Twice in a Lifetime Read online

  Twice in a Lifetime

  By

  Rebecca Flanders

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  "I was thinking…you've got problems, I've got problems. We both need cheering up. So, I think I've got the solution. Let's have an affair."

  Kyle was so close now that Barbara could feel his breath brush across her cheek. A featherlike touch of his tongue on her lips shook a shudder from her.

  "I am going to take all of your clothes off," Kyle said softly.

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to," he replied.

  "Do you always get what you want?" she asked.

  "I always try."

  It wasn't fair…she had been married before and thought she knew about sensual love, but nothing had ever happened to her like this…

  Published May 1983

  Second printing March 1983

  Third printing March 1983

  Fourth printing August 1983

  Fifth printing January 1984

  Sixth printing March 1984

  ISBN 0-373-16000-3

  Copyright ©1983 by Rebecca Flanders.

  Philippine copyright 1983.

  Australian copyright 1983.

  Chapter One

  Barbara sat in the crowded airport lounge, waiting for her flight to be called, and fingered the letter of invitation from her sister somewhat uncertainly. Barbara was twenty-six years old, self-sufficient, and mature, and she had been managing her own life since the first day she had left home for the independence of the state university. But, sitting alone amid the bustle and confusion of excited travelers, she felt somewhat like a lost and frightened child. She had felt that way a lot since Daniel had died.

  She had been widowed a little over a year, and she knew her sister, via long-distance conferences with their mother, was worried about her. Perhaps with good cause, Barbara had to admit uneasily, for although most of the time Barbara managed to convince herself she was getting along just fine, there were still feelings of bitterness and periods of black depression she did not seem to be able to control. Of course it was a tragedy to be widowed so young, and everyone commiserated, everyone claimed to understand what she was going through. The real tragedy was that no one understood. No one could understand what it was to lose the one and only love of her life, not just a husband, but a lover and a friend—

  Most people would go their entire lives without ever finding what she and Daniel had shared, and to have their life together severed so abruptly and so cruelly was more than unfair, it was incomprehensible…

  She felt the anger and the depression beginning to steal over her again, and she took herself firmly in hand, glancing again at the lines of her sister's handwriting as though for reassurance.

  Michael and I have talked it over and we both agree—nothing will do except that you come stay with us for the summer. The sun will put some color back into your cheeks and the sea air does wonders for the appetite (I should know— I've gained five pounds in the past month!) and you really need a change of scenery. Now, don't give me any excuses about your petty little job— jobs like that are a dime a dozen, and that's another thing I want to talk to you about— you're much too talented to be wasting your life as a clerk!—or about being unable to afford it. We've taken care of all of that. I just ramble around this big house all by myself most of the time while Michael is working on his book, and you can't imagine how much I'm looking forward to having someone to talk to! Michael is looking forward to my having someone to talk to too so he can finally get some work done! So, you see, we simply won't take no for an answer. Consider it an early birthday present—and know that we do love you, Babs dear. Your overbearing (and insistent) older sister,

  Kate

  Kate had signed her name with a flourish that took up a quarter of a page of delicately scented, powder-blue stationery, and Barbara smiled affectionately as she folded the letter back into its envelope. Despite all her misgivings about this trip, she found herself looking forward to seeing her vibrant blond-haired, blue-eyed sister again.

  She still was not quite certain what she was doing here, sitting alone in the Cincinnati airport awaiting a flight for Maine. She had been so careful this past year to keep her life stable, organized, and carefully insulated. She made no impulsive decisions. She went to work, she came home to a cheap efficiency apartment, sometimes she had dinner with friends, more often she ate alone. She called her mother in nearby Glendale once a week and told her she was doing fine.

  But when Kate's letter had come, something had changed. As she held the tempting airline ticket in her hand, Cincinnati had seemed dirty, her little job boring, her apartment cramped. And the coast of Maine was unimaginably appealing. Before she knew it, she was calling Kate, and they had talked and laughed for almost half an hour, just like old times. And suddenly she was here, and her flight was being called.

  A moment of panic overtook her as she watched the crowd begin to move toward the boarding gate. She should never have told Kate she would come. Being with Kate and Michael for three months—so happy, so successful in their big house by the sea, so blissfully in love—was not what she needed to help her get over the memory of Daniel and the few short years they had shared together living on love and dreams. Nor did she need anyone tiptoeing around her, the way her parents had done, casting her covert glances brimming with sympathy when they thought she was not looking. Or Kate's overenthusiastic methods of cheering her up No, all she wanted to do was to be left alone and nurse her grief in her own way, by herself.

  She wanted her own little apartment and her dull little job and familiar places and faces. She didn't need complications.

  The last boarding call was being announced. It was now or never. She took hold of herself firmly, shook away the last of her indecision, and gathered up her things.

