Second Chance

By Deepika Viswanath

Fall in love and treasure new found discoveries...

This is a collection of nine romantic and dramatic stories that are about falling in love and finding new discoveries.

Discover the meaning of love in Unexpected Love, The Opera House, Second Chance, From Whom It's Wo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Global Summit House
• Release date: Feb 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957724010

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Copyright © 2022 by Deepika Viswanath.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Front and back cover image credit: Canva.com

Chapter header images credit: Canva.com

ISBN: 978-1-957724-05-8 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-957724-06-5 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-957724-04-1 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to the real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Book Ordering Information

Phone Number: 315 288-7939 ext. 1000 or 347-901-4920

Email: [e-mail]

Global Summit House

www.globalsummithouse.com

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For my parents, who have believed

in me every step of the way

The Golden Discovery

A widow meets a mysterious stranger who helps her discover something new about her house

For Whom It’s Worth

A writer stays in a cabin in Colorado and ends up meeting a casino owner. She also interacts with her cabin’s caretaker, who may or may not be who she thought he was

The Opera House

A woman who loves attending the opera meets a mysterious singer

Unexpected Love

After a mix-up in cabin reservations in Tahoe, a recently single woman and a married man stay together in the same cabin for ten days

The Artist’s Dream

An artist, who recently moved to Connecticut from Chicago, rents a room from an older painter

The Happenings of the Peterson Family

A family reunion takes an unexpected turn when the patriarch arranges for the group to partake in a little game that exposes family secrets

A Move to Remember

A couple deals with moving to New York from California, discovering that change isn’t always a bad thing

My Childhood Home

A woman going through the process of selling her childhood home, reminisces over memories of living there

Second Chance

A man and a woman start to fall in love. Then, another woman enters the picture, changing the nature of the couple’s relationship

Acknowledgements

This book wouldn’t have been possible on my own without the following acknowledgements.

I would like to thank my copyeditor, Mona Moraru, for her invaluable edits and advice on this manuscript. She’s helped bring this book to life.

And thank you to the editors at Chestnut Review for looking over my first story, The Golden Discovery, and providing feedback.

I would like to thank my family and friends for being supportive of me in my journey as an author—this goes to you!

Preface

When I started writing my first book, Buried Secrets, in mid-2020, I also started writing short stories as a hobby, and for Reedsy.com’s writing challenges. I decided to put some of these stories in this book. These stories were inspired in part by the films Knives Out and Casablanca, the song La Japonaise by Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé, and the novel Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami. Some notes on the stories:

The Opera House: The following is the translation of the Spanish song in the story:

A man went to the most beautiful country,

Where he encountered love and peace.

The country had a lot of people, food, and money.

But that’s not important.

The most important thing is words,

Words that explain,

That transform from person to person.

In the end, they aren’t themselves anymore

They are mythical.

The Happenings of the Peterson Family: The story was inspired by a writing prompt from Reedsy.com ("Write a story about an old family secret surfacing generations later.").

A Move to Remember: The story was inspired by a writing prompt from Reedsy.com (Write about a couple who have just moved to a place that one person loves, and the other hates.).

My Childhood Home: The story was inspired by a writing prompt from Reedsy.com (Start your story with an ending and work backwards towards the beginning.).

Silvercreek, California

1922

From the balcony, I saw him approach the mansion. The mansion, a picturesque residence with a sprawling balcony and one set of pillars, invited new guests and old acquaintances inside. 

I saw him get out of the car, a black Ford. He wore a hat and a suit. His head was tipped down so I couldn’t see his face. He walked up to the front of the house. I ran down the stairs to get a better look at him.

No one came by the property this time of year, as it was winter. I had no clue what his business was, but a sudden stranger coming to the house made me curious. 

As I stood by the stairwell, I watched as my housemaid, Tilda, let him in. He took off his hat. When he did so, I almost gasped. 

Quite a handsome man he was. He had long brown hair swept to the side, along with sharp features—he had piercing hazel eyes, and crease lines indicating his age, late thirties or so. His suit was black and his shoes were a birchbark color.

Tilda left him there to get him something to drink. She then called out for me. 

Mrs. Branton, a visitor is here!

I acted like I had just heard her and was clueless about a visitor. I proceeded to walk down the steps, calmly. I was taking one more step down when I tripped on my feet. I held on to the railing, catching myself in one swift movement. 

The man heard the light thud and looked up at me. 

Hello, he said, tipping his head forwards. 

Hi. 

I’m here regarding some business. Is your husband in? His voice had a downward drawl to it, something unique. 

No . . . he’s passed away. My husband had died during the war.

