Its a widow thing never.., p.19
It's a Widow Thing (Never Too Late Book 3), page 19
“Okay.”
They stepped inside the little shop, which had a gray-haired older gentleman sitting behind a long counter with all sorts of jewelry—rings, necklaces, and watches. It was a lovely spot, but this did not look like the place to buy something for a seven-year-old.
“I was thinking we would,” Michael said.
“Hold on a minute. We would what?”
“We would buy the Van Cleeves’ apartment. For ourselves. And make it our own.”
Sabrina blinked several times, as it was taking her a minute for her brain to catch up. “Oh, my God. Michael. That’s an amazing idea.” She squeezed his face and planted a kiss on his lips. “We can sell both of our apartments. That will go a long way toward a down payment.” Just like that, she was able to see what it would be like to live in that beautiful space. It would be epic. She might even feel like throwing a party. “It’s so swanky.”
“It’s super swanky.” He laughed quietly. “But it’s also where we had our first kiss. That’s where things really started for us. Which is why I want to take the next step there.”
Sabrina nodded and drew in a deep, happy breath. He was so sweet. He had such a big heart. “That’s so romantic. I love it. I absolutely love the idea.”
“Great. I’m glad.” He smiled, but he didn’t seem one-hundred percent enthused. It was like he was holding back.
“Is something else going on? I don’t think we’re in the right place for Zoe’s necklace.”
“We aren’t. That was a ruse to get you in here. I ordered Zoe’s unicorn online. Plus a bunch of other stuff I bought for her, because I’m a total softie and I can’t help it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Michael turned to the man sitting behind the counter, who had been completely silent since they’d arrived at his shop. “Mr. Russell? Do you have what we talked about?”
“I was just waiting for you to give me my cue,” Mr. Russell answered, with a thick British accent that surprised Sabrina, although she wasn’t sure why.
“Michael, what’s going on?” she asked.
“I want you to meet Mr. Russell. I met him years ago when I bought a gift for my mom at Tiffany’s. That’s his day job, but he hunts for estate jewelry and sells it on the side.”
Mr. Russell shrugged as he brought out a small black box. “What can I say? It’s my passion.”
“May I?” Michael asked.
“Please. It’s yours.” Mr. Russell handed the item to him. “I’ll be over here.” With that, he sidled to the far corner of the store.
It was like Sabrina’s brain was a step slow. “Michael. Are you?”
“Shush. Let me do this.” He grinned—that sly, devil-may-care smile that made her melt into a puddle. It occurred to her—that was exactly what he’d been holding back. “Sabrina, I love you more than anything or anyone in this entire world. And I always do my best to defer to you on the timing of pretty much everything, but this is one thing I just have to push you on.” He opened the box. In it was a gleaming emerald-cut diamond nestled in a platinum setting. An engagement ring. “Will you marry me?”
Sabrina clamped her hand over her mouth, if only to hold back the emotion. Of course, trying to quiet herself only made the tears come. And they did, rolling down her cheeks in steady streams.
“Please don’t cry.” Michael stepped closer to her, leaving that beautiful ring right between his chest and hers.
She nodded and wiped back her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. And happy.”
“Does that mean you’re saying yes?”
“Yes. I’m saying yes.” A titter escaped her lips and he took the ring out of the box, sliding it on to her finger. She drew in a deep breath, so full that it made her shoulders rise to her ears. Then she tilted up her chin and kissed him. It was heaven. Sheer and absolute heaven. “I love you, Michael. You’ve made me so happy,” she murmured against his lips.
“I love you, too. Forever.”
“Well, that was just lovely. Well done, you two,” Mr. Russell said. “I’ve seen a lot of proposals in my life, but that was an excellent one. I can tell you two are made for each other.”
Sabrina and Michael locked hands and leaned into each other. “Thank you,” they said in near unison.
