A Second Chance

"As if I could."

She smiled at him. "Exactly. I'm glad we're on the same page."

She placed the food on the fridge and fixed two turkey sandwiches with tomato, lettuce, and mayonnaise dressing.

Moments later, she plopped a sandwich in front of John and sat down across from him with another for herself. "Looks good," he murmured.

John continued to sit in his chair, not eating, almost as though he were waiting for the sandwich to leap up and bite him.

"Oops, sorry." Molly jumped to her feet, came around the table, and picked up the sandwich. Then she held it to his lips as if he were a baby.

His breath brushed her knuckles. He opened his mouth, took a bite, swallowed. There had never been anyone for her but him. Hundred of memories came rushing back

Seemingly unaffected by the intimacy of their situation, John took another bite, then another. His teeth grazed her thumb and his lip slid along her finger. A shudder bolted through her body.

Molly gasped, dropping the sandwich into his lap. He jerked his head back, leaped to his feet, and the bread landed on the floor with a wet plop, an instant before his chair fell over with a clatter.

Their eyes met. He no longer appeared indifferent. She took one step toward him.

"I'm going to bed," John said abruptly.

"I... uh... want to..." she paused, confused.

"Touch you, kiss you, hold you," thought Molly

"...help you with your shirt... the buttons. Your pants...," Molly gulped.

She wanted to open his shirt and discover if his chest was still silky smooth, or if a fine down of hair trailed across his belly and disappeared into his jeans.

She'd known him intimately in the past. She had explored every inch of his body in her dreams. But the man John had become was far different from the boy he had been or the man in her imagination.

Molly rubbed her forehead. "Let me help you get undressed."

"As tempting an offer as that is, no thank you," John's voice was sharp.

"You can't sleep in your clothes."

"Sure I can." He strode toward the stairs that led from the front hall to the bedroom above. Molly scurried after him and entered his room.

"At least, let me take off your shoes."

John hesitated.

"Please, John. Let me do something. I'm here to help."

Maybe it was the please. Maybe he really wanted his shoes off. Whatever it was, he let out an exasperated sigh, sat on the bed, and nodded. Without waiting for a reply, Molly rushed forward, knelt, and tugged at the laces of his ankle-high boots.

When the second one came loose she stumbled backward, nearly fell. For an instant, John's lips curved in a smile. Molly looked at him and laughed.

Finally, she straightened.

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Molly. And thank you. I truly appreciate what you're doing."

CHAPTER 7

The pain pills mercifully knocked John out for most of the night. But long before dawn he rolled onto his wrists and woke both the pain and himself.

John took another pill and, in a few minutes, fell asleep again. He was dreaming a beautiful dream when someone shook his body and woke him up.

He opened his eyes to find Molly staring at him with a worried expression on her face.

"For Christ's sake, Molly! What time is it?

"It's five in the morning," Molly said. "I was supposed to wake you every two hours, but I fell asleep. Are you okay? Does your head hurt?"

"Yes, but only because you are shouting at me and shaking me like a martini mixer."

He flopped back down on his pillows.

"I was worried when you wouldn't open your eyes."

"I was sound asleep, Molly," John replied.

She'd slept in flannel man-style pajamas, nothing sexy or revealing.

He had his usual Morning Glory and felt embarrassed. He would have wanted to lay her down on the bed and bury himself inside her body. It shamed him to want her. Would the desire ever go away? There was an alternative method to relieve desire, but, unfortunately, he was fresh out of hands.

Perhaps a shower, preferably ice-cold, would do the trick. But even if he could manage the removal of his clothes and the mechanism on the shower, he couldn't wash by himself.

Hell, he was lucky he didn't have to pee, though that would not be the case forever. The enormity of what he could not do swamped him.

The distant low of a cow and the murmur of a man's voice tugged John out of bed and to the window. Lights sprang to life in the barn, their yellow glow spreading through the windows and across the hood of Red's truck.

John let out a sigh of relief. Help had arrived. "Would you ask Red to come here to help me with my morning routine, please?

Molly sighed and nodded. "Sure, John. I'll get breakfast ready."

Molly went out to greet Red and passed on his father's request.

Half an hour later both men came down and sat at the kitchen table.

