Page 1 of Second Chance Spring in Paradise

Chapter 1

Tessa

Desperate times call for desperate measures, so I undo my comfiest bra (read, no underwire), slip off my very-not-sexy cotton undies, and step into the steaming waters of Second Chance Spring. That’s not the real name of this mineral hot spring, but it’s what Aunt Dorothy called it, so as far as I’m concerned that’s its name. Along with my clothes, I’m ready to shed the heartache of the last two years and be restored by the powers of this spring.

I’m ready for my second chance.

I sink into the hot, clear waters and lean against the smooth rocks that circle the pool, keeping my arms crossed tightly over my chest. The warm water caresses the tops of my shoulders, encouraging me to let go of the last of my worries.

Including the one where someone catches me here, naked.

Odds are, though, that no one else will show up. This is a popular spot for people whothinkthey’re the only ones who know about it, but it’s also the week before Paradise, Idaho's biggest event of the year. Which means the people who know about the spring are the same ones who are too busy to be here. The Huckleberry Days Craft Fair and Carnival is held every June and is always a huge undertaking for a small town like Paradise.

I’m counting on that, and the fact the wind is blowing about a thousand miles an hour, to keep people away. The spring is tucked into a protected, hard-to-get-to spot, but that means I’m not only shielded from the wind, but also from the view of anyone who might show up. I'll hear them before they see me and have plenty of time to grab my glasses from inside my shoes and throw on my clothes.

I’ve also got anonymity going for me, if I do get caught. I don’t live in Paradise.

When I was a kid, for a couple weeks every summer, I visited this little Danish-settled town on the shores of a beautiful lake with a terrible name (Smuk—pronouncedsmock—Lake). The cobalt blue lake lies at the center of Paradise Valley, tucked in the middle of rolling hills and regal mountains near the southern border of Idaho. It would be easy to mistake Paradise for a Swiss village in the Alps if not for all the sagebrush.

And the hygge. Paradise was hygge before the Scandinavian concept, roughly translated as cozy, was trending. It’s warm and comfortable, from the people who live here to the way it’s tucked inside mountains, a haven away from the world.

I haven’t been back to this valley since the last time I sat in this spring, when I was fifteen years old. That was half a lifetime, one marriage, and a drained bank account ago.

Aunt Dorothy swore that a dip in this spring guaranteed a new start, as long as the dippee is naked and the season is spring. That’s the secret sauce that makes these waters spit out whatever second chance the dippee is wishing for.

A light breeze rustles the surrounding pine trees, sending a shower of needles to the rocky ground. The sun drops closer to the horizon, and I take a deep breath—the first I feel like I’ve taken since reading the letter that confirmed my divorce is final.

I force myself to focus on this moment right now instead of that one; the way the crisp air carries a slight sulfur smell, mingled with sagebrush and the lingering scent of new growth. Summer solstice is less than a week away, and I hope I haven’t missed out on the chance for rebirth that spring always brings.

Does my being here—jumping at every sound out of fear of being caught naked in a not-so-secret, secret spring—make me sound like I believe in magic?

Yes. Yes, it does.

To be clear, I don’t believe in magic. Or voodoo. Or manifesting your destiny or any other hokey wish fulfillment tactic.

I wouldn’t believe in Second Chance Spring either if I hadn’t already seen it work.

Aunt D brought Mom and me here after Dad died. Aunt D swore the spring was just what Mom and I both needed. Mom wished for a way out of the black hole that had swallowed her after Dad passed. Even at fifteen, I was a romantic, so I’d wished for her to find someone to love her the way Dad had.

We both got what we wanted. Mom and Gary met a few months after our last visit to Paradise, and they married a year later. They’ll celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary in August.

My wish this time is for me. I want to find my way back to myself the way Mom did. If that includes finding love like she did, that’s all the better.

“I want a do over,” I whisper, then quickly add, “please.”

As if in answer to my request, the wind picks up. I open my eyes with a start at the sound of shaking tree branches. The same branches where my towel and clothes hang.

It feels like a warning; be careful what you wish for. I nod in acknowledgment and answer, “noted,” because there are plenty of things—including my marriage—I definitely don’t want to do over. I want to be very specific with this wish. So, I lick my lips, close my eyes, and try again.

“I’d like a second chance at love.”

That feels better. Closer to right.

“And, if you could throw in a second chance at a writing career, that would be awesome, too.”

Yep. That’s it. A second chance to get my life right. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

I take a breath and sink deeper into the pool, uncrossing my arms. The soothing waters warm my entire body, inside and out.

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