Second Chance

By Lainey Kaye

I found myself standing at the entrance to my Sunset Beach mansion. The only thing odd about this scenario is that I, Kathy Wexler, wealthy heiress, was legally pronounced dead three months ago.

Second Chance begins as Kathy, seeking justice for her demise, is suddenly transported back to earth as a cook for her evil husband, Brad, who got away with her murder and is living in luxury with his new girlfriend, Tiffany. Now, in a frumpy, overweight, older body, known as Mildred Benson, the former socialite confronts the outrage of her situation and becomes involved with cooking, murder and the handsome caretaker of the mansion next door. What will be the outcome of her paranormal experience and can she dodge danger long enough to keep her second chance from becoming her last chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483667904

Lainey Kaye

AUTHOR’S COVER BIOGRAPHY Writing has been a favorite pastime of Elaine Sanford ever since she won the honor of reading her book report on the school stage in the fourth grade. In between raising a family and working as a registered nurse, she has penned children’s literature and numerous short stories. Her feature articles have appeared in Nursing Spectrum, The Fort Pierce Tribune and Around Towne Business Quarterly, where she also served as associate editor. Elaine lives in Florida with her husband and four children.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I found myself standing at the entrance to my palatial Sunset Beach mansion in Florida. I rang the doorbell. The only thing odd about this scenario is that I, Katherine, Isabel Wexler, wealthy heiress to the Jolly Dolly toy fortune, was legally pronounced dead three months ago.

I vividly remembered gasping for breath in the choppy waters of the Atlantic ocean, my head repeatedly being pushed under until I was finally overpowered by my fortune-hunting husband, Brad Roberts. He had deceived me into a whirlwind courtship and matrimony without a pre-nup. The last sound I recalled before my descent into the murky sea was the desperate barking of my faithful Yorkshire terrier, Muffy, from the deck of our newly acquired yacht, Brad’s Toy.

It’s true, I had lived a shallow existence filled with excess spending and selfish behavior, but what happened to me wasn’t fair. I was only twenty-three years old. The coroner’s verdict was death by accidental drowning.

I was a restless soul, so restless in fact, that I found myself confronted by a powerful, yet calming presence, who inquired why I had not found peace and still harbored such anger.

There was no justice, I cried in my own defense.

"Don’t you know, my child, there is always divine justice."

I don’t care about knowing, I want to see it!

Now, suddenly, there I was, dressed in a navy blue sack of a dress, ugly black shoes and feeling twenty pounds heavier. The door was opened by an attractive blonde woman wearing a filmy beige robe that did little to hide her voluptuous figure.

Good afternoon, I heard myself say. I’m Mildred Benson. Mr. Roberts is expecting me. Mildred? Give me a break.

Brad, honey. It’s a Mildred Benson, the blonde relayed over her shoulder. A man’s voice responded. Oh yeah, she’s the new cook. Let her in, Sweetheart.(Cook! I didn’t know a stove from the side of a barn.)

I stepped into my familiar spacious lobby and glanced toward the living room. I was horrified to see my fine traditional furniture gone. In its place was a pile of sleek, ultra-modern trash that reminded me of a sleazy hotel room in Vegas. Only one vestige of class remained. In the far corner I spied the cozy green loveseat where I spent many contented hours browsing through the latest fashion magazines with Muffy curled up beside me. At times, her precious little head rested on my lap.

Brad approached, handsome and charming as ever, but his killer smile no longer had the same heart-pounding effect on me.

Miss Benson, I’m Brad Roberts and this gorgeous creature is, Tiffany, my very significant other. ( I had certainly been replaced in record time.) Tiffany gave me a limp smile. Brad pulled her close. In a sly move, I saw him slide his hand lecherously over her curvaceous bottom and give it a quick pat. Now, Babe, go powder your cute little nose while I show Miss. Benson her room. Brad dismissed Tiffany with his eyes lingering an extra second on her retreating derriere.