Molly tilted her head. John was wearing a new shirt and sweatpants instead of jeans. Good idea. In those, he should be able to manage personal tasks with the use of his fingertips and thumb.

They did small talk during breakfast, and then Red went out to milk the cows.

"Next time I would prefer eggs instead of cereal, Molly. Red was too polite to say something but I know he prefers bacon and eggs too."

"Okay, no problem. I can handle scrambled eggs and bacon. It's just there wasn't any in the fridge."

John's smile charmed her. He might be grumpy and moody, but his smile could still reach into her heart and squeeze just a little.

"What?" she asked when he continued to stare at her.

"You'll have to get the eggs."

"Fine, I'll get dressed and go to the store," she said. "I'll make a grocery list."

He laughed and shook his head. "Eggs come from chickens."

"I thought chickens came from eggs."

John's grin got wider. "The eggs are in the henhouse, look underneath the chickens."

"Duh, right. Do chickens come with an instruction manual?" she joked.

"I can have cereal," John offered. "I don't mind."

Molly was tempted, but if she let herself be intimidated by something as simple as gathering eggs, she'd never win her own personal war. "No. I like scrambled eggs too."

"Okay, I'll give you some pointers if you don't mind," John smiled at her again, and her mind went back in time to the first time they'd met.

John used to play football. He had been the quarterback, Molly, a cheerleader.

John had won the game. They'd gone to a party in the woods. Bonfires and beer cans. The laughter too loud, the population too dense. She'd only wanted to be with him. He'd held out his hand, and she'd gone into the darkness with him gladly.

They'd walked. Talked. Kissed. Sat on the hood of his truck, then crawled into the back.

To an eighteen-year-old girl, his strength, his bravery, his willingness to put himself on the line for the team had seemed epic. That night he had become her first, just as she had become his.

She had loved him, lost him and so much more. She let out a sigh as she walked to the henhouse. She couldn't seem to stop missing what could have been.

CHAPTER 8

Molly contemplated the chickens. She snatched a basket from the wall and approached the nearest hen. She'd never gathered eggs before. Her parents owned a mansion, not a farm. They have a cook. Her mother had always kept her close, tried to teach her how to become a lady of society. So she was never taught how to get an egg out from underneath a chicken. But how hard could it be?

She approached slowly, cautiously, hand outstretched, mind focused on taking shallow breaths through her mouth and thinking of nothing but the chicken. The instant she touched feathers, the hen pecked her hard enough to draw blood.

"Ouch!" She jumped back, bumped the nesting boxes on the other side, and caused a small, cackling riot, which sent feathers shooting in every direction.

When the hens quieted, she tried again, with similar results. Annoyed, frustrated, furious, she refused to give up. One thing Molly had never been short on was stubbornness.

Ten minutes later, her hands were bleeding, her hair was full of feathers and her basket was still empty.

John waited and then he waited some more. How long did it take to grab an egg or two? He hauled himself to his feet and headed for the chicken coop.

He heard the ruckus as soon as he stepped out of the house. The door wide open, feathers sputtered out along with furious squawks.

John peeked inside just as Molly crept toward a hen already fluffed to twice its size with outrage. John could almost see that chicken brain at work. There is no way this amateur is going to get my hard-laid egg!

"You're not doing it right," he said.

Molly gasped and spun around. Her hair was white with feathers, and her hands ran rivulets of blood. His amusement faded at the sight. He raised his gaze to her face, and the tear tracks made him take a step toward her. Had she been crying because of the chickens or despite them?

"Forget the damn eggs," he snapped. "They're not worth bleeding over."

"If I don't get them, who will?"

"Red."

"Uh-uh. No way! He's taking care of the farm work and your morning routine already. What am I doing wrong?" Molly demanded, cutting him a sideways glare.

He hesitated. If he refused to tell her, would she give up and go inside? The set of her mouth and the narrowing of her eyes told him that wasn't likely. She was going to do this with or without his help. John sighed.

"Don't bother to be polite," he directed. "Just dart in. Grab the egg and get out from under before she knows what hit her. From the looks of your hand, you're giving them too much time to think."

"Chickens think?"

"They've outsmarted you."

Molly pressed her lips together but said nothing. She took a deep breath. "Okay, here I go."

