Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 03

by G. Lawrence

Jenny makes her move

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Following his release from Federal custody, Jack took a teaching position at Skylla College in New Hampshire seeking a quiet life. After a blow-up at a Blair Thanksgiving dinner, Jack avoided Jenny for several months. Now she has appeared on his doorstep.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now that each chapter begins with Jack being held prisoner by a terrorist organization in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines will eventually come together.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Pat,

Though this is difficult, I believe it's time we make arrangements for the royalties from Jack's book. We can set up a trust, if that is your preference, or simply transfer the funds to your personal account. My lawyer is also receiving inquiries about the movie rights. Your friend, Daniel Palmer

Chapter Three

SCATTERED ASPIRATIONS

My first month in the village of Sar'ret was tense. After the Tashad militia moved back down into the Iraqi river country, two teenagers were assigned to watch over me. They were frightened, and occasionally harsh. Most of my time was spent in a rear storage room, lying on straw, hands tied before me. Undressed, for they felt I would not attempt to escape into the mountains naked. They were right about that.

"You do not look so important without your fancy uniform," one sneered.

"A uniform does not make a man," I dared to reply. "Anymore than holding a gun does. What makes a man lies in his heart."

"Your body is covered in scars. You must have been a bad soldier," the second said.

"I have been less lucky than some, and luckier than others," I responded.

For an hour each day, I was allowed to walk on a path near the lake or sit under a tree wearing a loose shirt and a wool skirt. No shoes. I spoke very little, other than to say please and thank you. The village spread-out for nearly half a mile, much of the small houses built of stone with thatched roofs. I noticed crops, sheep, barns, a grainery, and workshops.

"You cause no trouble," Ma'amet said, squatting next to me in my cell, knowing I spoke Arabic.

The village elder was dressed in light cotton thawb, the weather being warm. He draped a wool blanket over me during our conversations.

"I am a prisoner far from home. Causing trouble will not help me," I replied, studying his accent.

"We have heard stories. You fought against Islam in the Freedom War," Ma'amet said, though not quite accusing.

"The war was not against Islam," I disagreed. "But I was a soldier in that war."

"Do you call it the Freedom War?"

"No, I call it the Second Afghan War. But it doesn't matter what we call it. People still died. Families were torn apart. Towns were destroyed. Young soldiers returned home carrying terrible burdens."

"Such as yourself?"

"If you've heard stories, then you know why I am famous."

"You are famous for many things. Some are hard to believe," Ma'amet probed. "My wife likes you. You speak with respect. You pray when we pray."

"My real prayers are on Sundays. The days I think are Sundays. I was taken in by Catholic friars when I was fourteen. They helped a young violent thug find a soul. But I have prayed in mosques as well. God is found in many places."

"Are you seeking to convert our young men?" he asked.

"I would not presume to inflict my faith on anyone."

"Why are you here?" Ma'amet inquired.

"Tashad militia put a gun to my head, as you know."

"But why?"

"They seek to sell me to Rakmanistan," I speculated, for it was the only reason I'd been given. "But it's a risk that Premier Raskani may not take."

"Then the Tashad will kill you," Ma'amet said.

"That is beyond my control," I replied.

___________

"This is a surprise," I said, attempting to slow Jenny down as she unbuttoned her jacket. "Want a glass of wine?"

"I want you in bed," she answered, pausing long enough to kiss me.

Jenny was still wearing her chocolate brown tweed suit from the Devon Agency, her hair tied back in a bun. Her blue eyes were determined rather than excited.

"Catch your breath, little lady. I need a moment to process this," I said, taking hold of her arms.

"Bobby told me you and Emily broke up months ago," she explained. "You're not stabbed, or burned, or shot. Or radiated. It could be years before we have another chance like this."

"There are other considerations," I suggested.

"I'm twenty-two years old. A grown woman. And you're way older than that. What we do isn't anybody's business."

"How did you get here?"

"I drove. Some of us actually own cars," she answered. "It's parked at Quintin's. Mrs. Walters told me about your secret trail."

"You've had a long drive, and you look sexy as a New York banker. Did you bring a bag?"

"On the porch," she said.

"Okay, I think you should take a shower. We'll have a snack. Sip a little wine. And then we'll see where this goes," I urged, fetching her satchel.