Brad took my pathetic, well-worn suitcase and escorted me to my quarters, the smallest bedroom and bath close to the attic. Then he told me about my salary, which in my former life, amounted to pocket change. The miserable cheapskate.

Make yourself at home, he offered bountifully. Meet me in the kitchen in half an hour.

When he left, I hurried over to the mirror on the old oak dresser and got my first look at myself. My face was as plain as unpainted walls. My normally bright brown eyes were now a nondescript hazel. Had I never heard the words eye shadow, lip gloss and blush? My dull brown hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a bun, which made me as appealing as a doorknob. I was in severe need of a makeover. How old was I?

I rifled through my tote-bag purse and pulled out an imitation leather wallet. The fingers on my stubby unpainted nails snatched a driver’s license. I saw height, five foot four. (Three inches shorter this time around.) Mercifully I was spared a listing of my weight. My eyes raced to date of birth. I did the math in my head. I reached in the purse for a pen and the back of a business card and rechecked my figures. I could have made a mistake. I was never good at math. I opened my mouth to scream, but my breath caught in my throat and I could only utter a squeak in protest. I took a deep breath and an even bigger sigh. It was the end of the world. I was fifty-three years old!

After a short interval where I could do nothing but stare at the old flowered wall paper, I pulled myself together and unpacked my meager wardrobe. It proved to be more of the same thrift shop variety I was now wearing, along with three prissy white uniforms. What next?

Next was Brad taking me on a tour of my new domain, the kitchen. This turned out to be somewhat of an education, since I had rarely spent any quality time there. After giving me CARTE BLANCHE on ordering all the supplies, he patted me on the shoulder. Millie, you had fantastic qualifications from the agency. I know we’re going to get along great. Welcome to our home.

I appreciated his hand resting on my shoulder like I would a tarantula spider, and the way he called me Millie and emphasized, our home, made me want to slap him to kingdom come. Could it get any worse? My answer to that came when I timidly asked what to serve for dinner.

Brad smiled and swaggered out of the kitchen, carrying a bottle of my best wine.

His final words, Surprise me.

CHAPTER TWO

With my aging knees quaking, I stared at the numerous state-of-the-art kitchen utensils, having no clue which one to pick up first. My eyes scanned the room for cook books. Someone once told me if you can read, you can cook, but no dice. I found nothing on shelves or in drawers that mildly resembled a recipe. Then I remembered, my old cook Rosie O Leary frequently made things from scratch. If only I had paid a thimble full of attention to how she produced her scrumptious fare, instead of merely stuffing my face, I might have been able to get some feeble idea where to start. Looking back, Rosie was a wonderful cook. Why would Brad want to replace her? The melodious chimes of the Black Forest cuckoo clock on the lemon yellow wall told me I had no time to ponder Rosie’s fate. I opened the refrigerator, stocked with every delicacy imaginable, and then, the eeriness of my situation began to kick in.

Like they possessed a mind of their own, my hands suddenly became extraordinary tools of creativity. I sliced, diced, stirred, whipped, sautéed and garnished until I had produced a five star gourmet meal, complete with my own signature dessert, a luscious caramel cream pie. No one was more surprised at my culinary skill than I, as I wheeled my serving cart into my impressive formal dining room with its oversized glittering chandelier, to begin serving my masterpiece.

Brad looked dapper in a white Polo shirt and gray slacks. His sexy surfer-cut blond hair and chiseled features that made him look like a soap star, reminded me why I fell like a ton of bricks, the first time I laid eyes on him.

Tiffany, seductively attired in a jade green sheath dress, cut so low in front I considered her indecently exposed, had a vacant stare, which I imagined matched her mind. I kept my expression bland, but I almost dropped the serving spoon when I spied my favorite emerald pendant nestled in her ample cleavage. At the same moment, Brad also eyed the jewel and announced suggestively, That’s a lucky necklace. I’d sure like to trade places with it, Sweetie. Tiffany giggled coyly. Brad, you’re so naughty!

