Page 11 of Second Chance Spring in Paradise

Even though Aunt D wasn’t technically still a local when she'd come here for the summer, she’d grown up here, so she always had a booth at the Huckleberry Days craft fair. I loved helping her sell the wind chimes and other driftwood crafts she’d made.

The festival won’t be the same without her, but I have high hopes I’ll still enjoy it.

I’m having high hopes about a lot of things today. A good day of writing does that to me. I know the writing will get harder as I move into the story—it always does—but I’ve learned to ride the good wave while it’s happening.

By early evening, I’ve reached my goal, but I keep writing. The words are flowing, and I don’t want to quit. I’m high on the feeling that comes when a story practically writes itself, and I can’t stop. I’m afraid if I do, the words dancing at my fingertips will run away.

Monday morning arrives, and I write again without stopping until my neck and shoulders are stiff, and I force myself to take a break so that I can walk around the booths at Huckleberry Days. I take a quick shower, then throw on a pink sundress and head out the door. I stop on the back porch long enough to take in the turquoise color of the lake and wave at a little girl in a red polka-dot swimming suit building a sandcastle. The scene is so idyllic, my heart aches with wanting Aunt D’s place to be mine.

As much as I want buying her house to be part of the second chance I believe the spring is granting me, that hope is slipping away. Rowdy’s doubts about Georgia selling the cottages keep coming back to me. His words feel more real than my hope. If there’s one thing my divorce and everything leading to it have taught me, it’s to listen to my gut. And my gut is telling me that Rowdy is right about Georgia not selling.

But Rowdy’s other question keeps coming back to me, too. Why couldn’t I write in Paradise full time? That question is bringing up a lot of my own questions. Would it be so bad to start over in a new place? A place full of happy memories and beautiful views? And handsome cowboys?

That last one keeps pushing its way into my brain, no matter how hard I try to keep out thoughts of Rowdy as anything other than a real estate agent. Somehow he keeps popping into my subconscious—shirtless and determined to sell me something besides a vacation home in Paradise—like an infomercial on a continuous loop.

I drive the short distance to the town square for Huckleberry Days. The place is packed, forcing me to park a few blocks away. There are more people here than live in the entire town of Paradise, and every local seems to be selling something. Booths line the perimeter of the square, and I hit them all, sampling huckleberry ice cream, jam, lotion, lemonade, marinade, and so much more.

You name it; I try it, and I buy a lot of it. But there are also booths advertising other businesses, including animal training, glass blowing, junk hauling, and a bunch of other things I didn’t even know could be businesses.

Like the bronc riding school I see a booth for. I had no idea people had to go to school to learn how to ride a horse that doesnotwant to be ridden. But, I’ve got a pretty good idea who might be the teacher at that school, so I make my way to the booth.

Rowdy tips his hat to me as soon as he sees me over the crowd of kids surrounding him. They’re asking him all kinds of questions, including “can I have your autograph?” I’m surprised the crowd is made up of boys and girls. I’m all about girl power, but I assumed bronc riding was a male sport.

But there’s one little girl with a long braid spilling out from under her cowgirl hat, all the way down her back, asking him all kinds of technical questions. I don’t understand most of what she’s asking, but Rowdy treats her questions with importance. She throws out some women’s names, and Rowdy nods enthusiastically.

“You know your history, girl! A hundred years ago, women’s bronc riding was part of professional rodeoing. It’s getting popular again, so you’re getting into it at the right time.” The smile on his face is so genuine, so encouraging, that the girl stands a few inches taller.

“Thank you, Mr. Lovett!” She bounces to her parents, repeating all the information they had to have heard.

I wave goodbye to Rowdy. As much as I’d like to talk to him, he’s busy doing more important things, and I still have some writing to do. But I walk away feeling even more excitement for our dinner tonight.

I return home with a bag full of huckleberry goods and more ideas about what to add to my story. But its thoughts of Rowdy that keep slipping from my head onto the page. My male main character ends up being lean and wiry with the ropey muscles of someone used to doing physical work rather than bulking up in the gym. I stop short of putting him in a cowboy hat, but he’s got the same dark hair and blue eyes that Rowdy has.

When I finally push away from my makeshift desk at the kitchen table, it’s almost time for dinner. I put away my laptop and take a second shower to wash away the sweat that's accumulated after a long day in a hot house with no A/C. I put on a pair of jeans and my favorite white eyelet top with the spaghetti straps. The warm day has cooled to a slightly chilly dusk, at least for a California girl, so I grab a blue cardigan, just in case I need it. My reflection in the mirror looks happier than I’ve seen her in years.

I take my hair out of the top knot I keep it in ninety-five percent of the time and let it tumble over my shoulders. Make-up is next, and I’m surprised I still know how to put on eye shadow. I used to be a pro at contouring and highlighting, but I haven’t had much motivation over the past few years to get done up like this.

I feel pretty.

I feel even prettier ten minutes later when I get to The Garden of Eatin’. Rowdy is waiting outside the front door for me, hat on, and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. His face lights up as soon as he sees me.

When you’ve been cheated on and had everything stolen from you by that cheater, having a man’s eyes grow bigger while his face splits into a smile just from looking at you feels like a win.

“You look nice,” he says as I meet him at the front door.

I wait for him to open the door for me—because he seems like the kind of guy who does that sort of thing, not because I expect it—but he doesn’t. So, I reach for the handle.

He puts a hand on mine to stop me from pulling the door open. “Uh, so, are you sure you wanna eat here?”

“Why? Is it not good? It was always my Aunt D’s favorite.” I drop my hand and immediately miss his touch. His fingers are surprisingly smooth. I guess I expected a bronc rider to have rough hands, even after retirement.

“It’s good. Even better than the last time your aunt was here, if it’s been more than a few months.” He reaches up like he’s going to touch his hat, but he’s not wearing one tonight, so he rakes his hand through his hair instead. “Best restaurant in town, actually.”

I purse my lips, trying to sus out what he means. “So why don’t you want to eat here?”

Rowdy’s gaze drops to the ground. “I’ve had a bit of falling out with the owner, Adam.”

“Oh.” I glance at the weathered sign above the door. “Mrs. Thomsen doesn’t own it anymore? She always remembered my name, and I thought she was the nicest lady ever. I was hoping I’d see her again and could tell my Aunt D about it.”

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