  She had almost hesitated too long. She had to run, and she was the last to board. The other passengers looked around at her curiously as the stewardess directed her to her seat, and as she always did in a crowd, she felt conspicuous. She smoothed back an imaginary strand of hair toward its severe ponytail, pulled her light summer coat around her more securely, fumbled with the strap of her oversized purse, and murmured soft apologies as her carryon luggage bumped the knees of other passengers. She hated to travel alone.

  She anxiously scanned the cabin for empty seats and found none. She had to go slowly down the aisle, looking for her number, and after an interminable time she found it. 17-A. She had a window seat. That was good. But the man in the aisle seat had both legs stretched across the narrow space, and as she hesitated politely, he showed no sign of rising to make room for her to pass.

  After a moment she said deliberately, without looking at him, "Excuse me. Can I get by, please?"

  "Well," he drawled in reply, "I would imagine that's up to you. What do you think?"

  She stared at him, indignant and annoyed. And she was surprised at what she saw.

  Somehow it seemed unfair that rude, self-absorbed, and irritating people should be so contrarily good-looking. He should have been short and bald and paunchy. He was, in fact, tall and lanky and tanned a golden brown. His fawn-colored hair fell toward his forehead on either side of the part and just above his collar, and was sun-streaked with silver-blond. He needed a shave, but that did nothing to detract from the firm, square shape of his face and features t
hat were almost too perfect to be true. When he smiled, she knew, there would be a dimple just left of his chin. He might have been in his early thirties, but he dressed much younger: his skintight jeans were faded and patched, and he wore a sloppy plaid lumberjack shirt under which was a black T-shirt with "Porquois Pas?" written on it in tacky silver letters. His lips twitched with the suggestion of a smile, and his bottle-green eyes looked up at her with lazy humor.

  "It took two flight attendants and a navigator to get me in this seat," he said, "and I'm afraid it's going to take more than a pretty face to get me out again. You'll have to climb over."

  He gestured vaguely toward his feet and she noticed in chagrin that one leg of his jeans was slit up the side to reveal a white cast; there was a crutch under the seat. She was embarrassed for the uncomplimentary things she had thought about him, but she was also in a hurry, because just then a voice came over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, will you please take your seats and fasten your seat belts."

  Maneuvering the bulky overnight bag and her purse, she stepped quickly over him toward her seat, and she knew that if ever clumsiness were to strike her it would be then. It did. She tripped and lost her balance; she saw him grimace and duck his head to avoid her swinging bag. She gasped apologies as his hands came up firmly to take her waist and guide her securely to her seat.

  "Did I hurt you?" she inquired anxiously, sinking to her seat and still struggling with the luggage.

  He winced and bent to rub his ankle. "No," he replied. "That was my good foot."

  He straightened up and had to duck again quickly to avoid being hit by her overnight bag, which she was unsuccessfully trying to force into a storage compartment. He cried, "Hey, watch it! Give me that." He took the bag from her. "Lady, you're a menace."

  She said stiffly, "Sorry."

  He shoved her bag under the seat and glanced up. "Any more concealed weapons? Are you quite settled?"

  She fastened her seat belt and turned deliberately to stare out the window.

  When they were airborne, he unfastened his seat belt, turned to her, and draped his arm comfortably across the back of her seat. He studied her for a long time, in the uninhibited, unhurried manner of a man who has a deep and natural appreciation for women of every type, and she tried not to blush. She tried to ignore him. "So. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

  She scowled irritably and wiggled closer to the window, casting a disparaging look at the informal arrangement of his arm. She wanted to retort, "Is that the best you can do?" but thought it was better not to encourage him.

  "Business trip," he pursued, "or pleasure?" When she made no reply, he continued, "No, don't tell me, let me guess. For you, business only. You hate to fly and you don't look like you've had a day's pleasure in your life. Now, what kind of business?" he mused, then answered himself with a joyful snap of his fingers. "I know. You're a librarian, of course, and you're on your way to collect a rare, out-of-print book, which you will guard with your life until it's safely behind its glass case."

  She said quickly, "Will you please leave me alone?"

  "Oh, don't worry," he assured her, eyes twinkling. "I have a weakness for librarians. Especially very stern ones with golden-red hair—which is much too pretty, by the way, to be pulled back and hidden like that. Your scalp must be screaming for relief."

  At first her eyes widened with astonishment and insult, then darkened to a murky violet with anger. "I am going to change my seat," she warned him tightly.

  "Good luck," he replied and leaned back, removing his arm from across her seat.

  For a time an uneasy silence reigned, and she turned again to the window, seething and uncomfortable. There was a low cloud cover, so there wasn't much to see.

  And then he said mildly, "It's a three-hour flight. I didn't bring anything to read and one piece of sky looks pretty much like another. Worse yet, we're going to be forced to have lunch together and there's nothing more barbaric, so I'm told, than a meal without conversation. So we may as well talk."

  Now she turned to him. "I don't talk to strange men," she told him coldly. "Especially rude, conceited ones with corny come-ons who dress like refugees from the sixties and look old enough to know better."