I’m so sorry. In that case, I should leave. 

I stopped him. Wait, what’s the purpose of your visit? You just said you’re here regarding business. 

He nodded. I did say that, but I was hoping to speak with your husband, the owner of this place. 

I creased my brows. "Anything pressing that I can answer? I own this place. Please, state your business." 

The man didn’t say anything. So, I led him inside and motioned him to sit down on one of the grand couches in the living room. 

I’m Scott Pratt, by the way, ma’am, he said, lighting a cigar. 

I’m Mrs. Elissa Branton. 

Pleasure. 

We sat there in silence until Tilda came over to us with some drinks. Brandy. 

We sipped on them. I leaned back in my seat, facing Mr. Pratt. So, state your purpose here. I have offered you a drink and my hospitality. Now it’s your turn. 

He stopped mid-sip. I have come across many mansions but none so grand as this one, he said.

Excuse me? I was taken aback. 

"I came here to ask if I could perhaps buy this mansion. Since you did say you own the place."

I didn’t know what to say. Had he really come here, asking to buy my home? As if it were for sale? The nerve of him.

I’m afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Pratt. My home is not for sale. 

He gave me a quizzical look. Oh? And why not? 

Because it’s not for sale. My tone indicated that this was my final call. 

Hmm. What a pity. I was hoping to buy it for a price of eight-hundred thousand. 

I gasped. That sounded tempting. But given it was the home my husband and I had shared, it held a special place in my heart. I didn’t want to let the good memories go, no matter the price. 

And that’s exactly what I told the mysterious gentleman sitting across from me. He was disappointed. He showed this by the huge frown that was plastered on his face. 

Oh. Well, if you change your mind, let me know. 

I walked him to the front door. He zipped off in his car. 

After he was not within sight of the property, Tilda stared out the front door. What did he want? she asked. 

I told her. 

That’s absurd! If he wants to buy a mansion like this, there are others to choose from! Just go to Los Angeles! she exclaimed.

I know, Tilda, I started. But I think that he must have come here for another reason. Who is he really anyway?

I don’t know, ma’am. I stared out the window, pensively. 

Scott Pratt . . . who are you? I wondered.

The next day went as followed: I sat at home reading, and writing. Tilda did the household work. I wondered if that Scott Pratt would come back again. Had his visit been a one-time thing, or had he meant to return with his proposition? 

I thought of my husband all of a sudden. Todd had passed on in 1918. Since then, I hadn’t remarried or found someone else. His death had come as a shock to me because many other husbands returned from the war safe and sound. Why did mine have to be the one to not return? 

Tears filled my eyes as grief filled me. I decided I couldn’t sit here any longer. Tilda! I yelled.

Yes, ma’am? her voice sounded from the kitchen. 

I am going into town. I want to get some things. 

Sure, ma’am. 

I took out Todd’s car and took the fifteen-minute drive to the quiet town of Silvercreek.

Located in Northern California, across from sprawling trees and small mountain-tops, Silvercreek was a stark contrast to the busy life in the known cities of the West. In this town, there were shops lined along a single street. It was the only downtown area for miles.

As I got out of my car, the locals stopped and stared at me. They knew me as the ‘rich lady who lived alone in a mansion in the middle of nowhere’. I ignored their stares and entered an atmospheric, cozy antique store, where they sold Victorian costumes, postcards, house décor, and other small things. I wanted to buy some new candles for the foyer. 

When Mr. Pratt had entered the mansion, the cold air had engulfed me, and I was sure him as well. So I thought of putting some candles on the foyer table to warm up the place more, in case more unexpected guests arrived. 

As I looked at the wonderful display of candles, the door opened. Slam. The sound of it closing made me jump. 

Fancy seeing you here, Mrs. Branton. 

I whipped my head around. It was Scott Pratt.

Oh, Mr. Pratt. I was just thinking of you.

Were you? What do you mean? He had a sly smile on his face. 

In the sense that I noticed a chill in the foyer after you left. I’m buying some candles to heat the place so that visitors to my home feel more at home. Even though I’m not expecting more people anytime soon. I realized I was starting to ramble. 

Mr. Pratt laughed. Well, ironically that’s why I’m here too. I’m here to get some candles. 

What for? 

For light, to write letters more easily. 

Are you a writer? 

I’m a journalist. 

I raised my brows. Fancy. 

Yeah, I write about a few different topics. One of them is houses. When I came across pictures of yours, I noticed it was the only one of a large size in this town. 

The lady managing the front counter walked over to us. Are you interested in buying something, ma’am? she asked me. 

