Second Chance Rose and Other Stories

By Terry Odell

Whether it's first love, or love revisited, there's a story in this collection of short works to warm your heart.

 

Hurricane Breeze

Carter Worthington the fourth is the kind of man whose schedule is laid out in fifteen minute increments, while Tiffany wouldn’t know what to do with a day planner if she owned one.

When a hurricane blows Tiffany Breeze into Carter's sheltered universe, he must decide if he's willing to leave the emotional safety of his orderly existence to experience the highs, knowing he'll also have to face the lows.

 

Romancing the Geek

Stephanie's lifelong dream is to design toys—sweet, cuddly toys. Instead, she's hired as a glorified typist, forced to share an office with Brad, a geek, who's happy programming computer games full of explosions.

Ignoring each other is their solution to co-existence. But when Brad has girlfriend troubles, he swallows his pride and asks Stephanie if she'll teach him how to talk to women. She agrees, but he's having trouble passing her exams.

 

Relationships

Amy’s ready for a weekend of solitude and pampering, but her plans turn to thoughts of a no-strings fling when she meets Greg.

 

Out of Sight

Sometimes being invisible is a good thing. Or is it? Alone with a captivating colleague, San­dra deals with the reality of her marriage and herself.

 

Second Chance Rose

Rose has had her chance at her one true love. Widowed, her home destroyed by a hurricane, she relocates across the country and discovers the special garden of the bedtime stories her mother told her as a child. When she meets Richard there, friendship blooms. But can there be second chances for true love?

 

***With minor modifications, these stories were previously published as stand-alone shorts by The Wild Rose Press

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Odell
• Release date: Mar 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507025949

Terry Odell

Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she’d be a good mom and watch it so they’d have common ground for discussions. Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fan fiction, then through Internet groups, and finally in groups with real, live partners. Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband and rescue dog in the mountains of Colorado. You can learn more about her books, social media accounts, and sign up for her newsletter via her website.

Book preview

Second Chance Rose

and other stories

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Terry Odell

Copyright © 2014 by Terry Odell

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Dedication

To Mom and Dad and all those Sundays at the museums and the rose garden.

Contents

Dedication

Hurricane Breeze

Romancing the Geek

Relationships

Out of Sight

Second Chance Rose

♥ ♥ ♥

A Note From The Author

Acknowledgments

About The Author

More by Terry Odell

Hurricane Breeze

Carter Worthington the fourth is the kind of man whose schedule is laid out in fifteen minute increments, while Tiffany wouldn’t know what to do with a day planner if she owned one.

When a hurricane blows Tiffany Breeze into Carter's sheltered universe, he must decide if he's willing to leave the emotional safety of his orderly existence to experience the highs, knowing he'll also have to face the lows.

♥ ♥ ♥

Warm damp air blew through Carter’s living room from the backyard, carrying with it a clean, outdoorsy scent. A tree branch perched half inside his picture window dripped on his floor. Broken glass lay strewn over the Tabriz and Kerman carpets. So much for the realtor’s assurance that the deep overhang on the back of the house would be enough protection from a storm and he wouldn’t need hurricane shutters there. He should drag her back here and let her see what Hurricane Julia had done to the back of his living room. The room’s front windows, which faced the street, were intact behind their lowered shutters.

What if nature had played a trick on him, leaving his monetary possessions in exchange for the more important?

Skirting the broken glass, Carter Worthington IV padded barefoot across the house to his study. Glimmers of morning light filtered through the louvers of the shutters, giving the room an almost ghost-like quality. The books filling the shelves along two walls greeted him like old friends, and he immediately felt his insides settle. He crossed the Berber carpeted space, grateful his feet didn’t squish. No water in here. He pulled the garbage bag he’d cut open to use as a makeshift tarp from his antique oak desk. His research paperwork and manuscripts were stacked in plastic storage boxes on its surface, just as he’d left them last night. Still, his heart rate picked up as he opened the drawer where he’d placed his backup files. The flash drive sat there in its plastic bag. Of course it would. A hurricane didn’t come into your home and pick up selected items. And even if it had, there were three other backups tucked away throughout the house. And one, albeit not quite as current, in his safety deposit box.