She scrunched her eyebrows, pouted a moment, and took the bag into the bathroom. As I hoped, she left her purse on the coffee table. I dug in and found her cell phone.

"Jenny?" the voice on the other end answered.

"No, Mrs. Blair. This is Jack," I whispered.

"Hello, Jack. What are you doing on Jenny's phone? Is everything okay?"

"No. Jenny is here, in Skylla Falls."

"She's been there before," Pat said.

"She's taking off her clothes."

There was quiet for a moment. I may have heard a sigh.

"Why are you calling me?" Pat asked. "Are you asking permission to seduce my daughter?"

"If you think this is inappropriate, I'll send her away. Nothing is more important to me than your respect."

Another pause. I was putting Mrs. Blair in a difficult position but didn't see an alternative. If she found out later, it would certainly come as a betrayal. I wasn't going to risk that.

"I know what you're thinking, Jack," she said, showing patience. "You and Jenny together is controversial. But the most important thing is that she be with someone who loves her. Do you love her?"

"I do, and I won't pretend differently. Is that enough?"

"No one knows better than you how short life can be. Or how it can be filled with regrets. That's the best I can offer."

"Thanks, Pat. I ... I better go."

"Good luck, young man," Pat said, hanging up.

I turned to see Jenny standing in the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, frowning at me.

"What the fuck? You called my Mom? Asking if you could have sex with me?"

I took Jenny in my arms for a long, passionate kiss. Then I dropped the towel on the floor and carried her into my bedroom.

This had been a long time coming. She had fought for my release organizing a publicity campaign. Been at my side in difficult times. I did not always think of her as a bedmate, she was too young. But not that young anymore. Now she was a headstrong young woman, smart, pretty, and luscious. Somewhere my protective instincts and natural desires were mixing. Growing confused. Jenny was not confused. She knew exactly what she wanted.

We rolled around in the clutches for hours. I had been a street kid, losing my virginity to whores on the New York docks, sleeping with waitresses in saloons as a young military recruit, and settled down when I met Francie, the woman I wanted to marry. Learning to make love like a man. Jenny had been wild in the years after leaving the White House, having sex with rich party boys. We were from different worlds, but on this night, we were in the same world, and it was terrific.

We made a light breakfast the next morning before going for a hike. There was a beautiful waterfall two miles up the creek from my cottage, blue and noisy, surrounded by tall trees.

"You don't make love like an old man," Jenny said, splashing her feet in the pond.

"Get back to me on that when you're thirty," I replied, holding her hand.

"Those wounds, do they hurt?" she asked.

I had taken off my shirt to get some sun. I encouraged Jenny to leave her shirt on, knowing how photographers liked to skulk in the woods.

"The shoulder gets stiff on cold days," I said, rubbing the old scar from Sirputa. "The collarbone is held together by a synthetic graft."

"You got wounded a lot," she pressed.

"I don't dwell on it. Thousands came back worse. Thousands didn't come back at all. If you knew the chances that medics like me had to take during the war ...? Well, let's just say miracles really do happen."

"So now that I've got you corralled, what happens next?"

"You've got me corralled?"

"You know I do."

"Once we know each other better, we'll see where it goes," I hedged, for it was difficult to share her optimism. In that respect, I was an old man.

That weekend was the best I'd had in many years. Maybe ever. We took long walks, had dinner at the Shanghai Palace, drinks with my friends at the Roasted Duck, and spent many hours without our clothes on. But Jenny had a job in New York City, and I had places to go.

"What's this speech all about?" Jenny asked, packing her bag late Monday afternoon.

"I don't know if it's a speech, or a lecture, or what," I said. "Daniel Palmer is paying me to appear at the Publisher's Guild Banquet."

"Hopefully not rubber chicken," Jenny said.

"I'm not there for the meal, just the speech," I replied. "After the banquet, there is some sort of reception. Free drinks."

"Is that how Mr. Palmer got your attention?"

"The sixty thousand dollars helped."

"Wow, that's a lot of money."

"I'll need it, if I ever find a girlfriend," I said, kissing her neck.

"I'll be back Friday so we can drive into New York Saturday morning," she said.

"No. New York is a four-hour drive. Each way. I'll take the train."

