Chance of a Lifetime (3 page)

Beau yelled over his shoulder as he led Border to the
car. “I love Froot Loops. It’s like a Hawaiian vacation for your mouth.”

“You must have loved them. You ate them while you watched me starve.”

“All right, I’ll buy the steaks.” They stored the equipment. “But you got to look at the bright side of your brother finding a woman. If Big could find one, maybe you got a chance.”

Border nodded. “I’m thinking of getting my next tattoo to say ‘I’ve had my shots. Take me home.’”

Beau saw his partner’s arm clearly in the parking lot light. A full sleeve of tats covered it from wrist to shoulder. “You know, Border, I don’t understand it. I think you’re downright beautiful. I’m shocked girls don’t ask to spend the night just so they can admire you while you sleep.”

“I know it,” Border agreed. “I’m surprised someone doesn’t try to shoot me, skin me, and frame me on a wall.”

A car backfired a half block away, and both boys ducked behind the car, then laughed. Neither had much in the way of family, but they had each other.

They’d driven to the interstate that night and ordered steaks to celebrate the raise they’d gotten an hour before his father’s public lecture. Neither mentioned Beau’s dad’s screaming. Maybe Border thought the lecture was nothing compared to how his own stepdad used to beat him and his big brother. Maybe he thought Preacher Yates was simply warming up for the next sermon. Either way, Beau was glad he’d had Border beside him then and now.

Tonight memories drifted with the music. Beau hadn’t seen his dad for months. The old man was probably telling folks that his son was dead. Beau didn’t care. He’d gone from hating the man to feeling sorry for him, but either way Beau had scratched his own name off the family tree.

Harley, the bar’s owner, tapped on the cage door with the corner of the tray he carried.

“Food.” Border set down his bass guitar. As he opened the door to what Harley called the stage, he asked, “Any
chance we could get a beer to go with our burgers, Harley? I think it might improve my playing.”

“It probably would, Border, but it ain’t happening.” The owner swore. “You boys are lucky the sheriff lets you play in this place. I swear if she caught me giving you beer we’d be locked up until you both turn twenty-one.”

Beau took his hamburger and leaned back in his chair as he watched the crowd. In the months they’d been playing here, he didn’t know Harley Moreland any better than he had when he walked in the bar and asked for a chance to play. Harley was a hard man interested mostly in the bottom line of his business. He was fair but rarely offered a compliment. In fact, his vocabulary consisted mostly of swear words held together by a noun now and then.

Border was half finished with his burger before Beau got his unwrapped.

“You know,” Border said as he chewed, “I think there shouldn’t be a drinking age. I think it should go by weight. Anyone over two hundred pounds can drink. You ask me, those skinny girls who drink half a beer and make fools of themselves do a lot more damage than I ever would.”

“You got a point,” Beau said, playing along. “Then, instead of carding people, there could just be a scale at the door. I’m guessing the women wouldn’t mind that one bit. I read once that a woman would rather pose nude than tell the truth about her weight.”

“Maybe I should start asking every girl I meet her weight. Who knows, one might start stripping.” Border was lost in thought.

A beer bottle hit the chicken wire of the cage making Beau jump. “It’s going to be a wild night, partner. Not even ten o’clock and the natives are already restless.”

Border finished off his dinner. “I don’t care, for two hundred dollars a night they can yell and fight all they like.”

While Border tested the sound on his bass, Beau looked out at the people crammed into the bar. In the twinkling
lights, he usually just saw bodies, not faces, but tonight he tried to find anyone in the crowd he recognized.

He barely remembered the people he’d gone to high school with two years ago. The folks from the church where his daddy preached weren’t likely to be in the bar. Ronny Logan, who lived next door to Border and his brother, had said she would come in if she could. She was ten years older than he was, but Beau called the shy woman a friend. All she did was study and cook, but now, between semesters, she needed to have a little fun.

“You see Ronny?” he asked Border.

“She was just being nice by saying she might come. Why should she come? She hears us practicing every day.”

Beau continued to look. “I’m making a New Year’s resolution.”

“You’re a month late,” Border reminded him.

“I don’t care. This year I’m going to find a girlfriend. A real one.”

“Yeah, I’m getting a little tired of the imaginary one I got too.”

Beau looked at him, trying to figure out what Border was talking about. As usual, he gave up. “I mean a girl who likes me. The women who come in here are all older than us and have been around the dance floor too many times. I want someone my age. Someone smart that I can talk to. Someone pretty without being all made up. Someone who’s not flirting with me because she’s drunk or has just dumped her boyfriend.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have much problem with the age or finding someone smarter. With the black hat and boots making you even taller, I’d say you got that lean outlaw look about you women wouldn’t mind cuddling up to. Only trouble I see you having is talking to her long enough to ask her out. Every time a pretty girl comes within ten feet of this cage, you start stuttering.”

“I plan to work on that. I think I would be all right if we could just start at the third or fourth date. It’s that first one or two that make me nervous.”

“How about I put a sack over each of your heads? Then you won’t know she’s pretty and she won’t know she’s on a date.” Another beer bottle hit the cage. “Third time I put you two together, I’ll take the sacks off and, bingo, you’re on your third date.”

“It’s time to go to work,” Beau said as he began playing a fast piece that he knew Border would eventually remember and join in. Under his breath, he said to himself, “I’m going to get out there and live so I’ll have something to sing about. An artist has to suffer to make what he writes real.”

Couples moved to the dance floor. It was time for the boot scooting to begin.

