For most of the summer I’ve been working on a new short story collection in between writing book reviews and political commentary here on the blog.
As of this writing, I don’t have a title for the book.
I know. I know. I’ve always said I can’t write a book without a title, but that applies to story, not necessarily a collection of stories.
Plus, all the short pieces in the forthcoming book have titles.
What I have to do now is decide which one should be the title piece. Maybe my editor can help with that. That step is next, then formatting and book cover creation, so I’m a month to six weeks from being ready to publish.
In the meantime, I thought you might like to read a sample from one of the stories. The collection is a real “tossed salad” combination of drama and humor, with a touch of romance, so this excerpt from Second Chances doesn’t set a tone for the whole.
Enjoy!
“What am I doing? Acting like a love-sick teenager.”
He made the personal indictment aloud while driving slowly down the tree-lined street, checking addresses. His eyes burned from hours on the road, and the shadows of near dusk were hard to penetrate. It didn’t help that he hadn’t been here in ten years. What if she’d moved since they’d last seen each other? What if she didn’t want an eighty-year-old man showing up on her doorstep with courting in mind?
“You’re a fool, Patrick David Williams. A silly old fool.”
Then he saw it. Her house. A little yellow frame structure nestled between two red- brick sprawling ranches. It was so unique; he should have remembered that distinction and not bothered with trying to read addresses with fading eyesight in fading daylight.
He slowed to stop, and then panic jangled his nerves. What if she’s married again?
Accelerating, he drove past, going to the end of the street. There he pulled to the curb and sucked in a couple of deep breaths while watching leaves of gold and red scampering down the sidewalk driven by the evening breeze. God, Patrick, why didn’t you think of her possible situation sooner? A simple phone call would’ve answered the question.
He pulled out his cell and glanced at the screen. The phone was a present from his kids. They’d all agreed they would feel better if he had one while traveling. His son had programmed all the important numbers into the list of contacts to make it easier for Patrick to call them. But he didn’t need numbers programmed for him. He might forget a lot of things. But not numbers. He’d worked with numbers all his life, and even after all these years, he still remembered Jean’s phone number. He could call now, and if a man answered, he’d hang up.
That thought elicited a chuckle. Was his life now a cliché?
The choice was clear. Either he sat here until someone wondered about him loitering and called the cops. Or he drove off and forgot this crazy idea.
Or, the third choice. Go to the door and see what happens.
He eased the car back onto the street and looked toward the intersection with the highway that would take him toward Detroit and his daughter. Then he glanced back at Jean’s house. Might as well chance it, he reasoned. If there was a new man in her life, she would still be hospitable to a traveler.
To a long-time friend.
That was her way.
He used a nearby driveway to turn around and head back to her home. He doused the lights, stilled the engine, and sat looking at the house. It needed a new coat of paint, but the grass was neatly mowed and yellow marigolds bloomed along the walkway. Orange fingers of sunset stretched across the expanse of sky beyond the dwelling and a light shone in one window. He considered the light a sign: Welcome. Come on in.
His finger trembled as he reached for the doorbell, and he almost drew his hand back. Then he sighed, pulled himself as straight as the catch in his back would allow, and punched the black button. The chime buzzed in the interior, and then a few seconds later a flash of brilliancy blinded him as the porch light came to life. “Who is it?”
Jean’s voice was the same. Soft, melodic, and oh, so sweet.
“It’s me, uh… Patrick.”
The door flew open and wide brown eyes regarded him. “Oh, my gosh.”
Hoping for some sign of excitement or welcome, he watched a myriad of emotions play across her face. Surprise. Confusion. Concern. Then he saw it—delight.
“Come on in.” She opened the door wider. “But I must say you’re the last person I expected to see on my front stoop.”
The nervous flutter of her hands, along with the quick look around the room as if assessing how it looked for company, amused him. He smiled. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Oh.” She reached to clear some newspapers from the sofa, and then stopped. “I thought you lived in Texas?”
“I did. I mean, I do. But I get up this way every now and then.”
She looked at him for a long moment, and he knew what was coming next. “Is Regina with you?”
Now it was his turn to look everywhere but at her. “No. She, uh… She died last year.”
“Oh.”
For a moment there was nothing but the word. Then he felt a light touch on his arm as if a butterfly had landed there. He turned to the touch and saw her eyes swimming with compassion. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
He turned away again, glancing around to see if there was any sign of a male presence in the room. Nothing. No tell-tale pipe or slippers or beer bottle by the lounge chair. Just a knitting bag on the floor and a book on the small table beside the chair. The book was lying face down, as if hastily put there. She must have been reading when he rang the bell.
“Are you taking an inventory?” she asked, a smile touching the corners of her mouth.
The question drew his attention. “Uh, no.”
Oh, that was brilliant, Patrick.
They stood in this silent tableau for a moment, nerves creating pools of sweat at the small of his back. Where could the conversation go from here? Did he just blurt out the reason he’d come? He covered the confusion by angling toward an armchair that seemed to beckon his weary body. “Could I have a sit?”
“Of course.” She dropped the papers on a low table. “What can I get you? Coffee? Something stronger?”
“A glass of ice-water would be nice. Didn’t stop much on the way up.”
She headed toward the kitchen, then paused with one hand on the door jamb and looked at him. “You drove all the way today?”
“From Lexington.”
“That must be… what? Four.. five hundred miles?” She walked slowly toward him; the water apparently forgotten.
He considered for a moment. “There about.”
“What on earth caused you—?”
He wasn’t conscious of sending any signals, but something stopped her question. She sat down slowly and looked at him. “Why are you here, Patrick?”
Whew. Here’s the moment. He put a hand on the knee that had started to tremble and cleared his throat. “There was a time we were right fond of each other.”
He let that statement stand alone for a moment, giving her time to adjust. Then when he thought she was ready, “I was hoping we could maybe…see each other.”
“You’re asking me for a date?”
“I know it sounds a little silly at our age.” He shrugged. “But, yes. I’m asking if you’d like to have dinner with me.”
“When?”
“Tonight? I am a bit hungry.”
He offered a hint of a smile and watched carefully as she appeared to process everything with a thoughtful expression on a face that had weathered the years well. Little flutters of movements as her fingers played with the crease in her tan slacks betrayed a nervousness that matched the thumping of his heart.
He would die of mortification if she said no.
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That’s all from me for today, folks. Here’s hoping that the week starts off great for all of us. Whatever you have planned, I hope it involves lots of relaxing moments in between work. In addition to writing work, I’ll be spending some time in my craft room working on some quilting projects. That’s always relaxing.