The Second Chance Plan Page 3

  If anyone else had asked, I’d say I always loved dressing up as a kid and rooting through my mom’s jewelry box to find bangles and necklaces and rings. But they hardly fit, so I began making my own jewelry, first just stringing together beads and baubles from a kit and little charms on wire. In junior high, I sold some of my necklaces at local craft fairs, then moved on to heart pendants in high school. I was eighteen when I had the idea of making a charm necklace—something unique with special meaning to the wearer. A charm that celebrated the mistakes we made as we moved past them.

  For Bryan, though, I kept it to the point. “They’re charms that mean something to the wearer.”

  “My Favorite Mistakes,” he said.

  “That’s it,” I said, surprised he knew the name of my line.

  He gave me a sheepish grin. “I like to stay on top of things. Know who’s up-and-coming.” I reminded myself not to read anything into it. He was a savvy businessman, of course he would pay attention to future trends, which I definitely hoped My Favorite Mistakes would be. He lifted his hand toward my neck, indicating my necklace. “May I?”

  “Do you want me to take it off?” I asked, then inwardly winced at the accidental double entendre. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.

  “I like it on.” Running a finger against a miniature skyscraper charm, he grazed my skin and a spark shot through me.

  Oh, he’d noticed. I looked away so he wouldn’t read my feelings in my eyes, and stared at the sky instead. The clouds had become grayer, with a heaviness to them that spelled rain soon.

  “What’s this one?” he asked about the skyscraper.

  “A friend of mine in college had a lead on a super-cheap sublease on the Upper East Side that I almost moved into before I started the MBA program. I didn’t get the apartment, and I was devastated at the time.”

  “So you made a charm?”

  I nodded. “It all worked out for the best. Because now I have a great roommate and an amazing place in Chelsea.” I’d met Jill when I went to an odd little musical theater showcase in Hell’s Kitchen and hung out with the cast afterward. She’d been the lead, but more to the point, she’d just nabbed a rent-controlled apartment in Chelsea, handed down to her by her aunt. She needed a roommate; my sublease prospect had fallen through. Result—we lived in one cheap, cool flat in Manhattan and Jill was now my best friend, even if she’d been practicing her latest audition piece in the living room over and over until I heard it in my sleep. Luckily, she was really talented.

  “Chelsea is great. Very eclectic. Perfect for you,” he said.

  I tensed and stared at him sharply. “How would you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “What’s perfect for me—how would you know?” I’d kept it civil and professional until now, but he’d broken the agreement that allowed me to do that. “We just met each other, remember? Your idea.”

  “Call it a hunch, then.” Seeing how I’d dug in, he faltered a bit, abandoning a smile for a shrug. “It just seems very you. Chelsea, that is.”

  I tapped my chest with a finger. “But you don’t know me anymore. I might as well be someone you just met, because you don’t know a thing about me.”

  He nodded once, taking my rebuke on the chin. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”

  “For what? What are you sorry for, Bryan?”

  “For . . .” he started, but then the Glinda-clad woman ran past us with a giant bubble trailing behind her and a band of children in pursuit.

  I took a quick breath, reminding myself that raking over the past would not help me let go of all these warring emotions.

  “Chelsea is great,” I said brusquely, and took the reins of the conversation, pointing to another charm, a silver book with the pages open. “I was an English major when I started college. But at the end of my freshman year, when a shop owner started carrying my necklaces, I switched to business. My almost-major is another favorite mistake.” That was the backstory on the website for My Favorite Mistakes—still true and still personal, but less painful than the original inspiration.

  He nodded. “I like that. Very smart decision, and a good way to acknowledge the road not taken. And this one?” He fingered the movie camera charm, his hand resting on the space just above my breasts.

  My chest rose and fell, and I tried to steady my breathing and deliver an offhand answer. “Oh, that one. I just made that to remind myself not to spend too much time watching movies.”

  Because movies had been our thing. Our first kiss had been in a movie theater.

  He was still touching the camera charm, but he was looking straight at me, as if he could read the lie.

  I shifted the focus away from me and asked, as if I were a curious interviewer, “And you? What about your business, Mr. Leighton?”

  He let the charm drop, and the metal was warm from his touch. Holding out his arm, he gave me a better look at one of the cuff links he’d shown me earlier. “These bad boys are our signature item.” He seemed to be offering it for closer examination, but I resisted. “We make them at a factory near Philly, along with tie clips and money holders. But the cuff links took off like crazy a few years ago, when that book series came out with these on the cover, and they’ve continued to sell well to women buying them as gifts.”

  Of course they did. I banished thoughts of unbuttoning the black onyx, of taking off his shirt and watching the fabric fall away to reveal his smooth chest, his firm stomach, his trim arms. I focused instead on remembering whether I’d dropped an umbrella into my purse that morning, because the sky was about to split open.

  “Right. Perfect gift.” I stood up and brushed my hand over my skirt, then gestured to the clouds. “I better go.”

  He rose too. “You going back to Chelsea?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll give you a ride. I have my car.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him quickly. “I’ll walk or take the subway.”

