Second Chance Love
Author
Cheryl Harper
Reads
19,8K
Chapters
22
CHAPTER ONE
CASSIE BROOKS GRIMACED as she shook her hand over the trash can, trying to loosen the napkin that was stuck to it. She had no idea what sort of pastry was covered in icing that adhered as well as glue, but someone in the ten-o’clock story meeting had gotten some on his napkin.
Then he hadn’t thrown it in the trash can—some people clean up their own messes, but Dan O’Malley was not one of those people. There were also people who came along behind to clean up for them. Otherwise, unfortunate souls like Dan O’Malley’s beleaguered assistant would have to do it, and Cassie had a long history of stepping in when someone needed help.
“What are you doing?” Dan asked as he frowned at her from the doorway. “I told you to follow me to my office. I need to ask you something.”
And we both could have gone straight there if you ever cleaned up after yourself, but here we are.
Cassie smiled sweetly. “Coming, boss.” His assistant mouthed her thanks as Cassie scooped up her calendar and her notebook. They were planning stories for the next weekly issue of Miami Beat, the online magazine that tried to capture the rhythm of southern Florida. Writing the weird and quirky local-interest stories was her assignment and her calling.
Finding her spot after several career false starts had been a relief. She loved her job. Every day was a good day.
Even if she now had icing melded to her hand.
“Close the door,” Dan said as he stepped behind his desk. The shiny row of awards lining the window that looked out on the big, open newsroom was a monument to why Dan didn’t have to do the small jobs. He was Miami Beat’s version of a rock star. Transforming a weekly circular into a real online magazine that generated a million views monthly had been his life’s work. Dan had deep roots in southern Florida, and he used them to tell the stories that people wanted to read. Miami Beat ran like a newspaper, with news stories, sports for kids of all ages, community events and enough local color to keep it all interesting.
And so far, Miami Beat was profitable. Advertisers kept showing up because the readers did. Cassie was proud to claim part of that success.
She had been working in classified sales when Dan had walked through the door at Miami Beat, and she’d hung on for the bumpy ride with him as editor because she loved her stories. He’d opened the door for Cassie. She would never forget that, either.
A clump of icing could be forgiven. She knotted her hand into a fist to keep from getting the gunk on her clothes and asked, “What’s up?”
Dan glanced over his shoulder into the newsroom. “You have any sources over at Preston Banking and Loan?”
The urge to pretend to smoke a cigarette and say Preston. That’s a name I haven’t heard in years was strong, perhaps because she watched too many old detective movies.
“No, sir. Not my beat. Too boring.” The image of her number-one crush from her freshman through junior years in high school floated through her brain, but Brent Preston wasn’t a source of hers. If he remembered her, he’d be polite, but he’d never have the urge to spill any secrets to her.
Brent had always been polite.
That made it much easier to convince people to do what he wanted.
Cassie had learned that lesson the hard way as a senior at Sawgrass High School, home of the Manatees, but the allure of the golden boy was strong. Even now, she was afraid the scalding blush that she’d battled whenever Brent Preston brushed against her in the hallway of Sawgrass High would return. At this point there should be a remedy to successfully treat acting like a fool in front of a cute boy. But no one, not even the homeopathic life coach she’d interviewed three months ago, had told her about one.
Dan was studying her closely, as if he suspected she wasn’t telling the whole truth. That expression was important for good reporting.
“What kind of story are you working?” Cassie asked, setting her calendar down to flip through her notebook. Nothing in her notes seemed to line up with the bank or the family.
Dan shook his head. “You know I don’t trust anonymous tips. Those are the wild tales you chase down for us.” He ran a hand along his jaw. “But this could be big, the kind of story that rocks more than Miami society, because of the bank’s history and presence throughout Florida. It’s been a long time since I sank my teeth into something juicy like this.” He pulled his chair out and dropped into it. The hiss of air escaping as the seat sank under his weight whistled through the quiet room. “Fraud. Someone at the bank is stealing. Or might be. Whoever he was, he didn’t want to make the call.”
Cassie whistled soundlessly, her lips pursed to suggest a whistle even though she’d never learned how. “An employee? Or management?” The family in trouble? That could be big.
“The message that came in through the anonymous tip line didn’t go into specifics,” Dan said. He held up his hand to tick off points. “Didn’t fit the usual pattern of old and cranky or distinctly weird or plain suspicious.”
Cassie jotted down a note to avoid frowning. Those weird calls? They were transferred directly to her, and they were a source of some of her favorite interviews. Lots of people clicked over to read all about those callers, but his tone did not suggest respect.
At all.
“Also didn’t leave a name or number for follow-up. Usually means it’s fake. Found some discrepancies in loan paperwork, unusual approvals and fast payoffs. No names were given, though,” Dan said.
