Rosabelle's Way (Welcome to Chance Book 2) Read online

  Rosabelle’s Way

  Welcome to Chance

  Book 2

  Elsa Kurt

  Rosabelle’s Way

  Copyright © 2019 by Elsa Kurt.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: July 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-853-0

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-853-0

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To my husband, always.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 1

  Be of Good Cheer

  Rosabelle checked her lipstick in the little sunshine-yellow Mini Cooper’s rearview mirror. She caught sight of her red-tipped nose then met her eyes in the frost-rimmed glass. “Not too shabby, Rosie,” she said under her breath.

  “Rosie, babe. C’mon, I gotta roll.” Miles rapped his knuckles hard against the passenger side window and widened his eyes at Rosabelle, stomping his feet in the packed snow and puffing into his red hands.

  “I told you to let me pull in first. It’s your own fault. And who taught you how to shovel a driveway? It’ll be a sheet of ice when we get back tonight.”

  “What? Roll the window down, Rosie. I can’t hear you.”

  Rosabelle sighed and cracked the window. “Never mind. I’ll see you tonight? Don’t forget, my parents will be here, so please behave.”

  “Aw, c’mon, babe, you know I’ll—”

  “Behave, Miles. I mean it. And do me a favor?”

  Miles stomped again and huffed into his cold hands. “Anything you want, if you promise to move it.”

  “Say it again.”

  “What?” asked Miles blankly. Then, dawning lit his face, and he beamed. “Fine. I…love…you. I LOVE you, Rosie. Happy now?”

  “Completely. I love you too. And I love my necklace. It’s perfect.”

  Miles gave his aw-shucks grin and blew her a kiss. “See you tonight, babe. Now please back out so I can get to work. Oh, and I need you to—”

  Rosabelle closed the window as he spoke, laughing at his indignation. The old Rosabelle would’ve hung on his every word and jumped at his command. However, the new Rosabelle would not. The new Rosabelle Waterman was loved by and in love with the man of her dreams. She was confident, secure, and strong. That’s what she told her reflection every morning in the bathroom mirror when she felt anxious, which she did as she backed out onto Dogwood Drive and drove toward Chance Public Library.

  Today, Rosabelle Waterman would be finalizing the last details of her first ever solo art exhibit, happening in May. She’d done several shows where’d she’d been one of many, but this was all her. Fourteen paintings, various sizes, subjects, and mediums on display for everyone to see. And judge. And criticize. And— “No, Rosie. A positive mind brings positive results. You’ve got this. You are as talented as anyone else. You deserve this. All will go well. Breathe.”

  Rosabelle inhaled sharply through her nose, counted to four, then exhaled slowly as she counted to eight. After doing this three times, she decided she felt much better and even managed a shaky smile.

  The roads had been plowed overnight but a fine layer of fresh snow coated the macadam, making it slick and dangerous. Rosabelle was grateful she listened to Ricky Baker about putting on snow tires last week. Just in the nick of time too. The first snowfall of the season, two weeks before Christmas. It was far from her favorite time of the year—she missed her flower garden—but it was her favorite holiday. And her first one with a boyfriend. They’d yet to refer to each other as boyfriend or girlfriend in public or change their Facebook statuses to ‘In a Relationship,’ but they had said those three little words this morning. That told her everything she needed to know on the status of their relationship.

  On the radio, a smooth baritone voice announced, “Good morning, you’re listening to Allan, Mike, and Mary on Lite 100.5 WRCH. Hey, it is a Winter Wonderland out there, isn’t it? Just in time for Christmas too. A time to be of good cheer and all that stuff. We’ve got holiday music playing for you all day long. Have a favorite song? Give us a call. Here’s one of my favorites right now…”

  The Little Drummer Boy—the Bing Crosby and David Bowie version—began and Rosabelle looked at the dash to turn up the volume. The moment she did, the Mini Cooper began to slide. Her heart jumped, but her father’s voice cautioned in her mind.

  Pump the brakes, sweet pea. Just pump ’em, don’t mash ’em. Atta girl.

  When the car righted, Rosabelle released a small shuddering laugh and loosened her death grip from the steering wheel.

  “All good. It’s all good.” That’s what Miles would’ve said right then.

  Her heart rate steadied, and she started to sing along in earnest with David Bowie. The light up ahead at the intersection of Elm and Old Maine gave her the green to go straight through. Everything seemed to be going her way. New hairstyle, a boyfriend, a new perspective. To top it off, her art hobby was becoming her art career. Yes, Rosabelle Waterman was finally living her dream life.

