Last Chance at Love. Gwynne Forster

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      “I hope you’re paid up with your club dues,” Jake told him, “because I forgot to pay mine.” He didn’t mention that the notice arrived while he was on a department mission.

      “I forget sometimes, too,” Duncan said, “but they won’t throw us out.”

      They practiced hitting the ball for several minutes, tossed a coin, and Duncan served first.

      “Brother, that was one wicked lob you sent over here,” Duncan called to Jake after returning it for a point. After winning a set each during nearly two hours of play, they sat on a bench and helped themselves to the lemonade that Justine had made and sent in a cooler.

      “You’ve been married to Justine how long now?”

      “Two years. The happiest and the most productive of my life. I hardly remember who I was before I met Justine. Looking back—and I often do—I realize my first marriage was a sham.”

      Jake stretched out his legs and leaned back against the bench. “Marriage is a risk any way you slice it.”

      A frown slid over Duncan’s face. “Sure. And so is taking a shower. It’s simple, Jake; if you don’t gamble—I mean, take a chance—you can’t win. From the first time I looked at Justine, I was a changed man.”

      Jake sat forward, remembering his reaction to Allison Wakefield. “You mean as soon as you laid eyes on her?”

      “That’s just what I mean. Man, I did everything, told myself all kind of lies about how she wasn’t for me, even left my own house to stay at the lodge so I wouldn’t see her...trying to avoid the inevitable. I didn’t stand a chance.”

      “Damn!” Jake sat back, put his hands in the pockets of his tennis shorts, and shook his head. “Man, I don’t like the sound of that.”

      “Whoa! Wait a minute,” Duncan said, coloring his words with barely restrained laughter. “What’s her name?”

      Jake shook his head again as if perplexed. “There isn’t any her. I am not even going to repeat her name. It’s too ridiculous. I am definitely not going there!” He spoke forcibly.

      “Go ahead and convince yourself.” Jake didn’t like the laughter that spilled out of Duncan like water cascading from a mountaintop. “That’s just what I said,” Duncan told him. “I’d be honored to be your best man.”

      With that, Jake stood, ready to leave. “You’re off your rocker.”

      Duncan permitted himself a long laugh. “Whatever you say. In the thirteen years we’ve known each other, you’ve intimated a serious interest in one woman. One. And for that particular one, your youth was ample excuse.” He stood and looked Jake in the eye. “Getting a jolt at the age of twenty-two is nothing compared to being poleaxed at this age.”

      A look of fond remembrance claimed Duncan’s face. “I’ll never forget the day and the minute I gave in to it; oceans roared.”

      “That was you. This is me. Tell Justine I want some of Mattie’s stuffed roast loin of pork and lemon-roast potatoes. That woman can really cook.”

      “That, she can. When are you leaving on your book tour?”

      “Monday, but I’ll probably be back home on weekends.”

      “I thought most book signings were held on weekends.”

      “Or at lunchtime, like mine. Thanks for the workout, Dunc.”

      “My pleasure.”

      “The guy’s a lucky man,” Jake said to himself later as he stood beside his kitchen sink, eating a ham sandwich. “One long year of trouble, and then his ship came in. I should be so fortunate.”

      * * *

      “Covington goes on national tour pretty soon, and he’s agreed to let me accompany him,” Allison told her boss.

      “Atta girl.”

      Without commenting, she turned to her computer and began to sketch the questions that would guide her interviews with Jacob Covington. She worked on them until two o’clock, packed her briefcase, and headed for her home on Monroe Avenue in the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia, en route to her other life. Her boss and her peers thought her tough, and she had developed a crust of self-protection against their slurs and slights, had hardened herself. But not even for the sake of her ambitions would she step on anyone for personal gain. Let them think whatever they like. She had their respect, and that was what she wanted.

      Allison changed into casual clothes and prepared to enjoy the happiest two hours of her week. She parked in front of the two-story redbrick structure whose colonial front gave it the appearance of a gracious private home. Mother’s Rest was a temporary haven for eleven children under the age of two who were awaiting foster homes. A child rarely remained there more than six months.

      Zena Carter, the head nurse, greeted Allison as she entered the house. “I’ve got a brand-new one for you today,” she said. “Cute little tyke, too. She’s in a fit of temper, and I sure hope you can calm her down.”

      Allison followed Zena down the hall. “Is she sick?”

      “Doctor said she wasn’t. Just hates yet another environment and more strangers, I guess. Your things are in there.”

      Allison stepped into the little cubicle, washed her face and hands, put on a white gown, and covered her mouth with a small mask. She took the baby, and her little charge stared up at her with big brown eyes that beautified her dark face. How could anybody... Quickly, she put a stop to that train of thought. Hadn’t the social worker warned her not to judge the mothers or to become attached to any of the children? It was one thing to give that advice; as far as she was concerned, the ability to follow it required superhuman command of one’s emotions.

      For two hours, she coddled, stroked, and chatted with the seven-month-old baby girl who, like the other babies there, was awaiting a foster home or an adoption. The child’s bubbly personality tore at her heart, and when she sang, the baby clapped her hands and tried to join her. The time passed too quickly. To avoid bonding, the volunteer mothers, as they were called, were not allowed to stay for more than two hours, nor could they visit with the same baby twice in one month. Her coworkers wouldn’t believe her capable of those gentle, tender moments with the children, and she didn’t want them to know. But the hours spent there nourished her for the rest of the week.

      She walked out into the warm summer drizzle and raced half a block to her car, shielding her hair as the moisture rid it of its elegance, dampening her and shrinking her rayon shirt. At Matty’s Gourmet Shop, she bought her dinner and two boxes of Arlington Fair Blue Ribbon gingersnaps and went home with the intention of preparing for her interview with Jacob Covington. She answered the phone with reluctance.

      “Yes?”

      “Hi, Allison. Want to go to Blues Alley tonight?”

      Of course she did. Connie knew she never got enough of good jazz. “I’m all set to work because I didn’t have other plans. But it’ll be a while before I can get back there, so why not? Who’s there?”

      “Buddy СКАЧАТЬ