He powered on his computer and checked the Weather Channel’s website for an update. In the early morning hours, impending Hurricane Julia had veered north, losing much of her strength in the process and was now little more than a limping tropical storm. Tornadoes had hopscotched over half the state, destroying mobile home parks and isolated neighborhoods.

How had he slept through it all? He recalled vague images of dreams filled with explosions and howling winds. His subconscious mind’s way of giving him a few hours of needed sleep, he supposed. That and the Tylenol P.M.

He went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, first removing another plastic-sealed flash drive from his coffee canister. The familiar whirring of the coffee grinder and the smell of freshly ground beans brought him one step closer to a normal day. In here, without the filtering of shutters, he could see the clouds, high and flat, like someone had taken a broad paintbrush to the sky, but hadn’t gone back to even out the brushstrokes. Bright sunlight sneaked through thin places in the clouds, giving everything a silver glow.

Carter poured water into the coffeemaker, tapped the coffee into the filtered chamber, clicked it shut and flipped the switch. He wiped out the grinder and set it in its place on the counter before taking a closer look at his backyard. Water droplets reflected shades of green in and out of shimmering shadow as a breeze moved through the treetops. And, in the middle of the yard, atop a thick carpet of leaves and magnolia blossoms, sat what looked like George Grimbel’s lawn chair.

Great. Grimbel would probably find a way to pick a fight about why Carter now had his lawn chair. A preemptive strike was in order. With luck, he could toss the chair back across the fence before Grimbel noticed it was missing. Carter dashed to the bedroom and threw on some clothes. Too late. By the time he reached his back porch, the old man was leaning over the fence separating their properties.

You seem to have my chair, Worthington, Grimbel rasped. His white hair stuck out in a halo from ear to ear, with a wisp on the top of his freckled pate. Eyebrows like the feather tufts of a great horned owl poked over the rims of his trifocals, and gray stubble filled the creases along his sagging jaw. His gnarled fingers, mottled with age spots, gripped the top of the wooden fence.

Must have blown over in the storm. I was just coming out to bring it back. Carter walked across the yard and picked up the chair, giving George his best Keep the Peace smile. Doesn’t seem to be too much other damage, though, does it? Guess we were lucky.

You were lucky. Me, I’ve got a hole in my roof big enough to launch a Delta rocket, and enough rain in my living room to float the Titanic.

Sorry to hear that. Insurance should cover it, though. He bit back the urge to tell Grimbel that if he’d kept his trees trimmed properly, he’d probably still have his roof. Come to think of it, the tree branch in his own living room was from an oak tree, and Carter didn’t have any oak trees on his property. Grimbel, however, did. Carter glanced in the direction of Grimbel’s yard. Okay, used to.

If I can ever get through to them, Grimbel whined. Every other poor slob in town is probably trying to call in a claim. And I don’t have any power.

An uneasy feeling built in Carter’s stomach. Where was Grimbel going with this?

Do I smell coffee? I’d kill for a cup, Grimbel continued.

Carter forced a smile. I have some. Why don’t you come—? Before Carter finished speaking, Grimbel was walking toward Carter’s door. He squared his shoulders and went back into the kitchen.

Where’s the cream? Grimbel demanded as Carter poured a cup of steaming coffee into a mug. And sugar. Black coffee gives me gas.

Hold on. Carter found the milk in the fridge and brought it to the counter.

Grimbel grabbed the carton from Carter’s grasp. He squinted, holding it at arm’s length. Two percent? You can’t use two percent milk in coffee. Like adding piss.

Carter reached around him for a plastic container and carried it to the counter. Sugar? he asked, pulling a spoon from a drawer.

Despite his protestations about the milk, Grimbel added a liberal amount to his coffee, followed by four heaping spoons of sugar.