I grabbed tighter onto the serving platter to keep from dumping its contents on Brad’s head. I remembered him saying those exact words to me, the moonlit night he proposed. What a crock! I wanted to shout out loud, but from somewhere in the universe, while Brad and Tiffany were gazing dopily into each others eyes, I heard the word, patience, whispered in my ear. I took a deep breath. I thought of all the time and intricate preparation that had gone into my splendid entrée. I had produced succulent chicken marsala, perfectly seasoned with buttery shallots and fresh mushrooms to make it sing with flavor. I held my tongue, damned if I was going to waste such artistic efforts dousing my evil ex-hubby.

Brad indulged with the appetite of a linebacker while I added a bowl of tasty garlic mashed potatoes and a colorful presentation of precisely cut juliene vegetables.

It’s good, Tiffany complimented me, but she ate like a sea sick sparrow. I understood her obsession with being thin. Not too long ago, I was heavily into vanity myself. Like her, I put a lot of effort into keeping myself attractive for Brad. A lot of good it had done me.

I saw the wispy hint of steam rise from the basket of warm cloverleaf rolls I placed on the table and recalled the steamy nights Brad and I shared on our honeymoon. Now I realized, all his heavy breathing and Oh Baby, you’re the best, was only pretense. Talk about women faking an orgasm!

As I removed their dinner plates, I was torn between anger and anguish, for I saw the way Brad’s eyes dwelled on Tiffany like a love struck teenager. He really seemed crazy about her and although I no longer felt any desire for Brad, it hurt that I had meant so little.

By the time I presented my showpiece dessert, Brad gave me rave reviews and ended his repast with not one, but two slices of the caramel cream pie. Tiffany looked at the pie like it was Tom Cruise naked on a platter, but settled for a mere sliver, claiming she had to watch her figure. Brad made some asinine remark about how much he loved her great shape, then he planted a slobbery kiss on her pouty lips. I looked down and fiddled with the dishes so I could be spared any more of their lovey-doveyness.

When I looked up and noticed the soft light from the chandelier catch the sparkle of my exquisite emerald, in its new home, there was a part of me that wanted to cry.

I watched Brad take the last calorie laden bite of his pie and lick his fork clean. As I left the room, I had the small consolation that I had at least contributed to making his cholesterol jump a few notches.

CHAPTER THREE

Alone in my garret bedroom, I thanked a higher power for the culinary talent I now possessed and for getting me through the ordeal of my first night on the job. I sat in a faded blue chair and felt my feet touch the solid wood floor of my home. I was overjoyed to be back on earth, but the paradox of my circumstances was not what I anticipated. I saw no justice in Brad living the good life while I was old, fat and no better off than a lowly servant. How long would I be here? What was going to happen to me? What had I done to deserve this? I looked upward waiting for an answer to boom down from the heavens. Instead, I heard again the soft voice, that whispered in my ear.

"Do not fear. There is a plan for you. Live in the present, my child. All is as it should be."

I didn’t agree, but the voice was soothing and soon I decided to make the most of the time I had been given. At least here, in my modest corner, I didn’t have to deal with Brad and Tiffany.

Instead of a luxurious bubble bath in my former pink marble roman tub, I settled for a no-frills shower with weak water pressure and two cracked tiles. Just as I finished lathering myself from head to toe, I encountered the unexpected companionship of a gigantic water bug. It scurried under the shower curtain of my tiny cubicle when I let out a frightened yelp. Still covered with suds, I dropped the allotted bar of Ivory as I was flailing my arms and moving my feet to divert the thing, in case it decided to crawl anywhere near me. While doing this sudsy dance, I managed to slip on the soap and pull down half of the shower curtain to keep from falling. Sticky and wobbly, I saw the dreaded monster sprout wings and fly into the bedroom. I followed, naked as a newborn, weilding my shower cap as a weapon. I had been terrified of these insects since childhood and there was no way I was spending the night with this prehistoric-like creature. I chased the bug out of the bedroom and quickly slammed the door shut. After taking a few moments to catch my breath, I returned to the bathroom, side-stepped the broken shower curtain and finished rinsing myself until I no longer felt like an M & M covered with a thin crackly shell.