The Preston Bank dated back more than a century. Family wealth and community goodwill that old were powerful. Few people would want to take them on, young or old. This would be a big story. “Couldn’t they call the police?” They’d be the pros at solving the problem, wouldn’t they?
Dan dipped his chin and gave her the Get real glower. “That right there is why you’ll never make it to managing editor.” He tapped the nameplate on the front of his desk. “Thinking too small. Your whole reputation could be made with a story this size. All you’d have to do is gather enough evidence to convince the family or board of directors or banking regulators to take a look. We’re reporters, not investigators.”
The urge to argue was strong. It sounded like they’d have to be both reporters and investigators in this case.
And nothing Dan said suggested what would happen if they launched the story against an innocent person. Preston Bank was big enough to crush Miami Beat, but the magazine was big enough to draw attention and possibly stronger journalistic allies. It could be a war.
Writing about the first-grade teacher who’d made it her life’s work to teach American Sign Language to every single class she led was easy. Fulfilling.
Those stories didn’t provoke powerful people to decide to ruin her life, either.
“But you don’t have a connection, even though I vaguely remember you telling me a story about how the Prestons built your high school a new football field when it came time for their son to quarterback the team. That’s okay. I’ll keep hunting. I know you’d do anything you could, because we’ve been friends for a long time, ever since I gave you your first story to write. Maybe Anonymous will call back.” Dan tapped his pen against the coffee-splotched notepad near his keyboard.
Cassie had finally reached the age where she understood this was how people got her, how they convinced her to do more work while they took more credit.
However, seeing his manipulation didn’t mean it didn’t work. Guilt turned in her stomach.
Dan picked up his pen and clicked his mouse to wake up his computer screen. The silence stretched out in the room until Dan cut his eyes in her direction. “Did you need something, Brooks?”
She was dismissed. “No, sir.”
Make a clean getaway, Cassie. Say no and avoid the war. Avoid Brent Preston completely.
“That’s right...slink away,” Cassie muttered as she picked up her notebook and opened the door. After she dropped her things at her desk, she made a straight line for the bathroom and sighed as warm water washed away the sticky mess on her hand. The idea of a career-making story used to drive Cassie. She’d graduated college with the need to right wrongs, but it had mellowed into a warm glow that took over when she exposed random acts of kindness or got to celebrate people who made a difference in their community.
But her stories had failed to impress the one man she’d been focused on her whole life. To her father, online magazine was a kind of oxymoron. News should be in print, smudge his hands and include a crossword to complete in ink.
Breaking a big story might change his mind.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” she said to her reflection in the mirror over the sink.
“Talking to yourself,” Dan’s assistant said as she stepped out of one of the three hideously pink stalls in the bathroom. “The sign of a creative mind, my dear.”
“Thank you for being kind. Creative mind I will claim.” Cassie reached up to tighten her ponytail. “Rosa, at what age do you think it’s too late to become a star?”
Rosa studied Cassie. “On the stage? As a singer? How do you mean?”
If she answered that with enough information for Rosa to guess she meant a star reporter, one who might someday pick up one of the awards that lined Dan’s window, would that make them both sad or...
Rosa sniffed. “Doesn’t matter. I’d say as long as there’s life left in the old girl, she can be a star.” Her eyes narrowed. “So long as she is very, very ambitious. Do you know anyone that ambitious?”
Cassie returned her stare to the mirror and had to face the hard truth. “Nah.”
Rosa pursed her lips. “Dan, though, he can take the smallest bits of ambition and talent and turn them into the kind of story that makes a change. If you wanted to do that, to right a wrong, he could help. It’s all in your perspective, don’t you know?”
She did. She really did. And the idea of having her name on a story that reached real national news... It was right there, a sparkle on the edge of her vision. She’d almost let it disappear.
“He’s got his issues, no question, number one being how aware he is of his own talent,” Rosa said, “but he’s generous with the spotlight. I’d say he’d assist that old girl get to where she needed to go, as long as there was a story there.” She reached for the door handle. “You can pass that along to her.”
Cassie nodded as she followed Rosa out of the bathroom.
Still deep in thought as she sat down at her desk, Cassie picked up her phone and scrolled through all the social-media alerts. They’d become almost unbearable since someone had put her in the Sawgrass High School Class Reunion group for her year. If she ever found out who that person was, she’d have some stern words.
Possibly a glop of industrial-strength pastry icing, too.
High school had been fine. Not terrible, not wonderful. A reunion probably wouldn’t be unbearable. But the person she most wanted to see in the world did not want to see her.