  Now his eyes widened. "Come on, lady," he said softly, "give me a break." But beneath the mock insult in his eyes was patient humor, and this only irritated her more.

  "Furthermore," she continued, enjoying her vicious little stabs, "I think it's in unspeakably poor taste, not to mention stupid, to try to pick up a girl on an airplane. It shows a definite lack of class."

  He appeared to consider this thoughtfully. "You're right," he decided after a moment. "It is stupid. After all, if I succeeded in picking you up, where would I take you?"

  She realized suddenly that she had walked right into his trap, and the mild, sparkling humor in his eyes told her that he was enjoying the victory thoroughly. He had wanted her to talk to him, hadn't he? And he had baited her until she had. She turned quickly back to the window, seething.

  After a moment he said softly, "Aha. You're married. That could explain your rotten disposition as well as anything else. What're you doing, then, going home to Mother?"

  Still, after all this time, it hurt. But it was getting better. This time wasn't bad at all because the hurt was swallowed up in anger. She said shortly, "I'm not married."

  "Then why are you wearing a wedding ring? That is a wedding ring, isn't it?" He made to reach for her hand, but she jerked it away quickly and held it clasped protectively in the other, touching the broad gold band lightly, as though for reassurance.

  She swallowed hard on outrage and pain, wishing this irritating character would simply leave her alone. "My husband… is dead. I'm—" She could not say that word, conjuring up visions of wrinkled old ladies in black mourning dresses. "I'm not married."

  He inquired, in a slightly different tone, "Accident?"

  "Leukemia," she replied briefly, and that was all she intended to say.

  She waited for him to utter the insincere and uncomfortable "I'm sorry" that everyone, even the remotest stranger, felt compelled to offer. She was surprised and unwillingly impressed and somehow grateful that he did not. It took a lot of self-control, she knew, and perhaps a special kind of person, not to resort to meaningless platitudes in a situation like that.

  He only said gently, "Widows wear their rings on their right hands."

  Whatever softness she felt for him all but vanished. She unclasped her hands and jerked her head toward the window again. "Thank you," she returned sarcastically, "for that lesson in etiquette."

  He was silent during the half hour that remained before lunch was served, and she wondered what he was thinking. He was probably wondering how he had stumbled into such an awkward situation. He was probably wondering what, if anything, to say to her now. People became so uncomfortable when they knew, always afraid of saying the wrong thing. A widow of twenty-six was somewhat of a freak in this day and age, and everyone she met reminded her of it. He was probably feeling sorry for her and trying to think of some clever way to change the subject and wishing he had not been so quick to hit on her. Well, she thought bitterly, maybe he won't be so quick next time.

  Lunch was served, and she ate silently and deliberately, forcing herself to eat though she was not hungry because she could feel him watching her. He had made no move to pick up his knife and fork, and his meal was getting cold. She pretended not to notice.

  And then he said mournfully, "Uh, I don't know how to tell you this…"

  She glanced up.

  "I'm left-handed," he confessed. "Unless we want another accident, which our—er—rather tenuous relationship really can't afford right now, we can't both eat at the same time."

  She struggled with a smile and won. "Well," she demanded severely, "what do you want me to do about it?"

  "If you'll just wait a minute," he suggested, "while I cut my meat, and then we could take alternate bit
es—"

  She felt a helpless giggle seeping to the surface and she touched her napkin to her lips to hide it, shaking her head. "Go ahead." She pushed her tray away. "I'm finished."

  "You haven't eaten anything," he protested.

  "It's not very good, and I'm not very hungry."

  He took up his knife and fork, and she sat back. After a moment he glanced at her askance. "By the way," he commented blandly, "you didn't fool me. I saw that smile."

  She looked at him and this time let the tight, dry little smile come. "You think you're very charming, don't you?"

  He shrugged as he lifted his fork. "So I've been told."

  "How did you break your leg?"

  "I fell off a mountain."

  "And you called me clumsy," she murmured under her breath, and he grinned.

  "I didn't call you that," he reminded her. "I only thought it."

  He turned his attention to his meal, and she relaxed a little as their destination grew closer.

  To her relief, he announced his intention to take a short nap after the trays were removed—to which she replied it was no concern of hers. But it seemed he had barely closed his eyes before the captain was announcing that they were circling Portland airport and they were touching down. She began to gather up her belongings, excitement building.

  "Careful," he drawled as she stood, glancing up at her cautiously. "Remember you've got an injured man on your hands."

  She said, rather awkwardly, "I'm sorry I stepped on your foot before."

  "It was only the beginning of a very memorable journey," he assured her, eyes sparkling. Then, "You don't like me much, do you?"

  She glanced down at him and responded evenly, "No. Not much."

  She stepped over him carefully and efficiently and was safely in the aisle when he said, "It's a good thing I wasn't successful, then."