Second Chance Girl Read online

  Second

  Chance

  Girl

  A Novel

  ALSO BY JESSICA THORN

  Pine Grove Romance Series

  Christmas in Pine Grove

  Rocky Point Romance Series

  Second Chance Girl

  Just My Luck (Coming 2021)

  All Jessica Thorn’s books can be read in Kindle Unlimited

  Second

  Chance

  Girl

  A Novel

  By Jessica Thorn

  Copyright © 2020 Jessica Thorn

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover image by germancreative

  Printed by Kindle Direct Publishing, in the United States of America.

  First printing edition 2020.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Second

  Chance

  Girl

  A Novel

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth

  “I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN you’d find a way to get rid of me, rotten girl.”

  I roll my eyes as I push my grandmother’s wheelchair forward, through the front doors of Golden Acres Assisted Living. A chipper nurse in yellow scrubs gives us a sweet smile when she sees us, shaking my hand and waving at Gran.

  “Elizabeth Quinn,” I tell her, and then gesture to Gran. “This is my grandmother.”

  “You must be Helen,” she coos, addressing Gran. “I’m nurse Angie, I’m here to help you get settled.”

  “I’ll be settled when I’m dead.”

  The nurse’s smile falters for a moment, her eyes widening and flicking toward me. I shrug, patting Gran on the shoulder.

  “You’re going to like it here,” I tell her, noting I don’t sound all too convincing. “Remember the tour you took with Cheryl? You said you really liked the apartment.”

  “I only said that because Cheryl liked it,” Gran tells me.

  “Ahh, of course,” I say, briefly squeezing my eyes shut. “I forgot we’re only agreeable with Cheryl.”

  Gran pauses for a moment, a smile crossing her face at the mention of her caretaker of four years. “I don’t like to upset Cheryl.”

  Right, I thought. Just me, apparently.

  Angie beckons us forward, leading us through the large lobby and toward a common area, with tables and a television. It’s barely 9 a.m., but a handful of other residents are already gathering in the common area, sipping on coffee and tea, and quietly watching QVC, playing cards, or reading. We stop for a moment and Gran turns to me, the disappointment in her eyes reminding me of the way she used to look at me when I’d talk back to her as a kid, or when she’d catch me sneaking out in the middle of the night as a teenager.

  “Ungrateful, rotten child.”

  Angie’s head snaps toward me, the surprise in her eyes tinged with a hint of panic. I pat Gran’s shoulder again, smiling at Angie.

  “Your apartment is just down this way,” Angie mutters, leading us down a hallway at the other end of the common area. She stops outside a door marked with the number six, turns the handle, and opens the door into Gran’s unit.

  I roll her in and help her take her coat off, then hang it on the coat rack by the door. Cheryl had helped move in some of Gran’s things the week before, and I had unpacked what I could last night, before moving Gran in this morning. Despite the touches from home scattered throughout the apartment, the space still has a detached and rather, well... depressing feel to it.

  “Alright, Gran, what do you think?” I ask, walking around to stand in front of her. “Want me to help you onto the couch?”

  Gran looks up at me, cocks her head to the side, and smiles widely at me.

  “You have such beautiful hair, dear,” she says, then looks around the room. “Is this your house?”

  I frown, crouching down in front of her. She follows me with her eyes, and something about them unsettles me. They’re glassy and uncertain, full of a twinkling innocence that is almost childlike. Not a hint of her usual ire toward me, not even the faintest bit of recognition, registers in her gaze.

  “Gran?” I say, rubbing her arm. “It’s me, Elizabeth.”

  “That’s a beautiful name, dear.”

  I drop my head, inhaling a deep breath, and then stand up. Angie gives me a sympathetic nod, walking over and grasping the handles on Gran’s wheelchair.

  “Her doctor sent over the dosage for her medications, so I’ll get those together for her. You take a moment,” she says, wheeling Gran into her bedroom. Once they are both out of eyesight, I exhale, rubbing my forehead. Cheryl had told me what had been going on with her recently – the forgetting, the confusion, and the speech disruptions. I’d spoken with her doctor, and she’d explained to me the symptoms and outlook of dementia. She classified Gran as having middle stage, or moderate dementia, and assured me it would only continue to get more severe as time went on. An assisted living facility with a memory care unit for when things got bad would be the best option for her condition, despite Gran’s complaints. I knew what to expect, but... it still caught me off guard seeing it happen in front of my eyes. The forgetting, that is.

  A few hours later, with Gran settled and taking her afternoon nap, I decide now is as good a time as ever to work on the thing I am least looking forward to during my short return to my hometown of Rocky Point: figuring out what in the world to do with Gran’s house. With Angie promising to check in on Gran frequently, I head out into the balmy summer afternoon, climb into my Lexus (a rental, so why not splurge?), and take off toward Rocky Point proper and the past I left behind some ten odd years ago.