  Rosabelle smiled and drummed the wheel with her fingertips to the beat of the music. She could see Mae in the window of the café, serving coffee to the Brightsiders. Across the street, Carla and Lewis were rehanging the garland over Lucky Loos that must have fallen overnight. She’d toot her horn and wave as she passed.

  Rosabelle saw in her peripheral a dark mass moving toward her. There was a sound—high and screechy—that she couldn’t place until it was too late. Fat Chris’s protruding saucer eyes stared out at her from his pasty moon-face behind the windshield of his van, his knuckles white and his huge body leaned way back against his seat. His mouth was in an ‘O’ and Rosabelle knew he was saying one word, long and drawn out.

  “Nooooo…”

  Dumbly, Rosabelle thought, You’ve got to pump the brakes, Fat—

  The thought cut off abruptly. A crunch, scrape, and glass bursting impact of metal to metal caused Rosabelle to think nothing more.

  Chapter 2

  Comfort and Joy

  “Are you sure you’re up to
it, Mr. B.? One more week of rest?”

  “I see my wife has gotten to you too, hasn’t she?”

  Mae looked from Mr. B. to Mrs. B.—who’d kept her nose to her menu during the whole exchange—and stammered, “I…she…I mean we never—”

  “Oh, never mind, Mae. He’s a stubborn old goat who doesn’t listen. You have an arrhythmia, Charles. Nothing to play around with at your age. The doctor said so.”

  “Doctor-shmocter. Doogie Houster—”

  “Howser,” corrected both Mae and Mrs. Brightsider.

  “Whatever. I told him, just as I’m telling you two—I had too much coffee and it set off my ticker. I’m fine. Open Mic, tonight. I’ll be here with my horn. You get your singing voice ready. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mr. B.,” grinned Mae. She gave him a wink then grimaced apologetically when she caught Mrs. Brightsider’s raised eyebrow. “Sorry, Mrs. B. Look, decaf only from here on out.”

  Mae just finished pouring their coffees when Feather Anne exclaimed loudly, “Oh, shit!”

  “Feath—” Mae paused mid-admonishment and followed her sister’s shocked gaze. They all did.

  Mae, Feather Anne, the Brightsiders, Bruce, the Mitchels, Joel and Charlotte Asheby, and Elise Martino watched in horror as Fat Chris’s midnight blue van plowed into Rosabelle Waterman’s bright yellow Cooper in the heart of the intersection, crumpling it like it was a Matchbox car.

  Joel—with Bruce on his heels—was the first one out the door and running toward the gruesome scene.

  “Call 911, dear,” said Mr. B. solemnly.

  “Oh, my God,” whispered Mrs. B. against her shaking hands.

  Feather Anne shook as well, tears brimming in her gray eyes. Mae ran past her and grabbed the phone off the cradle. Her own hand trembled as she pressed the keys. With her arm around Feather Anne’s still too-bony shoulders, Mae spoke breathlessly into the phone when Lucy Hatch answered.

  “911. Are you calling with an emergency?”

  “Yes, Lucy, it’s Mae. There’s been a terrible accident. It’s on the corner of Old Main and Elm. It’s bad. They’ll need ambulances and—”

  “Slow down, Mae. How many vehicles are involved?”

  “Two. Please, just send—”

  “Are there any injuries?”

  “I—Jesus, yes. I mean there must be. It’s Rosabelle Waterman. Her tiny car got hit by Fat—by Chris O’Brien’s van.”

  “Oh, shit. I mean, okay, we’ve got help on the way.”

  Mae hung up and joined the others at the windows. Lewis, along with Bart Sheffield, had joined Joel and Bruce in the middle of the road. The men circled the crushed car, trying to see around the airbags. Joel shouted orders and pushed Fat Chris—who was now out of his van and alternately gesturing and burying his head in his hands—away from the scene and onto the curb. He had on work boots, jeans, and a too-small t-shirt that exposed his bright pink belly, but he acted impervious to the cold.

  Joey Mitchel said, “He’s in shock. Mae, do you have any blankets?”

  “I’ll get one,” sniffed Feather Anne.

  In a flash, she was back with the thick wool blanket Mae kept in the storage room. Joey took it from her, tousled her hair, and jogged out past the wreckage to the large man. At the same time, Jillie Jacobson tottered out of the newly renamed Jillie J. Travel in her ruby heels and smart business suit. She had her hands pressed to her cheeks, and even through the glass, she could be heard shouting, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, I saw the whole thing.”

