Second Chance Girl

He turned out the light.

One second turned into ten. Sophie was silent. He relaxed and closed his eyes, only to hear something scrambling onto the bench at the foot of his king-size mattress. That noise was immediately followed by Sophie scratching at the blanket before turning around and around and around, then flopping down halfway up and more on his side than her own. Before he could decide what he was supposed to do now, she sighed and began to snore.

Mathias stared at the ceiling and told himself it was only for a month. He could endure this. It wasn’t as if it was going to get worse.

* * *

IT GOT WORSE. He managed to sleep through the snoring, the snuffling and twitching as Sophie dreamed her doggie dreams. In the morning he let her out before feeding her. The smell of the canned food was bad enough, but then he had to mix it with dry, add exactly one quarter cup of warm (but not too hot water), then stir it up. His mother said to add a crumbled strip of crisp bacon to the mix, but Mathias decided that was going too far.

Sophie inhaled her breakfast before his Keurig had finished brewing a single cup of coffee, then she stared at him expectantly, as if wanting more.

“Look, you’ll need to talk to your mom,” he told her. “I measured everything. That’s your breakfast. There’s nothing else.”

The hope in her brown eyes died a doggie death and the tail wag slowed. Mathias did his best to ignore her and the guilt as he grabbed his coffee and made his way back to his bedroom.

Getting ready with Sophie around was different than getting ready alone. For one thing, she was always underfoot. For another, she sniffed everything and he would swear, as he stripped down for his shower, she was more than a little judgy.

“No one wants your opinion,” he said firmly as he stepped into the shower. “I mean it.”

Sophie tried to grab his towel when he got out, drank water from the toilet and when he let her out again, she pooped enough to make a moose proud, only Mathias was stuck cleaning it up. For the record, one poop bag was not enough.

Once that was done, he was able to finally sit down and enjoy the quiet of the morning. Millie stepped out of the tall trees. Sophie took one look at her and started barking.

He told her to stop. He told her louder to stop, then he locked her in his house even though he could still hear the frantic yips, growls and barks. He returned to his favorite patio chair, closed his eyes and imagined himself anywhere but here.

* * *

“I DOUBT THERE’S even going to be a scar,” Carol said happily Tuesday afternoon.

“Uh-huh. That’s great.”

Violet Lund did her best to pay attention to the conversation. Lunch with her sister was one of her favorite times of the week. Even though they lived in the same small town, they were both busy. They’d learned that if they didn’t make the effort to get something on the calendar, time tended to slip away from them.

She’d gotten up early to make chicken salad for sandwiches and had stopped by the bakery for the cookies Carol liked. But now that they were seated at the large table in Violet’s faux-loft apartment above her small store, she found her attention straying.

It wasn’t her fault, she told herself soothingly. She was being tempted beyond what a normal person could expect to withstand. Because there, on the counter, tantalizingly out of reach, was a package about the size of a shoe box.

The mix of various colorful postage stamps had told her it had been sent from England—from the Dowager Duchess of Somerbrooke, to be specific. She had an idea of what was inside, but couldn’t know the exact contents—not until she opened it. Oh, if only the mail lady had delivered it after her lunch with Carol, she wouldn’t be squirming like a four-year-old waiting on Santa.

“For her modeling career,” Carol added drily. “You know, with that large coffee manufacturer.”

Violet turned back to her sister and tried to put the pieces together. She was pretty sure they’d been talking about Bronwen and her injuries. Bronwen being a gazelle at the animal preserve her sister ran...or managed...or whatever you called the job of person in charge. Animal keeper?

And not important, she told herself. They’d been talking about Bronwen, so how on earth had they gotten to a modeling career and who was—

The pieces fell into place. Violet sighed.

“Sorry. I was listening.” Um, perhaps that wasn’t her best tack. “I mean I wanted to listen. I do care about your work.”

“I can tell.” Carol sounded more amused than upset. “If it makes you feel any better, your buttons are about as interesting to me as my gazelle and her injuries are to you.”

Violet wanted to protest. Bronwen was great and all but still just a gazelle. While the buttons were...magical. They came from all over the world. A lot were junk and of little use to her, but every now and then there were actual treasures. The rare, the perfect, the unexpected.

Once a lady in India had sent her eight perfectly matched enamel and onyx buttons edged in gold. Another time she’d received carved wooden buttons that dated back to the fifteen hundreds. Buttons were interesting and dynamic and a surprisingly excellent source of income. Compared to that, all a gazelle could do was eat, sleep and walk around. Still, Carol loved all her animals and Violet loved her sister.

“I am sorry that Bronwen was hurt and I’m happy she’s pursuing her modeling career. She always wanted that.”

Carol’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement. “Shall I send her over to you for tips?”

Violet did her best to keep smiling. Her sister wasn’t being unkind. Carol had no way of knowing that talking about that part of her past was painful—mostly because Violet always lied about it. Yes, she’d been a model for all of five seconds back when she’d been eighteen. She’d been famous and then it had all gone away. She told herself she was better for the experience and, on her good days, she believed it.

“My biggest advice would be for Bronwen to cut down on the snacks. The camera really does add ten pounds.”

Carol laughed. “She’ll be crushed. Maybe I should put my foot down and tell her she’s going to have to grow up a little more before I’ll let her out into the world.”

“Probably best for both of you.”

Her sister nodded at the package. “Go ahead. You know you want to see what that English lady sent you.”

“That English lady? Nana Winifred is the dowager duchess and grandmother to the current Duke of Somerbrooke.”

“You call her Nana Winifred. It’s hard to be impressed.”

“She adores me. I’m like family and she sends me buttons.” Violet thought about saying she was happy to wait until after their lunch was finished, but Carol would know she was lying.

She grabbed the package and ripped off the protective paper before slitting the tape holding the top on the box. She took a deep breath, then lifted the lid and gazed inside.

Nana Winifred did not disappoint. Nestled in a cocoon of tissue paper were over a half dozen small plastic bags. Each contained a set of buttons.

The first one Violet picked up held seven green buttons about an inch in diameter. She pulled a pair of white cotton gloves out of a drawer and put them on. Only then did she pour the buttons onto her palm.

They were carved to look like flowers. Or maybe lotus blossoms, she thought, willing herself to keep calm. She would have to do some research, but her first, best guess was these were jade. Hand-carved jade. Chinese for sure and maybe two or three hundred years old.

“Those are nice,” Carol said, her tone doubtful.

“They’re exquisite. Look at the detail. It was all done by hand.” Her heart fluttered. “I’m so excited to see the rest of what’s in there.”

She returned the buttons to the protective bag, then took off her gloves. “Thank you for letting me get a peek at what she sent. I can wait on the rest.”

Her sister shook her head. “You’re so weird. They’re just buttons.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

A half hour later Carol left to go back to work. Violet cleaned the kitchen before heading down to her shop. She turned the sign to Open and unlocked the front door. Confident she wasn’t going to be seeing any customers for the next couple of hours—most of her clients made appointments first—she spread a large cloth over the counter, then opened the package again and began to sort through the buttons.

There were the jade ones she’d studied earlier, and two sets done in mother-of-pearl. She studied a set of twelve brass buttons—obviously military and a couple of centuries old. She knew at least two New York designers who would jump at the chance to buy them.

Her front door opened and a tall, dark-blond-haired man with piercing blue eyes stalked into her shop. He looked stern. No, not stern, furious. Under other circumstances, she would have been completely intimidated—only she couldn’t be. Not when she recognized the steady gaze, the firm mouth and the strong jaw.