  “Kat. It’s about to pour any second.”

  I patted my purse. “I have an umbrella in here.”

  “Wouldn’t it just be easier not to fight for a cab, not to get soaked, and not have to take the subway?”

  Before I could say no again, he had his phone out. He gave his driver our exact location just as the first drops hit my head. The rain picked up as we walked quickly to the curb, and moments later, Bryan held open the door of his town car for me. A raindrop fell in my eye; I blinked it away as I was climbing in and bonked my head on the top of the door.

  A sharp pain radiated across my forehead. “Ouch!”

  “You okay?” Bryan asked as he slid in next to me. The windows were tinted, but the partition was down. I could just make out the words to Jack White’s cover of “Love is Blindness” on the radio. I almost asked the driver to change the channel because the lyrics turned my heart into knots of dark wanting.

  I pressed my palm against my head where it smarted. “I don’t know how that door got in the way of my head,” I said, and Bryan laughed.

  Then he gently replaced my hand with his. “Does it hurt?”

  “A little,” I whispered, letting down my guard for a moment. Brushing my dark brown bangs from my face, he held my gaze, chipping away at the walls I’d rebuilt in the last hour. I flashed back to the movie theater in Mystic, to our first kiss, when I had no defenses because I didn’t need them.

  “Do you need ice for it?” He removed his hand.

  “Do you have ice?”

  “Of course. Fully stocked.”

  “I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Let me just check for a concussion,” he said, and stared intently into my eyes like a serious doctor studying the signs. He was being playful, but I wanted to brush him away and insist I was fine, only I couldn’t move. Inches away, I could feel the warmth from his body. I swallowed and glanced out the window, breaking the bizarre trance first.

  “I take it I’m going to live?”

  “I think you’re in the clear.” He
pulled away, and I couldn’t read him at all now. “What’s your address?”

  I gave it to him, and he told the driver, then he looked back at me again. His green eyes were darker, more intense. “It’s really good to see you again, Kat.”

  Those conflicted feelings welled up again, and I grasped at numbers, at logic, at images of my parents’ store, at the sound of my mom’s voice. But they were all wisps in my hands.

  The back of the car seemed to grow smaller and bigger at the same time. Everything faded away—the din of the music from the radio, the strangers on the street ducking under awnings and opening umbrellas as they sought cover. Bryan was all I saw, sitting next to me, looking in my eyes. I wished I could think of business, of my jewelry line, or even of mundane things like where I’d left the quarters for the next load of laundry, because that would all prove I was as impervious as I’d aimed to be. But my traitorous heart wouldn’t let me think at all, only feel.

  Somewhere, I found the strength to steer myself back on course. Keep it polite. Keep it light. “It’s good to see you too.” I gingerly rubbed my forehead. “Otherwise, who would have checked me for a concussion?”

  He caught my change in tone and after a beat made his own pivot. “So, I was thinking it would be a good start to this mentor thing if I showed you the factory. Can you go with me on Friday?”

  “Let me just check my schedule and get back to you.”

  Then I turned away and stared out the window as if the rain-soaked New York streets were endlessly fascinating, and mentally high-fived myself for playing it cool.

  5

  Bryan

  Five Years Ago

  * * *

  There’s an unwritten rule that you don’t date your friend’s sister. Because if you break her heart, you’re the ass who broke your buddy’s sister’s heart.

  I tried to shake away the thought as we finished our pizza on the deck of Kat and Nate’s parents’ house that first night, chatting about the town of Mystic as Nate grabbed a refill of beverages.

  “Tell me about Mystic. Are you a fan?” I asked, figuring the topic of her hometown might get my mind off how pretty she looked with the moonlight shimmering on her face.

  She pointed to herself. “Number one fan. It’s a small town, but if you like the smell of the sea and more nautical tchotchkes than you can handle, you’ll love it here too.”

  “The scent of the sea is indeed excellent. And I am well known for my ability to handle knickknacks.”

  Her grin was playful, amused. “Then you and Mystic will get along just fine,” she said with a happy sigh. “I do love this place. It’s quiet at night, but full of character during the day.”

  “And charm. I bet it’s got lots of charm,” I said with a grin.

  “Oodles of it. Bursting with charm,” she said, in an over-the-top tone.

  I spread my arms wide. “I’m sold.”

  “And of course, it’s home, so it reminds me of family,” she said, more contemplative now, then asked about my family.

  I shared details of my parents in Los Angeles and my younger sister who lived there too.

  “Is that home to you? LA?” she asked.

  “Somewhat, but New York is in a way now, since I’ve been gone for a while.”

  “And do you love New York?”

  “I do, but I’d love to travel as well,” I said, and we chatted about that for a while. She was so easy to talk to, tossing questions at me like we’d known each other for years, listening intently as I answered. Crickets chirped and the warm night air surrounded us. Why did it have to be a perfect summer night, everything conspiring to make me fall for her?

  Soon, Nate popped out again. “Sorry. I got caught up on a phone call. Hope you guys were able to pass the time.”

  And maybe I was a terrible friend too because I wished he were still on that call.