Cassie stretched back in her chair as she read the automated messages being sent by the account. “Lots of excitement for cold punch and receding hairlines, my fellow Sawgrass High Manatees,” she muttered. When Brent Preston’s face popped up, more rugged with a few lines but still as handsome as it had been at eighteen, Cassie paused to read his post.
“Hello, Class of 2001. Are you excited for our reunion? Can you believe it’s been twenty years? Join me in the old Sawgrass gym. I plan to recreate that enchanted garden, only make it bigger and better than the one I brought you when we were seniors. Sign up to let us know you’re coming!”
Cassie closed her eyes as she slowly set her phone down. The enchanted garden he’d brought them? Right. He had paid the bill, but she’d done all the work.
Over and over, she’d obliged Brent Preston, but that prom and the nightmare of pulling it together for him after he’d waited beyond the last minute had burned any misplaced affection she’d felt for him to ash. What a gift that had been. By the time graduation arrived, she’d battled the urge to back into his car in the seniors’ parking lot. There was a good chance she didn’t need a reminder to avoid Brent Preston.
But was this the door she needed to open to pursue Dan’s story? Brent Preston was part of the management team for the family bank.
Or would she just get a lot of headache for zero payoff like at prom?
At seventeen, she’d imagined Brent Preston glancing up from whatever backdrop he was painting to admire her creativity and hard work. Since she’d never won him over with her looks, she’d hoped he might be deeper than he appeared and fall for things like personality and intelligence when she came in to save him in his hour of need.
Except Brent Preston hadn’t even shown up until it was time for the show to go on. Apparently, he didn’t do behind-the-scenes hard labor.
Instead, Cassie had dragged every person she could call a friend into a race against the clock.
They’d only managed what they had because of Marcus Bryant.
The boy next door. Her hero. The guy she hadn’t spoken to since he’d joined the Air Force. If she and Marcus were still friends, she’d get his opinion on the wisdom of approaching Brent Preston as a source. Even now, after years of not talking to him, she’d respect his advice.
But Marcus had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in renewing their friendship. He’d been back in Miami for a year and had never reached out.
Cassie spun her phone in a circle in the only clear spot on top of her desk as she entered a web search for Southern Florida Landscape Design. Miss Shirley had said the name of Marcus’s new business so often that it was easy to remember.
A simple website popped up, but there were no images of the owners, only four sets of Befores and Afters to show what the company was capable of. Cassie frowned as she studied every page of the site. They’d worked some real-estate flips and had one corporate account at Concord Court.
What if Marcus was planning to attend their high-school reunion? Cassie didn’t hesitate to answer her own question. He wasn’t. She’d bet her next big scoop that his answer would be no.
But his business could benefit from that network. Sawgrass High had been fully middle-class, with a few outliers like Brent Preston, and most of them had stayed close to home. That meant lots of houses and businesses that might need Southern Florida Landscape Design.
Almost as much as she needed Marcus Bryant if she decided to approach Brent Preston.
“Cassie, this might be a real sign of progress.” She grinned. She hadn’t immediately jumped into the fire by promising Dan she’d find leads for their story or contact Brent Preston to pursue a half-baked plan. No, she needed to get Marcus on board first, and she’d already come up with her pitch. Teenage Cassie could never manage that.
First, she’d sell Marcus on the volunteering to decorate for the reunion because it would be so good for his new business. Then she’d offer their services to Brent.
When her plan worked, she’d have her old friend back, and she’d have a logical excuse to nose around Preston Bank. Dan wouldn’t need to know about her involvement until she could give him good information.
The first step, finding Marcus, would be easy.
Every step after that would be tricky, but not impossible.
After a check over her shoulder at Dan’s office, Cassie grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk. “Rosa, I need to run a quick errand, check something for a story, if Dan comes looking for me.”
Rosa contemplated Cassie for a few moments and eventually shrugged. “If he notices, I’ll tell him. Otherwise, see what you can do, star.”
Cassie laughed under her breath as she weaved through the desks in the open room. Her place in the world was nice, comfortable, with lots of good people. Going back to high school held no attraction.
Except she might be able to tell a big story.
So, she would swallow her pride and track down Marcus Bryant by the end of the day.
Even if she never got the courage to fix what had broken between them, she could see his face, know that he’d come back home okay. Remembering how to breathe freely again was worth doing some snooping.
The drive to the apartment complex where she’d grown up was quick. Her father still lived in the three-bedroom unit he and Cassie had moved into after her mother died when she was seven. It had been a great place to grow up, due mainly to the family across the wide, covered walkway. The Bryants still lived right next door, and Miss Shirley kept Cassie in the loop on all of Marcus’s movements.
As expected, her father and Miss Shirley were playing dominoes while Marcus’s father reclined nearby with a paper over his face. Mister Marcus was a skilled napper.
