The Small Town Boy's Second Chance

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Foster Truax slung the bag over his shoulder and carefully opened the door to his dad’s home.

He supposed, from the car that was parked in the driveway, that the rumors were true. His dad’s ex-wife, Judy Powell, had moved back in.

It had happened in the past week, since Foster had been here last Saturday afternoon. He’d talked to his dad then, and his dad had said that it would be fine for Foster to move in, on a temporary basis, while his home was being remodeled.

Not necessarily remodeled. He’d gutted the place. Originally an old barn, in the 70s or early 80s, someone had put up some wainscoting and a few studded walls and turned it into a duplex or something along those lines.

Foster was completely redoing it and turning it into a home. Wasn’t sure why, since he was a mechanic and a welder, not a builder.

He closed the door behind him. The TV was on. Odd. Since his dad wasn’t supposed to be home until after five.

Maybe the arrival of Judy had changed his plans of driving to Richmond and picking up a part for his truck.

Foster shuffled the box in his hands that contained his alarm clock, toiletry items, and a few books, including his Bible.

His brothers had helped to move the little furniture he had—a bed, a couch, and his kitchen appliances—from his house into paid storage, and he only brought the necessities with him, since he wasn’t planning on being here long, and also he didn’t want to have to move everything back out. His dad’s spare bedroom had two beds and a dresser, and he could live with the bare necessities. The less he had, the more inspired he’d be to hurry the project along.

He walked through the kitchen, glancing to the left at the living room and the TV.

Cartoons.

He stopped short.

That was odd. Cartoons?

It was so weird that he actually backed up and took a closer look at the living room. He couldn’t see the couch from where he stood. So he shifted the bag on his shoulder, hefted the box, and walked to the doorway.

There were two little kids, a boy and a girl, sitting on the couch staring at the television.

The girl’s hair was bright red, and the boy, who looked slightly younger, had light brown hair. He couldn’t tell their eye color, but it looked light.

These wouldn’t be Judy’s children. Judy had kids that were his age. Girls. Two of them.

At that thought, old feelings that he thought he’d buried forever took hold of his heart, like long, skinny fingers with sharp nails.

He wasn’t thinking about Holland. Not now.

Plus, it couldn’t be Holland’s children. Couldn’t be. God would not do this to him.

He’d heard some rumors about her marriage breaking up. And he tried to ignore them. He wasn’t happy about that. It was never a good thing when a marriage failed.

Hopefully, if the Lord were looking down on him, those kids would be someone else’s. And Holland would be nowhere around. Not while he was in the home.

Or maybe, Judy was just watching her grandchildren. That had to be it. Judy must be around here somewhere.

Judy had never liked him. Not him, not any of his brothers. She’d been used to girls, who were soft and sweet.

Maybe they cried a lot and got upset over nothing, but they didn’t run around, they didn’t break things, they weren’t loud, and they didn’t foul the air with the gas from their body. Or some such other thing that Judy always said he and his brothers did.

Judy pretty much hated boys. He didn’t know what she was doing with his dad.

At any rate, he was going to think positively. Those kids were not staying, and they were not Holland’s. Holland was not here. And he would never need to see her again.

The kids hadn’t looked up, hadn’t looked away from the TV.

With determination, Foster turned on his toes and took one step back through the kitchen. Before stopping short again.

Holland was here.

In the kitchen.

Staring at him.

He couldn’t name the feelings that trucked through his body. Swirling and curling, ripping through his heart and mind. Hate. Nostalgia. Pain.

There was a lot of pain. It was red. With orange edges that colored the sides of his vision until Holland looked like she stood there with an orange and red halo around her body.

Still slender. Maybe her figure was a little bit fuller than what he remembered. He recalled the bow of her upper lip, the fullness of her lower one. They were still the same.

Her green eyes were still deep and dark, like grass at dusk. And her hair, he remembered it as more auburn, and now he’d say it was brown with a reddish tint. Maybe from the light in the kitchen.

Or maybe it was from the orange halo that shimmered around her, reminding him of how she’d left, and what she’d done, and how it hurt.

She wore a T-shirt and jeans. Sneakers. Her hair was in a ponytail. There was a smudge of dirt on one cheek. She held an empty box in one hand and picked at it with the short fingernails of her other. Her hands were still white. Soft.

Her eyes didn’t have the innocence he remembered from high school. There was definitely more knowledge of the world in them. Weariness. Wariness. And maybe some pain of her own.

His heart might be hurting, but he’d never wanted to punish her. No matter what she’d done to him. Her pain would never negate his, and he didn’t wish for it.

Never had.

But his pain was her fault. There was no denying that. So he’d be a fool, an absolute fool, to get anywhere near her again. Not happening.

He eyed the box in her hand. Hoping it didn’t mean what he was afraid it did mean. That and the kids on the couch.

“Your dad mentioned you might be here this afternoon.” The delicate skin of her throat worked as she swallowed. His eyes were drawn to it, and his fingers flexed on the box he held. He knew how soft it was. “I thought I might run into you.”

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, except she didn’t exactly say that she knew he was moving in.

His dad only had one spare bedroom.

“You’re visiting for the afternoon?” Lord, please let that be the reason she was there. Please?

Her eyes fell, and her knuckles whitened on the hands that gripped the box. “No. It’s a long story.” Her shoulder went up in a little shrug. “My kids, Jax and Daisy, and I were living with my mom. When she had to move out, so did we. I moved our things into the spare bedroom.”

Now she was the one eyeing the box in his hand. Her eyes flicked to the bag over his shoulder bulging with as many clothes as he could shove into it. He had two suitcases out in the car. They contained every other piece of clothing he thought he might need for late fall in Virginia.

“Were you delivering some things for your dad?” she asked softly.

He supposed the same hope that was in her eyes now had been in his eyes earlier when he had asked if she were visiting.

“I’m remodeling my house. It’s going to take a month or two. I told Dad last week I was moving in today. He’s known for several months now that I was renovating and going to live with him.”

His stomach shifted. His brain told him to run. To take his things, walk out to his car, and go somewhere, anywhere, else. It wasn’t safe for him to be around her.

His eyes wanted to linger on her like no one else. Ever. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t allow himself that luxury. He’d been down that road before, and the recovery had taken a long time. It had left scars. Dark and deep.

He hid them well, wore them even better, but they were there. They had ruined his heart. Made it unsuitable for anyone else, ever. Which meant he had no plans for a serious relationship, because while his heart was welcoming the idea of having Holland back in his life, there was no way. It would never happen.

But he wasn’t a coward, he wasn’t a weakling, and he wasn’t afraid.

Her mouth had opened into a surprised O. She truly hadn’t known about him moving in. Leave it to his dad to leave out that pertinent information. Maybe his dad had known that Holland was moving in and had left that information out of his and Foster’s conversations.