They stepped outside, although Sabrina could have sworn she was levitating. She hadn’t known happiness like this in so long. At one point, she’d been convinced that she’d never have it. Now it felt like the whole world was at her feet. “Oh, my God. Michael. I have an idea.” She grabbed his arm. “We should get married here. In Bryant Park.”
He looked all around, and as he did, she could see the scene unfolding—their family and friends with them on the lawn, standing beneath the cathedral of trees. Maybe in the spring. On a beautiful day. With everyone they loved—his entire family, Lucy, and the Van Cleeves if they were still in New York. And the widows, of course. Orla would cry her eyes out. Leticia would put on too much bug spray. Daisy would hit on any and all male guests, and Kendra would be Sabrina’s rock and tell her to stop being nervous. Aurora could come and maybe bring her daughter, Brooklyn, so Sabrina could finally meet her. Lela and Echo and Donovan would have to be on the guest list, too. After Echo Echo bought Chelsea Mayhem, they would be like family. They could have waffles instead of a wedding cake. It would be an amazing day.
“Yeah. Sure. People do it all the time,” Michael said.
“So that’s a yes, then?”
He grinned and drifted in to her, planting a kiss on her lips. “No offense, but the joke doesn’t work when you try to use it.”
“Can you blame me for trying? A girl’s gotta lock down a guy like you.”
THE END
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If you’re looking for your next read by Karen, try Bring Me Back (multi-book series, over-40 characters, super hot British hero, and ‘80s music) or Secrets of a (Somewhat) Sunny Girl (family drama, stand-alone book, super hot Irish hero). Excerpts of both books follow this.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m not exactly sure why, but all three books in the Never Too Late series were written out of order. The first draft of this book was written more than six years ago. I overhauled it. I changed a lot. Giant chunks were deleted. Sometimes, writing works that way! I will do my extra best to remember everyone who helped me along the way. I hope I don’t forget anyone! If I do, I’m so sorry. I am a flawed human being.
First, I want to thank my husband Steve, and kids, Emily & Ryan, for being the best part of my life and for showing me so much enthusiastic support.
To all my author friends, thank you for being there when I need encouragement or help. The last few years have been hard for us all, and so many of you have helped me get across the finish line, book after book. To my agent, Melissa Jeglinski, thank you for believing in me. To cover illustrator Leni Kauffman, thank you for bringing this entire series to life so perfectly. To Donna Soluri, thank you for being my next-level alpha reader. To Jennifer Gracen, thanks for jumping in at a moment’s notice with your ace editorial skills. Thanks to the folks at Tantor Media for bringing this project to life as an audiobook. Thanks to Romy Nordlinger, who was the sterling narrator on all three books in this series.
To my girlfriends Sara, Ashley, Lisa, Frine, Cara, Donna, and Stephanie for solidly encouraging me on a daily basis. To Val and all members of the Backstage Antics group on Facebook, thank you for being so understanding when I disappear because I’m writing. To Maggie Wells, Natasha Moore, and Sandra Antonelli, as well as all members of the Seasoned Romance Facebook group, thank you for bringing the enthusiasm for romance with characters who are finding their HEA later in life.
Last, but absolutely not least, thank you to everyone who has ever bought, read, or reviewed one of my books. I couldn’t do what I do without you!
EXCERPT: BRING ME BACK
Christopher Penman is about to rock Claire Abby’s world. Just in time for her 40th birthday.
Foreword
March 7th, 1986
Dear Diary,
Scott from next door gave me a ride home from school today because I missed the bus again. (I know, I know. Big surprise.) I was kind of excited since he has his own car, but he was such a creep when we got home. He asked me about Banks Forest, which he knows I love because everybody knows they’re my favorite band. I told him how I can’t wait to see Banks Forest in concert and he put his hand on my boob. I told him he was gross and he got all mad and said I shouldn’t dress like Madonna if I don’t want boys to grab my boobs. He’s such an idiot. I haven’t dressed like Madonna since 9th grade.
