One More Chance Read online

  He halted in the shadow of the barn. For a moment he closed his eyes, his jaws aching with stress.

  "You're too hard on yourself."

  He glared at her through half-closed eyes. "I wasn't hard enough. I almost quit for good after that, but everybody made excuses for me. If I'd quit, Melanie and Jimmy would be alive today."

  She flinched and for a moment stopped stroking the sleeping kitten. "Your wife and child?"

  "Yes."

  Her head dipped and she moistened her lips. "I'm sorry. I just assumed you were divorced."

  "Yeah, well, you assumed wrong." He spoke roughly, because he still couldn't talk about it calmly. Up until now, he hadn't been able to talk about it, period. "After the accident… after it was too late to matter, I quit the force. I was drunk for a couple of years…a bum. Alcohol was my amnesia pill—when I couldn't stand to remember, I drank myself insensible."

  Finally the words were winding down. He felt empty, as if the bad feelings had tumbled out with the words, leaving a black, empty hole. "I didn't know it was possible to get as low as I got and still be human. Then one day…"

  "What?" she encouraged.

  Through the gathering dusk her face swam before him, indistinct, but nonetheless very real. Her scarf had slipped down around her shoulders, and her cropped hair and big eyes gave her a gamin air. He felt such a flash of affinity that he strained to find some similarity between her and the woman he had loved and married. He found none.

  "Then what happened?" she repeated.

  He shook his head. "Nothing." He didn't want to tell her about his mother's efforts to rehabilitate him. He supposed he'd already said too much, but instead of regret, he felt almost giddy with relief.

  She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted as if she held her breath, her expression tender.

  He spoke carelessly, but his gravelly voice sounded even huskier than usual. "Jeez, I don't know what got me started. Want to come in and see if we can find anything to eat?"

  And so they went inside the house and she prepared cheese omelets topped with sour cream and slices of soft, ripe avocado. They ate on the deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean. After a while the awkwardness created by the unexpected intimacy of Ben's revelations passed and they relaxed into a semblance of easy companionship.

  When the stars began to twinkle overhead, he sent her on her way as if nothing had happened.

  Juliana went back the next day, and the day after that. She rose each morning with new purpose, convinced against all reason that with her help, the Ware avocado grove would not only survive but prosper.

  Now she hummed happily to herself as she carried the big jar of sun tea into Ben's spotless kitchen. He was unloading supplies from the truck and lugging them inside the barn, and she figured he could use a cool drink right about now.

  The barn hadn't been used for livestock in years, although once the Wares had kept riding horses and a milk cow or two. Mrs. Ware had sold the animals after her husband's death four years ago. Ben used the structure mainly for storage.

  A tall glass in each hand, she entered the barn through the big double doors at one end. Identical doors opened at the opposite end, offering a straight shot through from either direction. Ben stood in front of the far opening, his body backlit, in the act of shaking the dust and leafy debris out of his chambray work shirt. He gave her a quick grin, which she hardly noticed as her attention zeroed in on his bare torso.

  Smooth golden skin flowed over flexing and unflexing muscles in his arms and chest as he moved. Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight that streamed over and around him. He tossed the shirt onto a stanchion. Lifting both hands, he dipped his head to ruffle bits of leaves and twigs from his unruly blond mane.

  The entire scene struck her as wildly exotic and alien, more like a misty golden watercolor than reality. The shadowed musculature of his body, the warm shine of his hair gilded by sunlight, the slight curve of his mouth… all combined in a dreamlike haze before her dazzled eyes.

  She swallowed hard, wondering what in the hell was causing her to react so strangely—and so strongly. It was more than just this sudden awareness of his body. She'd seen and admired that before; he often stripped off his shirt while working in the groves.

  He stepped deeper into the barn's shadowed interior, and the shaft of golden light silhouetted his long, heavily muscled legs, planted solidly apart.

  Good grief, what's happening to me? She felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She couldn't breathe; she couldn't speak.

  But he could. "You're not going to just stand there and let the ice melt, are you?" He started toward her.