"We'll drive together this time. I don't want you getting lost. Is Palmer getting you a hotel room?"

"Yes, that's part of the package," I said. "Someplace called the Baccarat on 53rd Street. It's five stars, whatever that means."

"We'll have breakfast in the city Sunday morning. On the way home, we'll visit Mom," Jenny decided.

"Red--"

"Don't argue with me, it won't do any good," she interrupted.

"If we do this often, we'll use the train. That's not negotiable," I compromised.

"Fine, I can always get some work done on the train," she agreed.

By Wednesday I was already missing her. We would need a plan, but it might mean giving up teaching at Skylla Falls. Jenny was making five times more than I was. If I couldn't find a job teaching in the city, I could always work as a bartender or on the docks.

After being bribed with a cheeseburger, Chubby gave me a ride to the metro station in Manchester where I caught the train to Washington, D.C. I hadn't been back since my review hearing seven months before. Arriving in time for lunch, I took a cab to my destination on H Street where I was meeting Alex McGuire. I needed her advice.

Alex had been visiting universities around the country on a recruitment tour. She was wearing her brown hair long again, staying thin, and bubbled with her usual enthusiasm.

"Jack, my gosh, you're looking good for a change," Alex said, rushing to give me a hug.

"Thanks, Missy. It's good to see you, too. Got time for food?"

"Always time for my hero," she agreed.

We were at the Secret Service headquarters just a few blocks from the White House. And Ford's Theater. Not my favorite place. Many in the Secret Service were resentful that a president had died on their watch. That I was suffering a blackout and may have shot the president by sheer chance didn't help. If I shot him at all. Under normal conditions, I would have been lucky to hit a barn at sixty feet, let alone a moving target in a crowded park. What they thought of Fowler's conspiracy theory was a mystery, for I never asked.

Alex and I walked toward the National Mall, finding a quaint sandwich shop near the Smithsonian. Dozens of patrons recognized us, taking pictures with their phones, but were kind enough to give us space.

"You've come a long way in the middle of the week," Alex remarked, eating a salad. I ordered tuna, trying to avoid too many red meats.

"Spring break. I'm not due back until next week," I said.

"Traveling is expensive. Do you need any money?" she asked, reaching for her purse.

"I have a new source of income, thank you. That's not why I'm here."

"It must be important," she said, leaning forward.

"Jenny Blair and I are seeing each other."

"Wow, what took you so long?" she asked.

"Did everybody know about this but me?"

"Jenny has made you her special mission since that day she found you at Northfield," Alex explained. "With the story going around that the Blair family sent you there to die, she expected you to curse her. Especially after seeing you black and blue from all those beatings. She called me that day, crying. She couldn't understand why you didn't hate her."

"The angel in the window saved my soul that day," I remembered.

"I need to hear about that, but not here," Alex said, finishing her salad and paying the bill. We caught a cab for Arlington National Cemetery, getting dropped off at the entrance.

"Odd place for a talk," I said, entering the gate.

"The last time you were here, you melted down," Alex said. "This is a good way for me to find out how you're really doing. Now what's this about angels?"

We walked along a cement path. The grounds were green, filled with leafy trees and white markers.

"My transfer to Northfield was political. I was supposed to be murdered there," I explained. "After three weeks of beatings, little food, no sleep, and what happened in the storage room, the despair overwhelmed me. I'd given up. And then Jenny came to visit. She was crying, begging me to forgive her, even though she'd done nothing wrong. The way the light passed through her hair that day, and the tears on her cheeks, reminded me of a stained-glass window in the choir at St. Mary's. It was Jenny who brought me back from the darkness. She gave me the courage to fight."

"I didn't know any of that," Alex said, holding my hand.

"And I would rather no one else did."

We reached the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier where I laid flowers. Many of my friends were still buried in Afghanistan. Those who had graves. A few were buried off Clayton Drive in Arlington, in a plot set aside for veterans of the 144th Infantry.

"Do you think Jenny and I have a chance? I don't want to lead her on if it will never work."

"I can't kid you. The assassin and the President's daughter is going to raise eyebrows. But Jenny has been through worse. She knows her own mind."

"Why are my closest friends all strong women?" I asked.

"Because you value our opinions, and that means something. And you're easy to boss around."