  DRIVING INTO TOWN FEELS like teleporting back in time, the neatly lined blocks of Cape Cod-style houses, the blue expanse of the harbor, and the towering silhouette of the light house all achingly familiar. On the water, I can see sailboats tacking and jibing with the wind, the occasional larger yacht moseying in between them. It’s Saturday, and the streets are cluttered with townies and tourists alike, hitting the shops on Main Street or grabbing a bite at the local haunts. I think of Crabby Jack’s, my favorite place to get crab legs or a buttery Lobster Roll as a kid, and smile. I’ll have to try to stop by while I’m in town.

  I don’t have to navigate to get to Gran’s house, despite not having been back in close to a decade. I know the drive like the back of my hand. As I pull into the driveway, though, and put the Lexus in park, I look around at the yard and frown. The crisp, manicured front lawn that I remember is now brown and overgrown. The tulips that once lined the walkway leading up to the house are wilted and frail, nothing like their former vibrant and colorful selves. The exterior of the house, in my memory
a robin’s egg blue Cape Cod with navy shutters, has paint peeling off the siding and moss growing on the aging gray roof. I remember Gran’s meticulous gardening and upkeep of the space as a child, and am overcome with a momentary wave of sadness. I slept in a hotel last night, meeting Cheryl at the nursing home to pick up Gran this morning. I had purposely put off this moment, worrying about what it would be like to see my childhood home again, and wondering if I could somehow just skip it entirely. It’s worse that I could have anticipated.

  Carefully, I climb out of the car and make the short trek up to the front door, pulling out the worn brass key and sticking it in the lock. I hesitate, inhaling a deep breath before turning the key and pushing the door open. The hardwood floor creaks as I step inside, and as I take a look around, I realize it’s not half as bad as the outside. In fact, everything looks strangely... preserved? Like no one has sat on the furniture in years. A thick layer of dust coats almost everything, and all the curtains on the windows are drawn tightly shut. I throw them open, one by one, to let some light in. Storm clouds have begun to roll in, so it’s not very bright, but even the tiny bit of natural light makes the house come just slightly back to life.

  As I stroll through the house, it feels like a time capsule, everything exactly the same as when I left ten years ago. I make my way upstairs, instinctively skipping the squeaky third stair from the top landing, and stopping in front of the closed door at the end of the hallway. My old bedroom. Just as I reach for the doorknob, a loud crack of thunder shakes the house and I jump, closing my eyes as the sound of driving rain gets louder and louder.

  Not yet, my brain practically yells. We’re not ready yet.

  I back away from the door, figuring there’s no reason to check out my old bedroom quite yet.

  Chicken shit, I think.

  I take a few more steps back, turning around to head downstairs again, when a big, fat drop of water hits me square in the center of my forehead. I freeze, the out-of-place and unexpected feeling of being rained on causing my brain to grasp for its bearings. I look up, toward the source of the droplets, and gasp at a large, yellow ring on the ceiling the size of a dinner plate. Water drips from the center of the ring, the dripping becoming faster and faster as the rain outside continues to drive louder and harder against the house.

  “Crap!” I yell, bolting downstairs to look for a bucket or large bowl. I find a bucket under the kitchen sink and grab several towels from the linen closet, silently thanking Cheryl for not packing everything up. I spread the towels out in the hallway underneath the leaking ceiling, and plant the bucket under the stream of droplets, flinching as I feel another drop of water hit my back. Looking up, I see another yellow ring, and another stream of droplets. Scanning the rest of the hallway, I see a handful of other damp spots beginning to form. Damn.

  Dashing out to my car, I climb in and type hardware store into the GPS app on my phone, sighing with relief when it returns one close by that’s still open. A few minutes later, I pull up in front of Dearing’s Hardware, a small mom-and-pop shop that I remember well from my childhood. Back when I was in school, the shop was run by Charlie Dearing, the father of a classmate of mine. Eddie Dearing had been a quiet, loner-type kid, taking after his tall and portly father at a young age. I remember the popular kids teasing him mercilessly. As I hurry out of my car, soaked through from the rain, I wonder if Eddie runs the store now.

  A bell chimes as I clamber through the door, shaking off the rain on the mat in the vestibule before stepping onto the store’s linoleum floor. A petite blonde woman in light wash overalls over a white t-shirt bounces out from behind the counter to greet me, but gasps after taking one look at me.

  “I know, I’m positively sopping,” I sigh.

  “Lizzie? Lizzie Quinn?”

  My head snaps up at the sound of my nickname – one I haven’t gone by since I left Rocky Point. I squint at the woman, not recognizing her right away. Her face is familiar, but perhaps less heavily made up? Finally, the lightbulb goes off. Her hair is different, much shorter now. What used to be enviable golden waves down to her hips is now a platinum, wavy, chin-length bob. She is smiling at me, the same brilliant straight, white smile she would flash on the football field before being hurled into the air during a cheer routine.

  “Trisha Dodd?”

  Trisha squeals excitedly when I recognize her.

  “Yes! Oh my gosh, what’s it been? 10 years?” The way she clasps her hands and bounces up and down on her toes, I’m worried she’s about to do a back handspring.