Can I get anything else for you? Carter asked through gritted teeth.

I’m fine, Grimbel replied. His threadbare brown robe revealed ropy calves and knobby knees. And if he didn’t do something, he’d be revealing a lot more than varicose veins, things Carter had no desire to see. Being neighborly only went so far.

Mr. Grimbel, Carter said, gesturing to the man’s midsection. You ... uh ... might want to get the fruits back in the loom.

Grimbel snorted, but set down his coffee long enough to tighten his robe before heading for the living room. Carter shoved the milk into the fridge and hurried after him, wary of the way the mug wobbled in the old man’s hand

Good to see I wasn’t the only one Mother Nature had a grudge against last night, Grimbel said. He meandered through the living room, his slippers crunching on the glass. Carter cringed at the thought of it being imbedded in the rugs. He stood by as Grimbel ran his gnarled fingers over his CD collection, pulling out several, flipping them over, then returning them without regard to their proper spots on the shelf. He groaned inwardly as the man put his fingerprints all over a Steuben vase, and his heart stopped when Grimbel tried to examine an antique Chinese porcelain vase without relinquishing his shaky hold on his coffee mug. He exhaled with relief when the man set it back in its place unharmed.

Grimbel turned slowly around. You’ve got some nice stuff. Ought to get some plastic and cover the window. He settled into Carter’s easy chair and put his scuffed slippers on the ottoman. Claire liked nice things.

Claire? Carter asked without thinking. Damn, now he’d probably be stuck listening to the old man blather on forever.

Outside, a car door slammed. Tinkerbell, come back here! a female voice called out. Come! Now!

Carter crossed to the living room’s front window and pulled back the curtain, forgetting about the lowered hurricane shutter. His view of the street was gone. Maybe he should leave them down. He’d picked this neighborhood for its privacy—a little more wouldn’t hurt.

He turned to Grimbel. The old man’s eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Carter pried the coffee mug from the gnarled hands and set it on a coaster on the cherry side table. He reached to shake the man’s shoulder, to wake him and get him out of his house.

Grampa! Where are you? Grampa! The same female voice, high-pitched with fear, rang out. His doorbell chimed, followed by an incessant rapping.

Great, he muttered under his breath. He left Grimbel to his nap, hoping the man wouldn’t wake up and ruin anything before he got back.

He pulled the door open. A wide-eyed pixie of a woman stood on the leaf-strewn tile of his front entry. A froth of corkscrew-curled hair, almost black, looked like it had been through the hurricane. Her blue cotton shirt was wrinkled, as if she’d slept in it. Gazing up and down the street behind her, Carter noted Grimbel wasn’t the only neighbor who had lost trees to the storm.

Have you seen my grandfather? she asked, her voice frantic. George Grimbel? He lives next door, and I can’t find him, and Tinkerbell ran off, and there’s a hole in the roof and water everywhere and I tried to get here last night but I had to evacuate and spend the night in a shelter and this was as soon as I could get here.

Whoa. Calm down. Your grandfather is here. He’s fine.

Thank God. She pushed past him as if he were five-two and she was six-feet instead of the reverse. Grampa. It’s me. Tiffie.

Barging in must run in the family. He clawed his fingers through his hair, then stroked his beard. He turned and hurried after her. He’s asleep. Not for long, he guessed, with his granddaughter chattering like a magpie.

Oh my. She stopped short and he barely avoided a rear-end collision.

Grimbel’s snores filled the room. The woman shook her head. Poor Grampa. He must have had a horrible time with the storm, all by himself and all.

He seemed all right to me. We were talking, and he fell asleep.

He does that sometimes. Probably didn’t sleep much last night. I’ll get him out of your hair. She stepped to the chair and laid her hand on Grimbel’s shoulder. Grampa, wake up. Time to get you home.

Grimbel snorted and snuffled, but gave no signs of awakening. If anything, he settled deeper into the chair.

She jiggled his shoulder. Come on, Grampa.

If not for the steady snoring,