"I guess that's true enough," I agreed.

There was a commotion up the hill, near John F. Kennedy's eternal flame. I was ready to go the other direction, but Alex was curious.

"Reynolds? What's going on?" Alex asked, seeing a fellow Secret Service Agent.

"The First Lady is visiting her daughter's grave," Reynolds reported, giving me a strange look.

"This is Jack Lawrence," Alex introduced.

"I thought so. It just seemed too strange to be true. Good to meet you, sir," Reynolds said, offering his hand. I was proud to shake it, though it was odd to be called sir. He was at least ten years older than me.

Reynolds paused, listening to the com device in his ear.

"Mr. Lawrence, will you please raise your arms?" he requested.

I complied. I always complied with proper authority, sometimes to my detriment. He frisked me for weapons and reported to his supervisor.

"Sorry, sir. I had to check. The First Lady is requesting you at the gravesite," Reynolds said, pointing the direction.

I started to back away, but Alex took me by the elbow, drawing me up the hill. We found Addie Wagner and her Secret Service detail at the grave of Colonel Judith Massinger, who had died in the crash of National Flight 13. I had failed to save her, and almost failed to save her children.

We found Judith's grave on a grassy slope below a steep cliff. Above us loomed the old mansion where Robert E. Lee had lived before the Civil War. Addie Wagner was laying flowers. She was in her 60s, short and gray-haired, with a Southern accent. I had met her daughter briefly during Second Afghan where she was highly respected by the rank and file.

"Jack, thank you for coming. I've missed you," Addie said, hugging me.

"I haven't missed your husband," I replied, remembering Wagner throwing things in the Oval Office. Books. Folders. Snow globes. Thankfully, his anger had been directed at neglectful advisors, not at me.

"Leonard was in a bad mood that day. I'm sorry he frightened you," she said, smiling the whole time.

"I've survived worse," I conceded.

"Can you come to the residence for dinner?" Addie invited.

"I should be getting back to Skylla Falls," I excused, for getting anywhere near the White House always caused too much publicity. "But thank you. Next time I come down, I would like that."

With luck, I was thinking, Leonard Wagner would lose reelection and I could visit the former First Lady at their horse ranch in Kentucky instead. I had always been curious about thoroughbreds.

I had wanted to catch the 5 o'clock train back to Manchester, though with the bus ride to Skylla Falls, I wouldn't be getting home until midnight. Alex would have none of it, taking me to her apartment in Georgetown.

"How come you're not married yet?" I asked, sitting on the couch where I planned to sleep.

"I enjoy dating too much," she admitted. "And I get my choice of the field."

"Bet you do," I said, for she was very attractive, smart, and absurdly famous. "How do you deal with the press? Don't they follow you around?"

"Federal agent. Following me on duty is a crime. At other times I smile, wave for the cameras, and move on."

"Wish I could do that," I lamented.

"You've only been out of custody since November, and the country didn't learn about your involvement in Thanksgiving Eve until the review hearing."

"Thanks to you ratting me out," I said.

"Damn it, Jack, the world was going to find out anyway. I didn't rat you out."

"I know, I just wanted to see you get mad."

Alex laid down on the couch, curling up with her head against my chest. I enjoyed having such a close female friend without the usual pressures.

"You're still new to so much attention," she remarked.

"It's something I've needed to think about. I'm giving a speech at the Publisher's Guild on Saturday about my relationship with the press," I mentioned.

"That's going to be interesting. Televised?"

"I certainly hope not," I replied.

____________

Late the next day I was back home working on my speech. After Jenny arrived Friday afternoon, she kept me busy the rest of the evening. And I do mean busy. I sometimes forgot what it's like to be so young, and eager, and seeking physical joys. Not that she wasn't reminding me. I was lucky to get time off for dinner.

Saturday morning, I packed an overnight bag for New York and took my best dark blue suit from the closet, keeping it in plastic to prevent rumpling. Jenny and I were getting ready to hit the road when Chubby came to the door.

"Jeff needs to see you, Sarge. In his office. Might be bad news," Chubby warned.

"Reporters?" I asked.

"Don't think so," Chubby said.

To avoid being seen, we took the lake path through the forest and entered the back gate of a large compound.