Danielle Steel - Second Chance

On Thanksgiving morning, Adrian called. He was up at five A.M., starting to stuff and cook his turkeys. He was having thirty people over for dinner, and said he was going insane.

“I feel like a gynecologist. I just stuffed five birds.”

“You're disgusting.” She laughed at him.

“And what are you doing today?”

“Nothing. It isn't a holiday here. I'm working on my book.”

“That's sacrilegious,” he chided her. “Then what are you grateful for?” It was a good question, and good to be reminded that she had much to be grateful for, even if things hadn't worked out as she'd planned.

“You,” she said without hesitating. “And my work.” She was grateful that she had finished one book and started a second.

“And that's it? That's a pathetic list.”

“It's enough,” she said peacefully. She still hadn't done anything about her social life, and she didn't really care. “I can't wait to see you in a few weeks,” she said happily. He was coming over for Christmas, and they were busy making plans. He was going to stay with her, as she had with him in New York. He was going to stay in her guest room, and they had agreed to go to Chartres, since he'd never been. And he'd be back again in January for the haute couture. She loved knowing she was going to see him twice in the next two months. He was still the best friend she had.

She wished him luck with his dinner, wished him a Happy Thanksgiving, got nostalgic for a minute, and then reminded herself that there was no point. She had better things to do than feel sorry for herself, although she felt homesick when she thought of the dinner he was giving and wished she could be there.

She had just started writing again, when the telephone rang. She thought it might be Adrian again, asking her advice about his birds. It was rare for anyone to call her, sometimes she didn't speak to anyone for days. And she had spoken to Andrew Page the day before. No one other than Andrew and Adrian ever called her, and her agent wouldn't call her on Thanksgiving.

“Why are you calling me? I can't cook,” she said, expecting to hear Adrian's voice, and was startled when it wasn't. It was a familiar voice, but she couldn't place it for a moment. And then her heart gave a lurch as she did. It was John.

“That's quite an admission. The truth comes out. You always told me you could.”

“Sorry,” she said skittishly, “I thought it was Adrian. He's cooking Thanksgiving dinner in New York.” She had no idea where John was calling her from, and wasn't sure she cared. She did, of course, but she wasn't going to let herself care anymore. She had promised herself that again in New York. It was strange that he had called. He had never called her since he left. All their communications, what there were of them, had been through their lawyers. She lapsed into silence while she waited to hear why he'd called.

“I was just doing some business in London, and I stopped in Paris on the way home,” he explained. “I just had a crazy thought. It's Thanksgiving, and I wondered if you wanted to have lunch or dinner with me at Le Voltaire.” He knew it was her favorite restaurant, and he had liked it too when they'd been there together. He sounded awkward as he asked. And there was a long, long pause at her end of the phone.

“Why?” She said the single word. What was the point?

“Old times’ sake, or something like that. Maybe we can be friends.” But she didn't want to be his friend. She had been in love with him, and still was. She knew that when she saw him in New York. And he had found a woman who looked just like Ann.

“I'm not sure I need a friend,” Fiona said bluntly. “I don't know how these things work. I've never been divorced before. I'm an amateur at all this. Are we supposed to be friends?”

“If we want to be,” he said cautiously, although he felt awkward answering her. “I'd like to be your friend, Fiona. I thought what we had was special. It just didn't work out.” Apparently not, since he had left her in less than six months and he was still trying to justify it to her. She remembered what Adrian had said, that he thought it was lousy of him to walk out on her, and it hadn't all been her fault. She had felt better about herself after Adrian said it.

“I'm not mad at you,” she said honestly. “I think I'm just hurt.” Very, very, very hurt. It was a mild understatement. In the early months, she had thought about whether she could go on living, instead she had quit her job, given up her career, and her house, and moved to Paris. Hurt didn't even begin to describe it. But in the end, things had worked out. She had a new career, and with luck, she would sell a book.

“I know,” John said sadly, in response to Fiona saying she'd been hurt. “I feel very guilty about it.” As well he should.

“That's appropriate.” She didn't tell him that Adrian thought so too.

“I just didn't know how to deal with your life. We were so different. Too different.” He tried to explain, and she cut him off. She didn't want to hear it again. It was all done.

“I think we've covered all that. How's your friend?”

“What friend?” He was drawing a blank.

“The Junior League lady I saw you with at La Goulue.”

He sounded stunned. “How did you know she's with the Junior League? Do you know each other?” Elizabeth hadn't said they did, and he sounded surprised.

“No. She just looks it. It's written all over her. She looks like Ann.”

“Yes, she does.” And then he laughed and decided to be honest with her. It was a small step toward friendship, which was what he had told himself he wanted when he called her. “To tell the truth, she bores me.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” Fiona hated herself for it, but she was glad to hear it. “She's nice looking.”

“So are you. You looked fabulous at La Goulue. Paris agrees with you. What are you doing here?”

“Writing. Novels. I finished a book this summer, and I just started another. It's fun. I like it. I was in New York to find an agent.”

“And did you?” He was interested. Everything about her had always intrigued him. He still thought she was amazing, and this proved it. She had given up one of the most successful careers in New York, moved to Paris, and started another. And he was sure, knowing her, that her book would be a best-seller.

“I signed with Andrew Page.”

“That's impressive. Has he sold anything yet?”

“No, but I got my first rejection. So I guess now I'm officially a writer.” She suspected there would be lots more of them, but Andrew seemed confident that he could sell her work, so she wasn't worried.

“Why don't we talk about it at lunch? If we stay on the phone long enough, there won't be anything left to say.” She wasn't sure there was anyway. “Will you meet me at Le Voltaire, or somewhere else if you prefer?” He sounded more confident than he felt, and she was annoyed. Why was he calling her? What was the point? It was over. And she didn't need or want his friendship. She hesitated for a long time as she mulled it over, and he got worried. “Come on, Fiona. Please. I miss talking to you. I'm not going to hurt you.” He didn't have to. He already had. Far too much. She thought she had forgiven him, but now she was beginning to wonder.

“I can't stay long,” she said finally, and he exhaled slowly at his end. “I have to get back to work. It's hard to start again once I'm interrupted.”

“It's Thanksgiving. We can order turkey or chicken or something. Or profiteroles.” He had remembered her fatal weakness for them. There was a lot he remembered about her. Most of it good. It was only rarely now that he remembered the bad. And it no longer seemed quite so important. A lot of it seemed silly to him. Like the closets. The crazy people she knew and loved. And Jamal, running around in sarongs and her gold sandals. “What time will you meet me?”