Yes. I will get these candles, I said, pointing to the ones in front of me. 

Very well then. Bring them over and I’ll ring them up. 

Mr. Pratt followed me to the front counter. Seeing him empty-handed, I asked, Aren’t you getting candles too?

Nope. I’ve decided that I don’t need them anymore. 

I gave him a suspicious look. 

I then pulled out some dollar bills and handed them over to the merchant.

To be honest, I didn’t come here to buy candles at all, he said, as nonchalantly and subtly as a feather dropping on the carpet. 

I turned. Oh? The lady stopped bagging the candles and stared at Mr. Pratt, as if she were waiting for his response. 

You see, I came here to see you.

 The merchant’s eyes widened, as I tossed Mr. Pratt a frustrated look. What is it now, Mr. Pratt? If it’s about selling my mansion to you again, then no thanks. 

Well, I tried my luck with that. Didn’t work. But now I’m wondering if I could write about the history of your mansion. 

History of my mansion? I asked, walking out of the store with my bag of candles in hand. He trailed slightly behind me.

Yes, its history. 

I gave a defeated sigh. My husband never cared to know about it. We have some old catalogs and artifacts in the basement regarding it, but they’re all dusty. We only ever looked at them once. 

Well, that’s why I’m here, Mr. Pratt said, enthusiastically. I want to write about your house’s history. Maybe uncover those dusty artifacts and make sense of them. 

I shook my head. This didn’t interest me. Why didn’t you ask this in the first place when you were at my place? Why did you instead ask if it was for sale?

He sighed. I must have frozen in the moment, upon seeing your wonderful abode. It’s very tempting for people to want to buy it, based on its size, even more so because of the interior. Seeing you here at the store, I decided to tell you the real reason as for my visit yesterday. 

I gave him a proper glare as I approached my car and put the bagged candles in the passenger seat. I then turned around.

Mr. Pratt, let me tell you one thing. Never lie in the first place. Sure, I would have been dismissive at first, but maybe if you had written me a letter of inquiry as to the real reason you’d taken an interest in my mansion, I would have considered your request. But now, I’m sorry, I can’t oblige you. I have things to do. Good day. 

With that, I entered the car and backed out. I didn’t know whether I’d been rude or not. Regardless, I couldn’t care less about his request. 

The next day, the weather was hopeful, the birds were chirping, and the skies were light blue. I decided to read outside. 

Just when I had settled in with my book, Tilda came running over to me, crying out, There’s a fire! 

What?! I exclaimed, dropping my book and turning around. I could then smell something burning. In horror, I saw slight grey clouds of smoke come up into the air. They came from the west side of the mansion, which meant . . . the kitchen!

We ran inside, where we saw the roaring fire on the stove. It looked like it was going to spread to the rest of the kitchen. Tilda and I tirelessly filled buckets of water and tossed the liquid over the burning stove. The flames slowly died down.

How did this happen? I asked afterwards. 

I was making tea and heating the water in the kettle. I turned my eyes away for one moment, I swear, and I heard a popping noise. Then I saw flames. Then I ran out to you. 

Tilda, you have to be more careful! What if this place burned down?

I know, I’m sorry ma’am . . . Ma’am? 

Hmm? I looked at her. 

Am I fired? 

I sighed. No, Tilda. You’ve been with us for many years. How could I fire you like that? Just be careful next time. 

She nodded her head as she left the kitchen. 

This got me in fright all right. But it also got me to think. What would happen if this mansion burned down? People would talk for a few days, and that would be it. I would have to find a new place to live. The history, artifacts, and memories would all be destroyed in one moment. I couldn’t take that chance anymore. The place was old, after all. Who knew how long it would be before another serious fire occurred? 

Sure, I could renovate the place to make it fire-resistant, but that would cost too much. I was rattled by some debts at the moment, paying for the mansion and its upkeep. Tax collectors were cruel towards payment delays from the rich. And if among the rich, one happened to own the only mansion located in a small town, this made the tax collectors take even more advantage, charging for almost everything.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have the story of this mansion written in the newspaper. It would make for good publicity. Maybe people would come here to visit. I would have company. Which would mean more parties and a better social life. I’d be well-known by all.

All would be good. 

I went to my telephone directory to find Scott Pratt’s number. There were three individuals with that name. I called the first two—both were deceased. The line was picked up by their wives. The last Scott Pratt was the one I knew. 

Hello? he asked. 

"Hi. Is this Scott Pratt?

Sure is. I couldn’t miss his distinguished drawl. It was him.

This is Mrs. Branton. 

Oh, hello there, ma’am. How are you? 

"I’m