Chances Are Read online

  Hannah and Priscilla ran into the room, trailing beach sand and chocolate chip cookie crumbs. Lucy scooped up Priscilla before the puppy had the chance to jump up onto the bed and put paw prints on the luscious fabrics.

  “Ohh!” Hannah reached out to touch the slippery rum pink satin. “A Barbie wedding dress!”

  “That’s a great idea, Hannah,” Lucy said. “I’ll make Barbie a wedding dress just like your mommy’s. What would you think about that?”

  Hannah beamed at her great-aunt. “She needs shoes, too.”

  Maddy tugged on her daughter’s ponytail. “Honey, first you thank Aunt Lucy, then you hit her up for the Manolo Blahniks.”

  “She’s definitely a DiFalco.” Rose winked as she said it. “The shoes are the first sign.”

  The three women burst into laughter while Hannah, still a little young for Manolos, leaped onto the bed and did a somersault across some ivory duchesse that probably cost enough to fund her first semester at a decent college.

  Nobody blinked.

  “So which sketch do you like best, Maddy?” Lucy sat down on the edge of the bed across from Maddy and Hannah. “I’m partial to the one with the Grecian style drape in the back. With your height and your lovely shoulders, we can . . .”

  Everything Rose had hoped for when she orchestrated that terrible trip to the bridal department at Saks suddenly materialized right there in her bedroom. Maddy, standing tall and lovely in a puddle of sunshine while Lucy draped her in satin and lace. Hannah and Priscilla, propped up on pillows near the headboard, watching everything with wide-eyed fascination. Her beloved sister Lucy, eyes shining with happiness, as she shaped a gown fit for a princess with straight pins and love.

  There was only one thing wrong with the picture. Peter Lassiter and his tattooed assistant Crystal were standing in the bedroom doorway watching the whole thing.

  “Do you need something?” Rose asked with perhaps a shade less friendliness than she usually displayed to her paying customers. “This is my bedroom suite.” Didn’t their mothers teach them to knock?

  Crystal drifted into the room as if in a trance. “Ohhh,” she breathed, running her hand down a column of silk draped across the slipper chair in the corner. “This is like something out of a fairy tale.”

  Maddy, glowing with happiness, beamed a smile. “If you think that’s something, come over here and take a look at the lace Lucy brought with her.”

  Suddenly Crystal seemed every bit as young and innocent as Hannah. Her face lost that look of urban ennui and became the face of an average young woman who still believed in happy endings. Even Peter dropped his cool, professional demeanor and told a charming story about his own wedding that made the females in the room sigh out loud.

  They were joined by the sound guy, one of the cameramen, and before Rose knew what was happening, her cozy family moment was being captured on film and audio for posterity, not to mention the entire NJTV viewership. Maddy, her charmingly self-conscious daughter, seemed to bloom under the shower of attention. She struck poses for a surprisingly demanding Lucy, who managed to drape one-dimensional fabric with so much style and flair that even Hannah could easily imagine the finished product.

  “What does this remind you of, Rosie?” Lucy asked around a mouthful of dressmaker’s pins.

  “The night before my wedding,” Rose said. “We ran out of those tiny little pearl buttons, and you had us draping silk over buttons we snipped from three pairs of pajamas.”

  “You covered buttons?” Crystal asked from the center of the bed where she sat cross-legged next to Hannah and Priscilla. Her ever-present notebook was open on her lap.

  “Forty of them,” Rose said with a groan.

  “Don’t tell me Toni and Connie helped,” Maddy said, anchoring a swath of ivory lace against her chest with her right hand while Lucy measured the length of her left arm. “I can’t imagine them doing anything that might ruin their manicures.”

  “Oh, they weren’t quite so high maintenance yet,” Lucy said with a laugh. “That was still a few years off.”

  Crystal was busy scribbling her notes. “How did you cover the pajama buttons?”

  Lucy explained the process while Rose felt herself pulled back through the decades. She had waited a long time to marry. Until Bill Bainbridge walked into her life, no man had ever seemed worth the changes that marriage would bring to her world. They were going to be happy forever. They were going to join their very different, very demanding lives, and make it work. No sacrifice would be too great. No need would ever go unfulfilled. Like two starry-eyed teenagers, they had believed love would overcome any obstacle life—and life styles—threw their way.

  She looked down at her hands, the hands of a much older and wiser woman, and waited for the sting of regret to subside. They had tried so hard to make it work, for their own sake as well as Maddy’s, but the differences between them had been more than even love could handle. It had taken twenty-five years for them to find their way back to each other, and she couldn’t hope but pray life would treat Maddy and Aidan with more kindness. Happiness shouldn’t have to wait that long.

  “OKAY,” HER AUNT Lucy said as she added one more pin to the bodice. “Now climb up on the footstool—careful! careful! —and slowly . . . slooowly . . . turn around so I can see what—”

  “Aidan!” Maddy shrieked, clutching the pin-prickly satin to her chest. “How long have you been there?”