  “We muddled our way through,” I joked.

  “It was horribly painful,” Kat teased.

  Nate rolled his eyes. “Did you still want that soda?” he asked his sister.

  Kat yawned and passed on the Diet Coke. “I better go to sleep. Since I’ve got the Mystic Landing morning shift and all. You guys can stay out here and have your guy talk without me. No one needs the little sister around.”

  I was about to open my mouth to protest and say, I do, I definitely do, but she was already gone.

  And I was already looking forward to working in the store with her the next day.

  6

  Kat

  Present Day

  * * *

  I’d resisted internet stalking Bryan for the last few years, but I read the business news, and there were things that were impossible not to know. Like how his company was a generous supporter of the NYU business school and had endowed a new wing of the library last year. How he’d started Made Here four years ago, and it had grown quite nicely. Timing was everything, and he’d capitalized at the right moment with his product line. He knew, too, that the mood of the country had shifted and that people wanted American-made goods, so he retrofitted a former lug nut factory for manufacturing his line of men’s accessories, and he, along with his business partner, had built Made Here into a thriving success.

  That was just his professional life though. I hadn’t tracked him on Facebook or Instagram or anywhere else in months. I knew he and Nate caught up with each other now and then, but I didn’t ask for information. The less I knew, the better.

  Besides, I’d had better things to do. I’d had a boyfriend in college, though he’d been more serious about me than I was about him, and that didn’t turn out well. After I broke it off with Michael—because I didn’t want to get married at twenty—he’d call and show up at my door at all hours of the night. When I was accepted into a study abroad program, I was almost as relieved as I was excited.

  I studied in France for my senior year—I lived in the City of Lights, immersing myself in the language, the food, and most of all, the artisanal jewelry. My days were filled with cobblestoned streets and stone corridors of universities older than the United States, and my nights were rich with lamplight and a winding river and the occasional kiss with a young Frenchman. Once I returned to New York and started business school, there was no room in my brain to think of Bryan.

  Now, I legitimately needed to do some research. I wanted to be prepared to petition my professor to switch mentors, and if I couldn’t, I’d still need to know about who I’d be working with. For the first time in ages, I ran a search on him, as well as his company’s name. The very first result was a surprise.

  Made Here Business Partner Ousted by Board Following Affair.

  The link was to an article in a New York newspaper from only a few months ago. I checked out the photo of Bryan’s ex-business partner, a standard sort of average-looking guy. As I read the article, several lines stood out. “At the board’s insistence, Kramer Wilco has stepped down as co-chief executive officer of Made Here, the high-flying manufacturing start-up that’s been earning tidy profits in the last several quarters. Wilco admitted to being involved with an intern at the Made Here factory outside of Philadelphia. Wilco started Made Here with his business partner, Bryan Leighton, four years ago. Leighton did not return calls for comment, but a spokesperson said he will run the company solo now.”

  I slumped back in my chair. I’d had no idea this sort of scandal had struck his firm. Was Bryan the one who discovered the affair? How had he handled it? Was he cool and clinical? Or pissed off and fuming, like I would be? I googled Wilco next and clicked on an interview he’d done with a business news channel a year ago, after Made Here inked a new deal with a large retailer.

  “What’s the biggest challenge your company faces in the quarter ahead?” the reporter asked at the end of the piece.

  “Honestly, now’s not the time to talk about challenges. Now’s the time to focus on our new partnership,” Wilco said. It wouldn’t have been a bad answer if he hadn’t been curt and snappish. He wasn’t the mo
st affable guy, that was for sure. I imagined Bryan would have handled the interview much better, coming across personable as well as smart.

  Then I shook my head. How Bryan would have managed a hypothetical cable news interview was irrelevant, and his feelings didn’t matter to me anymore. I read a few more articles on Made Here’s business strategy, then researched the skate-wear gal so I was prepped for tomorrow. Then I shifted gears and tended to some online orders and email queries, checked out a few of my favorite European design blogs for anything new and exciting, and finally turned to my other classwork, working with laser focus.

  It was nearly midnight when my roommate, Jill, with her dark-blonde hair and deep blue eyes, got home from what she described as an epic dress rehearsal in which the cast of Les Mis had kicked unholy musical ass. It was an off-Broadway revival with the twist of a modern setting and a rock arrangement of the score, and apparently, they had some eccentric personalities in the cast.

  Her report had me laughing until I was breathless, and when she was done and I’d recovered, I shared my own news. “You will never believe what happened today.”

  “Tell me.”

  I told her every single detail of my afternoon. “Anyway, there’s no way I can learn with the distraction of our past relationship. I’m marching into my professor’s office and requesting a new mentor tomorrow.”

  Jill pressed her lips together like she really wanted to say something but was waiting for me to ask.

  “What?” I sighed, folding my arms. “You’re dying to tell me, so you might as well.”

  Then came a shrug and a knowing look. “It sounds like you’re as distracted by him today as you are by your past with him. Maybe your feelings aren’t so ancient history after all.”

  “Yes, they are,” I said through tight lips. “Dead and buried like King Tut.”