I dried myself with the skimpy terry towel and made a futile effort to wrap it around me. It was impossible not to glimpse my reflection in the full-length door mirror. One hand flew over my eyes. I peeked between fingers, then my hand moved down to cover my mouth so I wouldn’t scream. I pinched myself to see if it really was me. Ouch! It was.

By my old standards, I was immense, but now, I considered wistfully, that I could merely be big boned. Boldly I dropped the towel for closer scrutiny.

After the initial naked shock, the first thing that impressed me were my boobs. They were beautifully round and full and… they were real. They actually looked better than the fake implants I was so proud of in my other life. Unfortunately, after the sight of my first rate rack, everything went downhill. My waist was thick. My hips were fitting for a hippo and my thighs swam in cellulite. Where was my super hunk personal trainer, Scott when I needed him? In my frustration, I entertained my own catty fantasy of Brad finding Scott in bed with Tiffany. Wouldn’t that hit Brad with a swift punch in his splendid six pack abs.

Suddenly I felt exhaustion in every inch of my full-figure. I decided, like Scarlett O Hara, that, Tomorrow is another day.

I went to the bedroom and slipped into the homeliest pink-flowered, old lady-like nightgown on the face of the earth. In spite of its zero sex appeal, I had to admit, it was the most comfortable sleeping attire I had ever worn. Growing older has some advantages I thought as I stifled a yawn. I was ready to fall wearily into my out-dated double bed when I was distracted by the sound of raised voices outside. I switched off the lights so I would not be spotted in my granny nightie, then walked over to my pint-sized window where I had a good view of the driveway below. There in the bright light from the full moon, I saw Brad with a stocky, semi-bald man who resembled a mafia hoodlum. I saw the man stamp his foot and open his mouth, but before he could speak, Brad firmly waved his hands lower in a gesture that indicated, Keep your voice down. Reluctantly, his companion co-operated, but a scowl covered his face. The stillness of the night made the sound of their voices carry.

Look, Jake. I told you you’ll get more money, but, hey man, our deal was for fifty thousand, not sixty!

Haven’t you heard Brad, the cost of living has gone up big time. Looks like I’m gonna need more to make ends meet… or…

Shut up! There was silence, but I could feel the anger seething from Brad as he stood motionless, except for the clenching and unclenching of his fists.

Soon, Brad, or I swear, I’ll have to tell a very ugly story and…

This week! Brad spit out the words like he had a bad taste in his mouth. He hesitated. You have my word.

Yeah… yeah… your word, like that’s… Brad rushed forward and grabbed the lapels of Jake’s plaid sports coat. His face was inches away from Jake’s. He said something in a low growl that I couldn’t make out. Brad released his hold. Jake took a step back and muttered softly. He turned and his voice trailed off as he lumbered toward his sleek black Toyota Solara. Minutes later, I heard the momentary screech of his tires as he disappeared down the driveway. I watched Brad run his fingers nervously through his hair and utter an obscenity before he strode back inside. I wondered what this squatty stranger could have on Brad that was making him squirm.

I looked across to the other side of my rambling L-shaped estate. Someone else had also witnessed the nocturnal meeting. In a dim light I saw Tiffany’s unmistakable hour glass silhouette at the expansive picture window of my old bedroom.

As I lay my head on the pillow, the events of the day swirled before me, creating a flurry of mixed emotions. Before I finally closed my eyes, my mind brought to the forefront, the very important question I had been kept too busy and overwhelmed to ask.

Where was Muffy?

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning the resident love birds decided to spend the day aboard the yacht and wanted an early breakfast. Gone were the good old days when I could sleep in until ten o’clock and be served at my leisure. Now, I was forced to get up at the crack of dawn and make breakfast for someone else. So far, being a working girl was not my cup of tea.

