That Second Chance (Getting Lucky #1)(4)

Reid starts laughing again, but nervously this time. “Okay, lady, thanks for the ‘curse.’” He uses air quotes and then nods in the opposite direction. “Pretzels, here we come.”

I cast one last glance at the palm reader, eyes boring in on our backs, a chill running up and down my spine.

Rogan and I follow close behind as Brig brings up the rear. “Hey, wait up,” he calls out. “You guys, I think she was serious back there. She actually cursed us with broken love.”

I bite my tongue as we round a corner, not wanting to project my niggling, alcohol-induced fears on my younger brother, but honestly, that entire situation back there was pretty alarming. Where the hell did all that wind come from?

But being the protective older brother, I wrap my arm around Brig’s neck and pull him close to me. “There is no way you’re going to believe that, are you?”

“I mean, there was wind and shit.” Yeah, the wind got me too, bud.

Rogan rolls his eyes. “It’s called coincidental timing. There’s no way she controlled the wind and set some crazy curse on us. That just doesn’t happen in real life.”

“But what if she really did?”

Wanting to ease the anxiety in my very gullible little brother, I shake my head. “Brig, I can promise you, that palm reader gets her jollies from scaring tourists. Believe me, there is no broken-love curse. Okay?”



Five days later . . .

“You’re such a good boy, Griffin.”

Mrs. Davenport looks up at me as she perches on her mauve wingback chair. Hands steepled under her chin, gratefulness shining brightly in her eyes. It might not seem like much, but this right here is why I wanted to become a volunteer firefighter: to help out the people of my small town.

I twist the cover back onto the smoke detector, pocket the old battery, and hop down from the chair I borrowed from Mrs. Davenport’s little kitchenette set. She lives in a quaint brick apartment building known in Port Snow, Maine, as Senior Row. It’s where all the singles over the age of seventy go to live. It isn’t very big, but they have their fun during the day in the courtyard, hit up the early bird specials out on Main Street, and turn out the lights by eight.

“Anytime, Mrs. Davenport. You know I’m here to help.”

I pack up my things quickly, trying to not give Mrs. Davenport an opening for her usual long conversations.

“Am I your last stop for the day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, lovely.” She moves some old crossword puzzles clipped from newspapers off the chair beside her wingback and pats the seat. “Why don’t you stay for a bit? Tell me about your wild adventure in New Orleans.”

I knew that was coming. Happens every time. A week ago, she held down Jim Bryan for over two hours, going into detail about her arthritic hip. Poor guy. He missed dinner and bedtime with his kids. And instead of kissing their little cherub faces good night, he wound up helping Mrs. Davenport into her room after she conked out midsentence.

I’m not going to let that happen to me.

No way in hell.

Wincing, I close my small toolbox and straighten up. “Oh man, I would love to, Mrs. Davenport, but I have a few houses on the way back to the station I have to check up on, or else I would stay.”

Eyeing me suspiciously, she shakes her finger in my direction. “Griffin Knightly, how dare you lie to an old lady? You just want to go see that wife of yours, don’t you?”

Desperately.

Since I’ve gotten back, she’s been on the night shift at the hospital, and our paths have only crossed for a few short, stolen moments. I want nothing more than to lie in bed, snuggle up next to my wife, and watch a movie.

“You got me, Mrs. Davenport. The missus is waiting. Do you mind? Maybe we can catch up another time.”

Shakily, she stands, using her cane for assistance. Patting me gently on the forearm, she says, “That sounds nice. I’ll walk you to the door.”

“No need. I can see myself out. Thank you, though, and if you need anything, let me know.”

She smiles sweetly and sits back in her chair. “Thank you, Griffin. Say hello to your folks for me.”

“Will do.”

I’m out the door in five steps, reaching for my phone just as it starts to buzz.

Wifey is written across the screen.

Smiling, I haul my toolbox down the street as I answer the phone. “Hey, babe.”

There’s silence and then a male voice. “Griffin.” I know that voice. It’s Larson, one of the EMTs in town.

“Larson, what the hell are you doing with Claire’s phone?”

“Man . . .” His voice sounds tight, almost as if he’s been crying. “I don’t know . . . shit, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” The hairs rise on the back of my neck.

“It’s Claire . . .”

I stop midstride, my feet feeling like they’re being weighed down by cement, my chest seizing, wrapping around my heart, my lungs. The air is squeezed viciously from my body as a piece of me slowly breaks in two.

Those words, those eerie words, reverberate in my mind, spoken with such malice, with unpredictable promise . . .

From this day on, your love will be broken.

Rattling around in my head, echoing, spoken over and over again. The wind picks up, smacking me hard in the chest, and leaves twirl around me, a sense of dread looming over my now-shadowed heart.