Speaking of Banks Forest, (when am I not?), I rearranged my BF posters after school. I figured out that if I put the best poster of Christopher Penman (the medium sized one, without his shirt) on the wall next to my closet, it looks like he’s lying next to me in bed if I’m on my side and squint my left eye. What a babe. I look at him and I just want to die. Why can’t he go to my school? Wouldn’t that be amazing? If he was a senior, but still a super famous rock star and he was my boyfriend. The mean girls would hate me even more than they already do. My life would be perfect. I wonder if there’s any way I will ever meet Christopher. There has to be some reason that he and I are both on planet earth at the same time. It just doesn’t seem like that would be totally random.
XO
Claire
P.S. Only 27 days until Banks Forest live and I get to see Christopher Penman in the flesh! We will be in the same place, breathing the same air.
Chapter One
Twenty-two years later
After an extra-long morning run, also known as procrastination, I plopped down at my creaky desk and picked up the phone to call my dad. It was a task I’d put off for two days, even when I knew that every minute I delayed was only ammunition for him to guilt me about not staying in touch. The voicemail tone buzzed in my ear and I cursed myself for waiting so long. Crap. He beat me to it.
There were two messages, fewer than ten minutes apart, both from Patrick Collins, senior music editor at Rolling Stone. I’d long had the nagging suspicion that Patrick was humoring me, which made the desperation in his voice seem more like a practical joke than a plea for help. He’d never, in all my years of pushing for more than a token assignment, wanted a call back ASAP.
“Claire,” he answered, before I’d heard a single ring. “I’ve been trying you for an hour.”
“I went for a run. What’s up?”
“Another writer pulled out of an interview that’s scheduled for Monday. Are you available? I’d need you here in New York.”
I flipped through my planner, hoping the sound of rustling paper would make it seem as if I was impossibly busy and therefore, in demand. “I’d have to find someone to stay with my daughter for the night. Who’s the interview with?”
“Christopher Penman, from Banks Forest.”
I nearly choked on my own breath. “He agreed to an interview?” A long-forgotten hum surged through me, dotting my arms with goose bumps. “You’ve got to be kidding. He hates writers.” Everything I’d ever thought or read or seen of Christopher Penman brewed a frothy chaos in my head. “Really, really hates writers.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I think he’s hoping for some good publicity. He’s got a new record coming out.”
I knew there had to be a catch—a new solo album. His first outing without his band had been an unlistenable flop, panned by everyone, even me.
“It’ll be the cover if you can get him to talk,” Patrick continued.
“The cover?” I’d been dying for Patrick to give me a real assignment, but a cover? The adage about things that are too good to be true didn’t merely spring to mind, it set off sirens in my head.
“Yes, the cover, but I need an answer now.” He clicked a pen at his usual neurotic pace. “You know, you’re always begging me for something meaty.”
Meaty? You have no idea. “Let me think.” Would I be able to form coherent sentences? Would I remember how to put one foot in front of the other without making an ass of myself?
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I need someone with your experience. We both know that you’ll have to ask some uncomfortable questions. I don’t see him trusting one of the younger writers.”
“Oh, okay.” I’m thirty-nine. When did I become one of the older writers?
“I could really use you.”
This will never work. “Yes, of course. I’ll do it.”
“Great.” He blew out a breath. “I trust that you know this is a big deal, Claire.”
Thank you for the understatement of the millennium. “Yes. I’m well aware of what I’m up against.” The question is whether I will survive it. Or him.
“And you understand that I need you to ask those difficult questions, right? We need the whole story. Every last sensitive subject.”
“Yes. Got it.” Every last unbelievable drop.
“Okay, then. Christopher Penman is all yours.”
I hung up to silence, or perhaps I hadn’t noticed in all of the confusion that my brain had swelled and plugged up my ears.
Oh. My. God. Christopher. Penman.