  The pulse in her throat hammered so strongly that her voice almost failed her. "I'm sorry." She thrust a glass into his hand. "Here." Without another word, she turned and left the barn.

  She heard his footsteps behind her. Still shaken, she dropped onto the bench in the shade of the front wall of the barn. He lowered his tall frame beside her and at last she risked another glance.

  She saw Ben, only Ben. Not that godlike creature who'd stunned her, back there inside the barn. Not some stranger; Ben. She smiled in relief and he smiled back. Whatever she'd felt back there, he obviously hadn't. Thank goodness. And now, neither did she. Put it down to a temporary aberration.

  He took a swig of tea and leaned back against the wall. He stretched out his legs, his shoes stirring up dust. "You're becoming about halfway useful around here," he said.

  She made a face at him. "Thanks for nothing."

  For a moment he remained silent. Then he slanted her a guarded glance. "I might even miss you when you go back to work. Which should be soon."

  She stiffened and her heart began to pound. "Don't push." She stared down at the drink in her hand. The air was so dry that no moisture had condensed on the glass.

  "Juli." His low gravelly voice coaxed. "You know it's time."

  "I don't know any such thing." She sprang to her feet and walked quickly toward the house, intending to leave her glass in the kitchen and go home. If he didn't want her around, she wouldn't force herself on him.

  A dusty-blue pickup turned into the yard and Juliana came to an awkward halt. She'd left her scarf on the front seat of her car. Automatically, she lifted one hand to her head in her usual gesture of denial.

  The pickup stood between her and the house. She was, in effect, trapped. She heard Ben behind her.

  "Hang in there," he said softly. "It's only a neighbor."

  Juliana realized that. She'd known Opal Rudnick slightly for years, but wasn't any happier to see her because of that.

  Opal crawled out of the cab of the truck and lumbered toward them. A big-boned woman with a crown of snowy hair, she moved with little grace but plenty of energy. She had to be in her late sixties, Juliana supposed, but the round face betrayed few signs of age.

  "Howdy, folks." Opal halted in front of the pair, battered cowboy boots raising puffs of dust. She wore faded jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled above the elbow.

  Ben touched Juliana's elbow lightly. "Opal, do you know Juliana Robinson?"

  Opal waved him silent. "Since she was Juliana Malone. Her daddy was the first person me and Cloyd met when we come out here from Missouri. He sold us our place when she was just a little bit of a thing." She grinned at Juliana. "How you doin', girl? Sorry to hear you been sick."

  Juliana's lips parted in surprise, her perplexed glance flying to Ben's face. He nodded reassuringly. "Th-thank you," she managed. "I'm fine now. If you'll excuse me, I'll just put this glass in the kitchen."

  She edged away from Ben and headed toward the house. When would she ever get over this feeling of panic around all but a precious few?

  "Just a minute, hon."

  At Opal's command, Juliana halted in confusion.

  "You still in real estate?"

  Juliana turned slowly. "Yes."

  "Thought so. If you're anything at all like your daddy, you're purty good at it."


  "Why, I…yes, I do all right." But I'm nothing at all like my daddy.

  "Good." Opal nodded her head decisively. "I got some friends, the Burtons. You heard'a them?"

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Juliana didn't know why. She shook her head "no."

  Opal shrugged. "Don't matter. They need some real-estate advice and they need it bad. They're gettin' on in years—did I mention these are old friends?" She laughed at her own joke. "They're house-poor, if you know what I mean, but they've had bad experiences with you real-estate folks in the past so they're a bit leery. I told 'em I'd hunt up somebody they could trust."

  Juliana smiled blankly. She rarely handled a small transaction like the sale of an individual home. She'd turned toward commercial and industrial real estate because—hell, she wasn't ashamed to admit it—that's where the money was. "So… would you like me to recommend someone to help your friends? There are a number of good people in my office."