She darted in and yanked out an egg. It exploded in her fist. Silence settled over the chicken coop.

"Not bad. Just don't grab it so hard," John instructed.

As egg slime slid over her fingers and dripped onto her shoes John held his breath, uncertain if she would burst into tears, laugh or throw a chicken at him.

She did none of them. Instead, she shook the egg off her hand, shifted to another chicken, and tried again... and again till she had enough eggs for a week. John found himself reluctantly impressed with her determination. If only she'd been half as determined about their relationship as she was about the eggs.

She raised her hand holding an egg with a triumphant smile on her face. Her smirk of triumph had John smiling too.

The two of them shared a smile, and for a minute John saw what their life might have been like if she hadn't vanished from the face of the Earth.

"You thought I was going to give up, didn't you?"

He tilted a brow. "It crossed my mind."

"Mine, too," she admitted. "But I'm not. I said I'd stay until you were able to take care of yourself, and I will."

The slamming of a car door broke the moment, John and Molly came out to find a woman everyone knew too well, Margaret Caldwell. She had dressed up and, by the way she was gawking at John, Molly thought it was obvious why she was there.

John let out a growl. He must have seen the intention in her eyes too. He'd always been pretty good at reading at people. "Good morning, Margaret. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Margaret eyed Molly and twisted her mouth to the side and said, "I didn't know you had company."

Molly combed her hair with her fingers, doing her best to get rid of the feathers. She was aware she looked awful, compared with Margaret. She was still in her pajamas, with egg slime on her hands and feathers pretty much everywhere.

"Molly is staying here with me to help with the house chores till my wrists heal," John explained raising his hands from the slings.

"As soon as I heard about your accident I came here to offer my help too. I baked you an apple pie." Margaret said coming closer to John.

"I seriously doubt you can bake anything without burning it." Molly thought biting her lower lip. "I bet you bought it at the bakery. The only thing you can do right is getting drunk. Poor Margaret, no one is buying your act."

"Come inside, Margaret," Molly invited her with a fake smile on her face.

Margaret grabbed John's arm, but he winced in pain.

"Sorry, John."

"It okay, Margaret, just don't touch me. Especially my arms."

CHAPTER 9

Molly marched across the yard, up the steps, and right past Margaret and John without a glance. They all went into the kitchen, where Molly washed the egg slime and blood from her hands. The pecks on her hands burned when the water hit them.

"Eggs are good for your skin, I hear," Margaret said with a smirk. "But I think you're supposed to eat them, not wear them."

"I would smash every egg I collected on your head with pleasure," Molly thought, smiling at Margaret with gritted teeth.

"Why don't you take a shower and change, Molly?" John suggested quickly. He could feel the tension in the air the same way animals feel a storm approaching.

"I will, thank you."

She went to her room to make herself presentable. She glanced at herself in the mirror. A surprised snort of laughter escaped. She looked like an actress in a cheap sci-fi movie, "Attack of the Chicken People."

She showered and came back to the kitchen, wearing clean clothes and toweling her hair.

Margaret had cut a piece of apple pie and was helping John to eat it. She cleaned every imaginary crumb from his lips with her manicured finger.

Molly made some coffee, and pulled a chair close to John.

Margaret scooped up some pie and placed the spoon into John's mouth. The clink of a spoon against the plate was the only sound for quite a while. Then Molly helped him to drink his coffee. She had great pleasure watching Margaret's expression while she fed John. Truth was, he was embarrassed by being fed like a baby, but he was also hungry. Besides, it wasn't a secret he couldn't feed by himself.

"Fancy a cup of coffee, Margaret?" Molly asked.

"No, thank you Where do you keep the drinks?" Margaret asked looking around.

"It's nine-thirty in the morning," John said, with a frown.

"Yeah, but you looked like you could use it to help you get in the mood," she said with a smile.

John grimaced. "The mood for what?"

"Fun." Margaret stood up, poured herself half a glass of scotch, and drank half of it in one gulp. "Drink up, John, it will loosen you up."

"I think I'll go to my room to lay down for a while if you don't mind. I'll let you two have fun," said John trying to stood up.

"Please, John, stay," Margaret pleaded, placing a hand on his arm again. He winced and pulled back.