  He was standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, grinning like a canary-eating cat. “Long enough,” he said. “I followed the laughter.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  The grin widened. “I was enjoying the view.”

  She felt herself blush from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. She had been so lost in the excitement that she had forgotten she was standing there almost naked, swathed in fabric like a dressmaker’s dummy, in front of God and PBS.

  “Isn’t this bad luck?” Crystal asked. “I mean, you’re not supposed to see the bride in her dress before the wedding day, right?”

  “This isn’t my dress,” Maddy said as she hurried toward the doorway. “This is just the suggestion of my dress.”

  “I don’t know.” Crystal didn’t sound convinced. “It’s going to be your dress pretty soon, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, we don’t believe in that nonsense,” Maddy said as Aidan held out his hand to her. “That’s nothing but a superstition.”

  “Crystal’s right,” Lucy said to Maddy’s surprise. “It might be a silly superstition, but it wouldn’t hurt, would it?” She motioned for Aidan to disappear.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Lucia.” Rose sounded mildly exasperated and more than a little amused. “Every single one of us honored that ridiculous superstition, and look what happened. This is a new world we’re living in. Let’s make some new traditions.”

  “Whoa!” Crystal fumbled through the bed covers for her pen, then started scribbling in her notebook. “That’s deep.”

  Maddy curled into Aidan for a pin-pricked hug. “So what brings you here in the middle of the afternoon?” He smelled of soap and shampoo and liniment, the way he always did after an encounter with Nina and the monster machines of physical therapy.

  “I wanted to drop this off,” Aidan said, pulling a brochure from the back pocket of his jeans and handing it to Maddy. “This is where we’re staying in Spring Lake. I circled the suite.”

  “A suite?” Maddy’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that kind of pricey?”

  “Third floor, tower, with a balcony and fireplace.”

  “Any neighbors?”

  “Not a single one.”

  Maddy lowered her voice. “I wish it were Saturday already.”

  He brushed a quick kiss against her temple and breathed, “Me, too.”

  “Nobody told me you were going to Spring Lake!” Lucy sighed. “One of my favorite towns.”

  “They’re going away on Saturday for a romantic weekend getaway,” Cr
ystal said. “Aidan arranged the whole thing himself.”

  Maddy’s jaw dropped in surprise. Was nothing sacred these days?

  “You people are scary as hell.” Aidan fixed Crystal with a look. “How do you know what I arranged?”

  “We know everything,” Crystal said happily. “It’s our job.”

  Maddy looked at Aidan and winked. “And it’s our job to make sure you don’t.”

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 9:15 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Tomorrow

  Maddy:

  I spoke to Olivia. She said the workmen don’t start until noon tomorrow so we’ll have to pick up the key. She’ll leave it tucked behind the left shutter on the front window at Le Papier. First one to the bus stop picks it up.

  Yours,

  Claire

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 10:01 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Interview Fri a.m.

  Olivia, would you consider being my interview subject Friday 8 a.m. at O’Malley’s? Great drive-time publicity for Le Papier and Cuppa and I promise it won’t take more than an hour of your time.

  I’ll even throw in free coffee and Claire’s great cranberry-orange muffins if you’ll say yes.

  Thanks,

  Maddy

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 10:42 p.m.

  SUBJECT: FW: Interview Fri a.m.

  Don’t you people =ever= get off the phone? I’ve been trying to ring you but I keep getting that abominable voice mail of yours. (You really should think about losing that outgoing msg—all I hear is Bruno barking.)

  Take a look at the attached msg from Maddy. I think it’s a natural for you. How about it?

  (And don’t make me pull rank because I will. Just because the shop isn’t open yet doesn’t mean we can’t start promoting it. It’s time you got to work.)

  God didn’t put me on this earth to type.

  PHONE ME! Maddy needs an answer ASAP. (I think that mystery writer, the one with the bad hair, backed out.)

  —Liv

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:03 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: FW: Interview Fri a.m.

  Who does she think she is, waltzing into O’Malley’s like she owns the place? NOBODY gives away my muffins without asking me.

  And no, I’m not getting off the phone so you can browbeat me into doing what you want. I’m IMing with David Fenelli about the soccer team’s luncheon next month and that’s more important than her radio show.

  Besides, if she wanted to interview me, she would’ve asked me. You own the place. You do the interview.

  —Claire

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:22 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: FW: Interview Fri a.m.

  Now I hope you don’t get all DiFalco on me, Maddy, but I asked Claire if she would do the interview with you on Friday instead of me. I want to keep Cuppa and Le Papier separate—what could be better than our manager interviewing our hostess/baker?

  Of course she’s being a wee bit stubborn but never fear. I’ll win her over before Friday morning.