  “Just about,” I say.

  “Well, it sure is good to see you. You haven’t changed one bit! Except for maybe that coat,” she gestures to my tan Michael Kors trench. “That looks expensive.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I just smile.

  I’m unnerved by how different Trisha is. When we were in school together, she was at the top of the food chain, second only to head cheerleader Ainsley Wells. I distinctly remember her wearing her Mean Girl badge with pride. The Trisha Dodd of high school wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to me, let alone thinking it’s good to see me. Or wearing overalls.

  “So, what can I help you find?” she asks, pointing to her nametag. “I’m Trisha Dearing now, by the way. Can you believe it?”

  I can feel my eyes bulging out of my sockets. “No, I can’t,” I say flatly. Trisha Dodd and Eddie Dearing? I consider hitting myself with a nearby object, just to see if I’m awake, because surely, I must be hallucinating. When I look around, however, the only objects at arms’ length are buy-one-get-one hand trowels and gardening spades, both of which would no doubt get me sent to the nearest psych ward if I started flailing them around. Instead, I look at Trisha and smile.

  “I’m looking for some buckets. And a large plastic tarp,” I say. She cocks her head to one side, and I add, “Oh, and potentially some sandbags, if you have them.”

  Trisha bursts out into giggles.

  “My goodness, Lizzie Quinn. You haven’t gone and murdered someone, have you?”

  I exhale sharply. “Nope, just have a leaky roof.”

  “Oh, well that’s never fun!” Trisha says, leading me toward an aisle with several bucket varieties. I grab a few off the shelf, and then she takes me to the next aisle over for a tarp. “I know someone who could come take a look at the roof for you, if you want.”

  “Oh Trisha, that would be great, actually,” I say, hauling a few sandbags into the buckets. “I’m supposed to be deciding whether or not to sell the house, but there’s no way I can do that if the roof needs replaced.”

  “Selling?” Trisha asks. “Your Gran’s place? Is Helen okay?”

  I look down at my sopping wet ballet flats. “We had to move her into Golden Acres. She’s been...” I hesitate, not sure I trust Trisha enough to blab personal family business. “On the decline.”

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that!” Trisha gushes. “Listen, I know a handyman who owes me a favor. I’ll have him head to Helen’s as soon as we’re finished here to get you an estimate.”

  “Thanks so much, Trisha.”

  She rings me out, and lets me know to expect her handyman in thirty to forty-five minutes, tops. “And let’s get coffee sometime soon, catch up!” she yells, waving after me as I lug what I’ve bought back out into the still-pounding rain. I smile at her and nod. So weird.

  A few minutes later, I pull back into Gran’s driveway and haul the buckets, tarp, and sandbags inside in one trip. I strip off my rain-soaked jacket and blouse, leaving just my damp tank top and jeans clinging to my skin, and kick off my water-logged flats. I run upstairs and dry off any wet spots on the floor, then spread out the buckets under the leaks. Just as I’m finishing up, I hear a knock on the front door.

  That was quick, I think to myself, making a mental note to thank Trisha again.

  “Come on in, door’s open!” I yell, double checking that I have all the leaks covered. I hear the door creak open downstairs, and then close
with a thud. “I’ll be right down!”

  I pad downstairs to greet the handyman Trisha has sent over, preparing to rattle off the location of the leaks, when I see the man standing in my foyer and freeze, nearly tripping down the last couple steps.

  Cameron Tate. My high school sweetheart.

  He’s leaning against the door, his gray t-shirt and jeans soaked through to the bone. The dampness of his shirt causes it to cling to the broad, defined muscles in his chest and shoulders, and the glistening droplets of water on his skin accentuate the dark bronze color, no doubt from countless hours of labor in the sun. Any other day, any other world, I would be overjoyed to find a tall, muscular, soaking wet man in my entryway. Right now, though, I’m panicking. I want my entire body to dry up and shrivel into nothingness, kind of like my throat is doing. If there was ever a time for a pit of quicksand to appear and swallow me whole, it’s now.

  “Lizzie.”

  He says my name so low, it’s practically a growl. I attempt to speak, but my mouth is so dry I feel like I’ve just stuffed it full of cotton. He crosses his arms over his chest and waits while I conduct a full reset of my brain. Systems... processing...

  “C...Cam,” I stutter. Doing great, champ. “What are you doing here?”

  I feel like a total idiot the moment the question leaves my stupid mouth. It’s now that I realize he’s wearing a tool belt. He cocks one eyebrow, and the familiarity of that look, even if it’s been a decade, sends a shiver down my spine.

  “I’m here to look at your roof.”

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth

  I STAND THERE LIKE a dunce, my left foot hovering over the next step down, my mouth slightly agape. Cam is looking at me like he’s concerned I’ve had a stroke, and I can see his hand twitching toward his cell phone, probably ready to dial 911.

  Yes, emergency services? I think she keeled over from embarrassment.