S
ATURDAY
H
ARMONY
L
IBRARY

E
MILY
T
OMLINSON LOVED
S
ATURDAY MORNINGS IN THE
library. Families came in together creating a holiday atmosphere. It was almost as if the walls welcomed the noises like a fond old memory from a time when the big house had once been a home.

When she’d been in grade school, her mother always brought her to the library on Saturdays. They’d sit by big windows and read as if there was nothing more important to do in the world, and then they’d take an afternoon break and walk over to the Blue Moon Diner for floats and chili fries. Her mother might know nothing of fashion or etiquette, but Shelley Tomlinson knew books. A dozen times she’d reread a book while Emily read it for the first time. Chapter by chapter, they’d talk about where the story might go.

The library wasn’t as full now as it had been then. Families
seemed too busy with other things on weekends, but Emily, dressed in her tailored trousers and white blouse, remained the same. Except for the different colors of sweaters and scarves, she almost had a uniform. Dark-rimmed glasses and curly hair, cut short, almost made her look exactly as she had ten years ago when she’d walked in as head librarian.

Since her first week at the job, she liked coming early and getting everything ready before she opened the door as if she were preparing for a party. Walking the stairs, she made sure all the books in the shelves built against the wall were in place.

She noticed one of the books of The Secrets of Comeback Bay series had been pulled from its order and placed on top of the twenty-volume set. No one ever read these old books, which someone had donated over fifty years ago, but now and then people would pull one book to look at the beautiful leather tooling.

Pamela Sue, one of the library’s volunteers, called them “staging books” as if they were merely props put there along the stair shelves by some decorator. She said people always put books in show homes they were hoping to sell so potential buyers would think intelligent people lived there.

But this one series of books held a secret all its own. Emily had found it the first month she’d returned to Harmony to take the job. After finishing school and looking for work for four months, this offer seemed to have come out of nowhere, and she’d wanted to prove she could be the best librarian Harmony ever had. So, just after dawn each morning before the library reopened, she’d slipped in and studied the books as she dusted a year of dust away. By the time she officially reopened, she knew the shelves and she’d found the secret.

Now, as Emily remembered that day, she sat down on the stairs and cradled the volume in her hand. In the first of the series, someone had written just below the title in pencil so light she could barely make out the words,
To my secret
girlfriend. I’m yours
. The admirer had signed simply
answer V3P11
in the handwriting of someone who might be still in grade school.

The note had puzzled Emily for a month before she took the time to check again and on a whim turned to volume three, page eleven. There, written near the fold in another’s hand, was
I like you too. Promise you’ll never tell anyone and you can be my secret boyfriend. V7P53.

In volume seven, she’d found the same bold handwriting she’d first seen, only the handwriting was smoother, more polished:
Someday, when I’m rich and famous, I’ll come for you. I promise. Write me in V11P7.

She crossed to the next note.
Sorry it took me so long to answer. I don’t come to the library much. I have a boyfriend now, but you can still be my secret one.

Three more notes had been written into the pages of the stories, then no more. Emily had no idea if they’d been put there fifty years ago, or ten years ago, or the week before the library closed when the former librarian died. Each note talked of the girl dating and the boy waiting.

Months passed before she checked again, reading through the short phrases just as she had before. To her surprise, one more note had been added in the bold hand of an adult.
I’ve missed you through an eternity and back. Can we start writing again? V3P50
.

Emily flipped through the pages realizing the young lovers had found their secret way of communicating, but she had no idea how long between the writings. It must have been years.

Almost a year passed before the next note. This time she was sure it was from the woman.

I’m glad you’re still my secret admirer. At my age one admirer means the world. V8P143
.

Emily checked every day for a week, and finally the reply came.
You will always matter to me and you’ll always be as beautiful as you were at fifteen. V9P17
.

Weeks went by and Emily finally stopped checking. Finally, just after Christmas, she discovered another note.

I’ve always remembered you. When you walk past my place, I put my hand on the window pane, wishing I could touch your cheek. Though men have come and gone from my life, I’ve had no other secret admirer. V12P32
.

A few months later, in volume twelve, she found another note written in the bolder hand.
I force myself never to look toward your house. If I did, and saw you, I’m not sure I could walk away, but know that I feel your touch. If not on my cheek, on my heart. V3P99.

Emily closed her eyes, fighting back tears before she finally pulled the third volume and flipped to page ninety-nine.

Nothing. The couple had started writing when very young and now as adults, maybe even older ones, they’d picked back up their secret code and wrote again.

She found nothing for a year. Emily felt as if she were an audience of one waiting for the next act of a play. She never checked the books unless she was alone, but she caught herself watching people as they climbed the stairs, hoping to see someone pause at the bank of mysteries tucked neatly on a shelf halfway up.

When another note appeared about the time she marked her third year as librarian, Emily felt as if she were now watching old friends. Sometimes the notes were short:
Missing you with every breath.
Sometimes they were longer, describing the beauty of the other and ending with
I’ll think
of you with my last thought and cross over into death waiting for you to join me.

A month later, she found this simple note:
Wait. When our time comes, it will be so sweet, but for now we must remain as always a secret.

Before Christmas a new note appeared.
Our fingers touched beneath a book. Heaven comes in small gifts.

Emily began studying the people, but none looked like they carried such a longing as the two lovers talked about. In truth, most people waited impatiently for her to check out their books. They didn’t seem like the type who’d wait one minute, much less a lifetime, for someone.