“Why aren’t you at work?” her father asked as Cassie stepped up onto the walkway next to their table. “It’s the middle of a weekday.”
“I am working, Daddy,” Cassie said as she kissed his cheek. He didn’t look up but absently patted her back. “Working an important lead.” She relaxed as Miss Shirley stood to wrap her arms around her in the best hug. Cassie rested her chin on Miss Shirley’s shoulder for a moment, missing her mom, and enjoyed the warm greeting.
There was no doubt who had convinced her father to get himself to the barber, either. Cassie would add that to the endless list of things she owed the Bryants for. He’d always preferred casual over dressy, with a buzz cut and a smooth jaw. Since his retirement, that had changed and it was harder to ignore that her father was...older. Not old.
“Did you eat your lunch today, Cassandra?” Miss Shirley asked as she plopped down into her chair. “You always forget to eat.”
She had, but it was still early. “No, ma’am. I haven’t forgotten today.” Not yet.
Her father crossed his arms over his chest, his shoulders almost as broad as they’d been when she was little enough for him to roughhouse with after he finished his day delivering furniture. That playfulness had gone away when her mother died. Everything had gotten serious then.
“What work are you doing here?” He was always worried she was one step away from being fired.
Probably because he didn’t understand why anyone would pay her to write the stories she did in the first place.
“I would have called, but you never answer your phone.” Cassie waved her cell. “Where is the phone I got you, Daddy?”
He twitched a shoulder. “Inside. It’s charging.”
“Has been for at least twenty-four hours. Should be fully charged any second. I warned him I was going to give his phone number to a friend at church, and now that phone will never see the light of day again. He’ll lose it like he did the last one as soon as he thinks he can get away with it,” Miss Shirley said as she rolled her eyes at Cassie.
“Last thing I need is another woman watching over me,” her father muttered and dropped a domino on the table. “I said the last blind date was the last blind date, and I meant it.”
Mister Marcus raised his newspaper as if he had something to say, but Miss Shirley raised her eyebrow. The paper dropped back over Mister Marcus’s face. Then she asked, “You need our help with this work, honey? What is it?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me where Marcus is today. I need his assistance.” Cassie shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and tried to look extremely innocent.
“Been a hundred years since I’ve seen that expression on your face, baby.” Miss Shirley exhaled slowly. “I always knew you were about to execute mischief then.” She stared up at Cassie over her drugstore cheater glasses. “Nothing has changed, has it?”
Cassie tried to smooth away the frown that would give her away until Mister Marcus raised the corner of his newspaper again. “Boy could stand some mischief. He’s working over at the new library building on Ninety-Seventh. Volunteering.” Mister Marcus dropped the newspaper over his face again.
Miss Shirley straightened the last domino she’d put down. “You want his phone number? I don’t give it out to everyone.” She sniffed.
“No, ma’am,” Cassie said and choked down a laugh as Miss Shirley’s eyes met hers. Her outrage was clear. She didn’t make the offer to most people, so she expected it to be snapped up this time. “I’d rather surprise him today.” She and Miss Shirley exchanged a stare. Cassie was mentally sending the Do not call him and warn him I’m coming vibe. She wasn’t sure what Shirley was saying, so she motioned with her hand. “I’ll head over there now to say hello.”
“Mm-hmm,” Miss Shirley muttered.
“Bye, Daddy!”
“Hurry up and get back to work!” Her father waved, and Cassie repeated her usual mantra of reassurance. His concern over her job and her bills and her money was how he showed love. She could be okay with that.
Cassie pulled over at a taco truck and bought enough for lunch and a bribe, and then parked in the nearly empty lot of the library. She made a mental note to find out how soon the doors would open to the public. It would be nice to bring positive attention to her old neighborhood. Then Marcus Bryant stepped around the corner of the building, a thin tree of some kind clutched in his arms, his muscles bulging and flecked with sweat from Florida’s spring sunshine, and Cassie nearly dropped her tacos.
She needed that remedy against acting like a fool ASAP.
This was Marcus, her buddy, her confidant, her number-one pal, the guy who’d introduced her to skateboarding and endured her boy-band phase and kept all the kids in line while their parents worked. He’d been her brother and her lifeline.
Some things were the same. The way he frowned in concentration, his complete focus on the job at hand. His crisp, closely cropped dark curls. The worn spots on the knees of his jeans.
And the urge she had to smile when she saw him was still there.
But Marcus had changed.
He’d changed.
The urge to smack her forehead was strong. Of course, he’d changed. She had, too.
What did it mean that the prospect of seeing Brent Preston again left her bored, a little cold, but watching Marcus hard at work, muscles flexing...
She was on the verge of stammering and blushing harder than she ever had at seventeen. This fever? Yeah, it had her worried she was about to relapse.