  "Land a mercy, no!" Opal let out a cackle of laughter. "I want you to help 'em out your own self. I been rackin' my brains, just wishin' your daddy was still alive, and here you are. I figure it's a sign." She winked broadly. "This is Thursday—I'll send 'em in to see you at your office tomorrow afternoon, if that's all right."

  Without waiting for a response, she gave Juliana a wide grin and turned back to Ben. "Now, about them Leaf Loopers—we had a real bad infestation last year so…"

  Ben gave Juliana an eloquent shrug, his naked shoulders rising expressively as he turned to follow Opal toward the nearest row of avocado trees. He might as well have said, You're on your own with this one.

  Opal held the curly green worm on her palm and shook her head woefully. "Danged little varmints." She dropped the worm on the ground and smashed it with the toe of one boot.

  She'd spent the past half hour talking avocados. Ben had listened with patient interest, as he always did—more so this time. It helped take his mind off Juliana and the extraordinary jolt he'd felt when she entered the barn a few minutes ago.

  Besides, he liked Opal. The opinionated old gal also had been a close friend of his mother's. And Opal Rudnick and her husband, Cloyd, had forgotten more about avocados than Benjamin Ware would ever know, even if he held onto this land for fifty years—a possibility growing more remote every day.

  Opal sighed. "It's a moot point, though. It won't be the Leaf Loopers that get you, boy."

  "Then what will?" Ben arched one heavy brow, his mouth quirking up at one corner.

  "Progress. It's gonna get us all." Opal shook her head in disgust.

  He frowned out over the valley. "You mean developers," he said darkly.

  "No, I mean progress. Civilization." She spat out the word as if it offended her, and without missing a beat, added, "You need some wasps, boy."

  Ben blinked. "Wasps?"

  "To get rid of them Leaf Loopers. Or you could sell 'em."

  "The wasps or the Leaf Loopers?"

  "Both." She laughed and pounded him on the back with a friendly fist. "And all the trees, too. Sell the whole kit 'n' caboodle before you get swallowed up by progress. Save yourself a lot of grief if you do." Suddenly she looked serious, no longer kidding around.

  His gut tightened. "You trying to tell me something, Opal?"

  She looked past him, out over the land. For a split second she looked her age, and more. "Just that me and Cloyd…we see the handwriting on the wall." She touched his arm with unexpectedly gentle fingers. "Come over here, boy."

  She led him to the edge of the terraced level high on the rim of the valley. She threw out one arm in a sweeping gesture.

  "What do you see, boy?"

  He examined the peaceful scene before him. "Your place over there to the right… the Maxwell farm and Buena Suerte Canyon Road. South and west is Summerhill."

  She nodded. "And do you see those little patches of concrete down there, littering up the landscape? Building pads, boy. Houses, people…how much longer you think we can keep swimmin' against the tide?"

  Ben's jaw tightened to the point of pain. "I just got here. I'm not ready to let go."

  Her shoulders slumped. "Me, neither. And I been here a hundred years, seems like. But this will be our last sea-son. Right after the pickin's finished this summer, Cloyd and me are givin' up the ghost."

  Her laugh had a hollow ring to it. "And we don't care who we sell to—that Godfrey fellow or whoever. We just want enough money to take care of us in our old age."

  She brightened, and nudged him in the ribs with one elbow. "Old age is just down the road. Another twenty, thirty years, way I reckon'. Me and Cloyd, we're gonna have us some fun in the meantime! To hell with Leaf Loopers, say I!"

  Where is he? Juliana paced around the kitchen, unable to settle down. He had to get her out of this. No way was she going to get involved with some old goofy couple with house problems. It would be a project long on time and short on profit.

  Being compared with her father didn't improve her humor, either. When that happened, she always came out on the short end of the stick. Hardly fair, when she'd made ten times more money ten times faster. But all anybody ever remembered about her father was what a nice guy he was, not that he was frequently late with his own mortgage payments.

  Wait a minute. I said I wouldn't measure everything in dollars and cents anymore. I said I was going to change.