  —Liv

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:42 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Blatant Bribery

  I’ll watch Billy Jr. four Friday nights in a row if you’ll do the interview.

  Liv

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:50 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: Blatant Bribery

  Too bad I don’t go out on Friday nights.

  Try again, Liv.

  —Claire

  [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:54 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: Blatant Bribery

  See attached

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:58 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: Blatant Bribery

  <>

  Nope. Can’t drive a stick.

  <>

  I’d rather be tied naked to an anthill.

  <>

  Will you pay the late fees?

  Sorry, Liv. You’ll have to do a whole lot better.

  —Claire, who can be bought if the price is right

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:58 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Blatant Bribery: final offer

  No red-blooded Jersey girl can refuse this offer:

  2 front row tickets for Tom Jones at Caesars in A.C. next month if you do the interview.

  TOM JONES!

  —Liv

  TO: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 11:59 p.m.

  SUBJECT: Re: Blatant Bribery

  See? I can be bought.

  It’s a deal.

  —Claire

  TO: [email protected]

  CC: [email protected]

  FROM: [email protected]

  TIME: 12:02 a.m.

  SUBJECT: radio interview

  Maddy, Claire said she would be delighted to do the interview with you on Friday morning. You can work out the details together. It’ll be great team-building practice for the two of you for when Cuppa opens in July.

  Break a leg, ladies!

  —Liv

  Chapter Sixteen

  “JULIE’S TALKING TO herself,” Maddy said from behind her coffee cup.

  Claire swiveled around to take a look. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Look again. Her lips are moving, and she’s the only one at the register.”

  “Big deal.” Claire swiveled back to face Maddy. “I talk to myself all the time. Until my father moved in, it was the only adult conversation I had during the day.”

  Maddy burst into laughter. “I haven’t reached that point yet, but there are days when I’m pretty close.”

  “Just wait until you have two or three of them home at the same time. It’s an occupational hazard. You either start talking to yourself or end up fantasizing about Big Bird and a hot tub.”

  The table was strewn with sheets of scribbled-on notepaper, Maddy’s Day Runner, and a big fat blue vinyl loose-leaf binder stuffed full of recipes. A stack of lists rested to the right of Maddy’s pancakes, while Claire had adorned a half-dozen paper napkins with notes, diagrams, and lists of her own.

  All things considered, it had gone far better than Maddy had anticipated, and they had Olivia’s decorator to thank. Their uncomfortable discussion of the upcoming radio interview was forgotten the second they unlocked the door to the old McClanahan place. Maddy had been expecting a roomful of two-by-fours, Sheetrock, and empty paint cans, not the magnificent replica of a cozy English country drawing room complete with chintz-covered overstuffed chairs, mismatched antique end tables, two working fireplaces, and a score of lamps that would do Louis Comfort Tiffany proud.

  “I’ll need a whole new wardrobe,” Claire had breathed as they stood in the doorway.

  “I’ll need a whole new personality,” Maddy had answered, grateful once again that she would work primarily behind the scenes.

  It wasn’t smoke-filled O’Malley’s or the apple pie and a cup of joe atmosphere found at Julie’s Coffee Shop. This was upscale, exclusive, expensive—a lot like Le Papier and The Candlelight, come to think about it. And it had Success stamped all over it. Ideas popped between them like corn in a movie theater as they wandered through the small space, inspected the under-construction kitchen, projected themselves two months down the road on opening day. Maddy hated to admit it, but most of the ideas were Claire’s.
Good ones, too. She had never really thought of Claire beyond the woman at the bar and Billy’s mother. This side of her came as a complete surprise.

  The ideas were still popping as they walked down the street toward Julie’s, and now, two hours later, the fruits of their labor lay scattered in front of them on scraps of paper, napkins, in notebooks, and on place mats.

  “So we’ve agreed on a severely limited menu,” Maddy said, glancing down at her notes.

  “Definitely,” Claire said, glancing around the room for what seemed like the hundredth time since they got there. Every time the front door squeaked open, she seemed to forget Maddy was there and zero in on the newcomer until Maddy was tempted to send up a flare to remind Claire of her presence. “Classic Brit tea fare: scones, lots of cream, intricate little sandwiches and pastries. I have two books on classic English tea service. I’ll use them as my references.”

  “What about soups? We could do soup.”

  “No soup. We’re not a luncheonette.”

  “But we’ll be open during lunch hour.”

  “You can’t eat soup gracefully in a wing chair.”

  “I can eat soup in a moving vehicle.”

  “No soup,” Claire repeated. “We want a simple, clear-cut culinary identity.”

  Sorry, Claire, you can’t impress me. I watch the Food Channel, too. “That will make menu planning and shopping for supplies a snap, but where will the variety come from?”

  “There’s a lot you can do with those little sandwiches,” Claire said, “not to mention the pastries.”