I splashed cold water on my face to hasten my wake-up and made myself presentable. I headed into the kitchen wondering what my magic hands would concoct for breakfast. They led me to the bottom shelf of a kitchen cupboard. I bent down and reached for a frying pan, but at the far corner of the shelf, I spied a small silver object that brought a lump to my throat. I picked up the familiar treasure. I sat down on the floor and held it to my heart for a few moments, then tenderly replaced it, because I was so pressed for time. I grabbed the frying pan and attempted to stand up, but with my new mature form, going from the floor to the kitchen counter proved to be more of a challenge than I expected. I did several hit and miss climbs before I finally reached my destination. While I waited for my huffing and puffing to subside, I realized, I wasn’t as limber as I used to be. Then I reached for an orange.

Brad sauntered into the roomy breakfast area and slid into a chair at the big wooden table. Morning, Millie, he said with a deadpan expression.( Perhaps he was preoccupied with thoughts of the previous evening with Jake.)

Good morning Mr. Roberts. I poured fresh-squeezed orange juice in Brad’s glass and hesitated in front of Tiffany’s empty chair.

Tiffany’s still getting dressed. You can pour her O.J. She’ll be down in a few minutes. I’ll have my coffee now. I filled Brad’s cup with aromatic, steaming brown liquid, the first coffee I had ever made in my life. He added generous portions of cream and sugar, then took a sip. He gave me a thumbs up of approval, but his first smile of the morning was not for my winning coffee. It was directed toward Tiffany as she made her red carpet appearance. She was barely clad in a form-fitting baby blue halter top and scanty white shorts that showcased her long, shapely legs. Her silky blonde hair was tied back in a perky pony tail. Brad’s eyes traveled over her with open lust.

Hey there, Sugar Bun, you look mmm… very nautical. Tiffany looked just plain naughty to me. I could smell her sweet perfume. It enveloped her like the cloud of dirt that surrounded Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown cartoons. She took her seat beside Brad and they exchanged a brief smooch before she acknowledged me.

Good morning, Miss. Benson. Tiffany flashed me a dazzling smile with her perfectly even snow-white teeth. I was convinced they were the masterpiece of a talented cosmetic dentist. I barely got in a Good morning, Tiffany, when Brad broke in.

We’re ready for our breakfast now. He gave Tiffany’s knee a quick squeeze and looked expectantly in my direction.

I amazed myself by having fluffy blueberry pancakes and crisp bacon on the table in record time. Brad dug in with gusto. Even Tiffany reached for another pancake.

Miss Benson, these are so good. They remind me of the pancakes my grandmother used to make. Great. I’m not old enough. Now I’m in Grandma’s league.

My efforts at breakfast put Brad in a good mood. While he was scarfing down bacon like there was no tomorrow, I saw my chance to ease into the subject closest to my heart.

When do I get to meet your dogs? I asked sweetly.

Brad looked up sharply, a hefty bite of syrup-laden pancake dangling precariously from his fork. What dogs?

I heard barking last night, I fibbed. With a place this size, I just assumed you had dogs.

No. No yapping dogs here. Brad’s fork reached its destination. He chewed and swallowed the morsel of food, then changed the subject. Great breakfast, Millie.

Thank you, I replied humbly, but persisted, So, you’ve never had dogs here?

No. Brad looked straight at me with his compelling blue eyes. In my naïve past, I believed every word that passed over his sensuous lips, but now I knew what a liar he was.

Oh? I replied. That is strange.

What’s strange? Brad held out his coffee cup for a refill. I granted his request, then said, While I was making breakfast this morning, I found a little silver dog dish… but you don’t have a dog.

Brad took a drink of coffee. Oh… that. Well… That’s… er… a… my late wife had a dog. Little thing, called, Muffy.

My heart leapt in my chest. Before I could ask my burning question, Tiffany piped up, "You never told me, Brad. I just