"Oh sorry, John, I forgot."

"Again," he muttered under his breath,

John sat down again closer to Molly.

Margaret fixed herself another drink and started chatting non-stop. She told John all that stupid gossip about people nobody cared about, touching his shoulder any time she could. She poured herself a new glass of scotch and kept talking and drinking, still trying to touch John any time she could. He kept moving from her to avoid her touch.

He was clearly uncomfortable now.

Margaret finally stopped talking. In the silence that fell, the distant cackling of the hens intensified.

She tried to fill her glass again, but John stopped her. "I think you have drunk enough, Margaret."

"You should do something about your drinking problem, Margaret," Molly added with true concern.

"I don't have a drinking problem," she slurred.

"Yes, you do," John said, supporting Molly.

"I think I'm leaving now," Margaret muttered with embarrassment. She tried to stand up but stumbled on her feet.

"No, you won't. You can't drive in your state," John insisted.

Molly grabbed her purse to prevent her from getting her car keys. "Sit there and take lots of fresh air, sweetie. I'll call your daughter to come to fetch you. Happy hour is over."

John pressed his lips together and nodded.

Molly talked with Margaret's daughter on the phone and explained to her what had happened. Her mother's drinking problems weren't precisely a secret around town.

"Maybe it's time to start doing something about it," Molly suggested to Margaret's daughter when she came to fetch her. "There is an AA group that meet in church one night a week."

"I think I will take her, Molly. I'm not sure Mom's ready to admit her problem, but it's worth giving it a try," Margaret daughter's said. "Thank you for taking care of her."

Molly went back into the house. John was sitting there with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"She has been like this since her husband caught her cheating on him," John said to Molly while she cleaned the table.

"I'm not sure which came first, her drinking problem or her cheating," Molly opined.

John seemed to lose himself in his own thoughts again. He finally asked, "Why do you think Ginger cheated on me?"

Molly shrugged. "There are a lot of reasons why a woman cheats. I didn't know Ginger enough to offer you an explanation. She never really opened up to anyone."

"Till she opened up her legs to her lover," John said in a bitter voice.

"Why don't you ask Red about it? He got reacquainted with his mother before she passed away."

John nodded absentmindedly. "Before contacting his mother, he asked for my blessing, you know. I gave it to him, of course. It was never my intention to keep him away from his mother. That was entirely Red's choice. He was fourteen when he discovered the letters lover boy wrote to her, he was old enough to make his own choices. I just asked him to keep her out of my way."

Molly nodded. "Maybe it's time to have a talk with your son about it. He might offer you some information that might help you to get some closure."

John's nodded again. Molly could almost see the gears in his head working.

CHAPTER 10

Weeks passed, marked by the slowly fading bump on John's head. Things settled into a routine of sorts. John, who used to wake up before the sun, continued to do so. Red helped him to go through his morning routine and get dressed. Then, they walked to the barn, and John listened to the news while his son milked the cows.

When they were done, they went back into the house, where Molly was already up making breakfast. However, that particular morning, Molly wasn't there.

"Did Molly go out?" Red asked.

"Not that I know," John answered with a frown. "I'll check on her."

Thing was, Molly hadn't fallen asleep until well past midnight, and then only after she'd cried herself silly. She had been emotional without any particular reason. Her emotions fluctuated all the way across the spectrum lately. To top that off, her room had been so hot she'd woken up several times, heart thundering, mind searching for the reason she was dripping with sweat.

Footsteps sounded on the staircase. Groaning, she pulled the covers over her head. She felt awful. She was hot beneath the covers so she threw them back, sat up, and screamed.

John leaned against the door, staring at her. Her scream didn't even make him jump. Instead, he regarded her calmly, curiously. She'd always loved the way he looked at her, telling her everything without saying a word. Or so she'd romanticized about him.

"Good morning, Molly. Are you okay?" John asked her.

"I overslept."

"You?"

The shock in his voice reflected her own. Molly Carter never overslept. She used to wake up with the sun to take care of her chores at the inn. There was too much to do on any given day to waste even a minute snoozing.

"Yes, me. I didn't sleep well last night."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Stay in bed. I'll ask Red to make breakfast."

"No, I'll do it. I'm awake now."