I was seventeen when I fell ass over teakettle for Mr. Penman—madly, deeply in love. He was the dreamiest guy in the world—tall and handsome in a skinny boyish way, although there’d been no question that he was a grown man. He had a scrubby head of copper-brown hair, perfect for digging fingers into, and his bright white smile came as a flash, potent enough to melt me into a puddle, quivering and eager to surrender. I squandered embarrassing amounts of time gazing at pictures of him, captivated by his freakishly green eyes.
I’d been a devoted fan of his band, Banks Forest, and spent hours every day in my bedroom, high on ditz and hormones, listening to their music. My preoccupation coincided with a few sub-par report cards, but I’d felt that homework time was better spent writing my married name, Claire Louise Penman, in my best cursive. My dad had made no effort to understand me at all. My argument that he should encourage my appreciation of the arts never seemed to get me anywhere.
Christopher was my respite at a time when boys were a constant disappointment. He was the ultimate imaginary boyfriend, fiery and intense during the dreamy liaisons I concocted in my head, with an uncanny ability to satisfy my every need, emotional and physical. Although I had far less real-life experience than I would have liked, Christopher taught me everything I needed to know and I was a quick study under his skilled tutelage. He was always tender afterward, making me laugh and telling me that I was the most incredible girl in the world. Everything about our illusory love story had been perfect; no-birth-control-necessary sex on a puffy cloud.
Of course, Monday would be anything but a day-dreamy frolic through cumulonimbus. Agreeing to interview Christopher Penman was the professional equivalent of jumping out of an airplane with a second-hand chute. He was notorious for his secrecy and he hated the media, writers and photographers at the top of the list. You couldn’t blame the guy. He’d suffered through years of rumors and innuendo about his private life, drugs, and his nightmare of an ex-wife. I wasn’t being sent in to help his situation at all. Despite what Christopher’s agenda might be, nobody would care about the new solo record. People would only want to know if the filthy personal stuff was true.
My cranky Volvo station wagon wasn’t a grand statement about individuality, it was more a product of my finances, but it had helped me stubbornly dodge the modern definition of suburban mom for years. Granted, I would have needed a husband to fully participate in that stereotype. Lining up behind the minivans at school, at least I could take comfort in the fact that I had resisted the temptation to assimilate.
My darling Sam, flanked by her best friend Leah, sauntered through the double doors, Sam’s buoyant blonde curls responding in time to every step. The pair was a flurry of conversation, but came to a halt the instant a pack of boys crossed their path. A seemingly undernourished boy in baggy-butt jeans stopped to talk and the girls smiled in gleaming white, long enough for their lips to stick to their teeth.
Sam was a junior, recently seventeen. Knowing we had only two more summers together before she went off to college was more than a thorn in my side—it made me queasy. I’d felt too young to become a mom at twenty-two and now I was unquestionably too young to live out my days in a nest for one.
“Hey, Mom,” Sam said as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Can I sleep over at Leah’s tonight?”
Leah waited at the curb, cheeks turning red from the blustery March day. She granted me half of a wave as she checked her cell phone.
“Sure, honey.” Another Friday night alone, but at least I could work on my Christopher Penman interview without the motherly guilt.
Sam gave Leah thumbs up and slammed her door.
“How’d the English test go?” I asked. A mom in an Escalade, yelling at her brood to get in the damn car, blocked my escape from the car circle. I considered laying on the horn, but decided I didn’t dare risk my already tenuous social status with the PTA.
“It was fine,” Sam said. She took a piece of gum from her backpack and crumpled the wrapper before dropping it in the cup holder. “I think I did okay, but I won’t find out until next week.”
“How was the rest of your day?” I asked, turning out of the school parking lot. Whenever I could convince Sam to take a ride home after school, that ten-minutes was a gift, a veritable parental goldmine. She found my thirst for knowledge less menacing when it was acceptable to avoid eye contact and I, happily, deflected the title of grand inquisitor.
