flashed in her eyes. “Steve, I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, both you and your—" she pretended to cough-- “girlfriend. I don’t even know why you’re here. You don’t belong here anymore. People only tolerated you because of your parents' standing in the community, but you’re finished. You have no company, you have no money, you have nothing.”

Steve didn't even look ruffled. “Wrong as usual, Chelsea. I have more now than I’ve ever had. Best of all, I've avoided being pestered by petty, small-minded, small-hearted socialites who hunt well-off men like some people hunt big game. Money isn't everything. I wish everyone, even you, could feel what I do every time I’m with Elizabeth. You aren't going to have reason to thank me, because I'm not keeping it to myself. The first time you met Elizabeth, you treated her classlessly even by your standards."

As Chelsea opened her mouth to reply, Steve went on. "Silence is your best option, Chelsea, more often than not. Try it now. And here's a word to the wise: thirty-one years ago, I overheard a conversation between our dads. Your father told mine that the night he ran that man over and left him dead in a crosswalk, he was so drunk he had no business getting behind the wheel to start with. Then, I'm told, he bought his way out of trouble."

Chelsea’s mouth fell open, but nothing came out. The color drained from her face.

"I’ve never felt the need to mention it to anyone. It must already be enough of a burden to know one's dad committed negligent homicide and fled the scene with depraved indifference. And even more embarrassing, the killer got away with it because the man he left for dead was, after all, only one of the lower classes. I believe the sins of the father should die with the father. Don’t you agree?”