  Change, yes, but there's no need to get ridiculous about it, she told herself, peeking through the curtain for the umpteenth time. Ben and Opal had at last returned from the grove and now stood talking beneath the big shade trees.

  Juliana slapped the curtains down and whirled away from the window. She had to find something to occupy herself or go mad.

  The answer stared her in the face. This is a kitchen—I'll bake something, she decided. She'd learned to bake from her mother, a cook of some local renown. Juliana had grown up expecting to follow in her mother's footsteps— wonderful wife, wonderful mother, wonderful cook and housekeeper.

  Wonderful at juggling bills and putting off creditors.

  Water under the bridge, she reminded herself as she opened a cabinet door and surveyed the shelves.

  Canisters of flour and sugar lined up next to a lazy susan loaded with flavored extracts, food colors, and a bottle of those wretched little silver decorating candies that looked and tasted like ball bearings. Paige had loved them as a child, poking them onto every cookie that came within her reach.

  Had Mrs. Ware bought the silver decorations to please her grandson? Don't think about that, Juliana ordered herself. She resumed her inventory: vegetable shortening on the top shelf, eggs and milk in the refrigerator. She pulled the cartons out and set them on the counter.

  Rosalie Malone had baked a wonderful loaf of avocado bread. The decision made, Juliana pulled down a mixing bowl and measuring cups, then rummaged around in a drawer until she located measuring spoons. She felt better already, although she handled the utensils gingerly to protect her fingernails.

  Paige had shaped her mother's nails and applied a coat of clear polish. Juliana stood in awe of her nails. Eventually one of them was going to break and then she'd have to cut the other nine, but in the meantime she took a quite shameless pride in them.

  Okay, flour, sugar, egg… or was that eggs?

  She frowned, uncomfortably aware of a tightening in her chest. How much sugar? How many eggs?

  She'd used this recipe since childhood. She could recite it in her sleep: egg (or eggs), mashed avocado, buttermilk, vegetable oil, flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, salt and chopped nuts—and she didn't have the first clue how much of anything.

  She felt the clammy touch of cold sweat on her forehead. Be calm, she cautioned herself. You're pressing too hard. It will come if you just relax.

  Like everything else? She couldn't remember what the mortgage rate was when she went into the hospital, for the love of heaven. She couldn't remember dates. She'd pay bills and forget the date between writing the first check and the s
econd.

  She'd go by looks, she decided. She wouldn't let this… this temporary aberration get the best of her. She picked up the sugar canister and poured a stream of sparkling crystals into the mixing bowl, hesitated, considered, then dumped in a bit more.

  Eggs. Two sounded about right. What the hell was the difference, one egg or two? It wouldn't ruin anything. And salt came in pinches; that was easy enough.

  She hadn't found any vegetable oil so she decided to melt some of the solid shortening. Warily she eyed the heavy can on the very edge of the top shelf. If she stretched…

  Rising on tiptoes, she extended her arm, finally managing to graze the side of the heavy can with her fingertips. She stretched to the maximum, coaxing the can toward her by rotating it gently. There! The bottom of the can began to appear over the edge of the shelf. If she could just work it out far enough to get her thumb beneath it she could balance the can on one hand and—

  The kitchen door opened behind her, startling her and shattering her concentration. With a frightened cry, she jerked her arm down. The heavy shortening can wavered, then toppled off the shelf and hurtled down at her.

  6

  Ben leaped forward, his shout of warning lost in her scream. For one sickening second he thought the can would surely strike her on the head. But she threw up her arms and the can careened off one elbow to splat against the kitchen linoleum, a hair's breadth from her right foot.

  She buried her face in her hands and stood there, her whole body trembling. He reached her in two long strides, his heart banging painfully inside his chest. Grabbing her by the wrists, he pulled her arms down so he could see her face. "Thank God you're all right!" he exclaimed.

  Only now that he could see her expression, he was no longer sure she was all right. She didn't appear to hear him or see him; he read total denial in her blank expression.

  He released her wrists and her arms dropped to her sides. Catching her by the shoulders, he gave her a light, impatient shake.