  Mrs. B. glanced up at Mae in dismay.

  “I’ll get her,” said Mae as she strode to the door. “Jillie! Get in here. You’re no help to them out there, come on inside.”

  Jillie—resembling a soap opera actress in the scene of her life—turned from the accident to Mae, then back to the intersection. Mae sagged against the door and swore. Then she pushed the door completely open and went out to get Jillie.

  “Come on, Jillie. Unless you’re a doctor or a nurse, you’ll only be in the way. Let them do what they can until help arrives.”

  Jillie let Mae guide her into the café and sit her at a table. Feather Anne needed to be distracted from what was happening outside as well.

  “Feather Anne, bring Jillie a cup of tea and a scone, please.”

  “Peach, if you have it. And honey for the tea? Maybe a lemon wedge too,” said Jillie.

  Feather Anne opened her mouth, but Mae intervened. “Of course, Jillie. No problem. Go on, Feather Anne. Please.”

  In the meantime, two ambulances and four cruisers had pulled up to the scene. Lights and sirens filled the air and everyone in the café drew in closer to one another. The last time there was an accident of this magnitude in Chance was ten years prior. The Luscheks’ only son, Dylan, had lost control of their SUV at the start of Chapman Bridge. They’d had flooding that week, and the Pathfinder had hydroplaned over a puddle, sending the inexperienced driver headlong into the concrete pylons. He was thrown through the windshield and died instantly.

  “Do you think she’s dead?” whispered Feather Anne.

  “No, honey. Let’s hope for the best,” said Mrs. B. brightly. But the gaze that found and held Mae’s showed no such hope.

  “Say,” said Krista Mitchel, “aren’t her folks in town? Someone should call them.”

  And Miles, thought Mae with a start. She ran back to the phone and dialed Miles’s office. On the third ring, he answered. “Hannaford Realty. Where your dreams—”

  “Miles, it’s Mae. You need to get here, now.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet, baby Mae, but I—”

  “Shut up, Miles. This is serious. Miles, it’s…it’s Rosabelle. She’s been in an accident.”

  “Rosie? No, I just—I’m on my way.”

  Miles dropped the phone onto either his desk or the floor, and Mae could hear him shout to whoever else was there, “I’ve got an emergency. Cancel my appointments.”

  Mae hung up the phone, feeling relieved at his response. Rosabelle was so in love with him, but who knew with Miles? He was ever the showman, playing a role for an imaginary audience. Now Mae was unsure whether to hope his feelings for Rosabelle were real, or superficial. If she didn’t make it…

  “Mae, they got her out of the car. It doesn’t look good.” Bruce had come back inside, his face grim and pale.

  “Babe, sit. You’re white as a sheet,” said Elise, coming up behind him.

  “She’s right. Go sit with Elise. I’ve called Miles.”

  Normally, Bruce would’ve scoffed and spat something derisive at the mention of Miles Hannaford, but he let it go with merely a head shake. Mae left them and went outside. She heard Miles before she could see him.

  “Rosie! Rosie!”

  He’d run from his office two blocks away, either knowing that he’d get there faster or just in a blind panic. Regardless, he made it there as the EMTs carefully strapped Rosabelle’s unmoving, bloodied body onto the gurney. He stopped beside Mae, panting and staring uncomprehendingly at the sight before them. The impact had spun Rosabelle’s little car and the destroyed driver’s side faced them.

  Mae put a hand on Miles’s arm and squeezed. He focused on her with wide, anguished eyes. “Jesus, Mae. I just told her I loved her for the first time this morning. I—”

  “Get over there, Miles. Hurry.”

  He sprinted to the gurney, calling out his pet name for Rosabelle. The medics tried to keep him back, but when he shouted, “I’m her boyfriend and I’m not leaving her side,” they let him climb into the back of the ambulance with them on the promise he’d let them do their job.

  The ambulance carrying Rosabelle left with lights and sirens wailing. The second had Fat Chris sitting on the bumper, staring vacantly out at the snow-dusted road as the EMT assessed him and a police officer asked questions. Someone made the decision to take him in for further observation and that ambulance left with just its lights spinning, and no sirens.

  All that was left was Ricky Baker’s tow trucks and police
, who—led by Joel—went around taking statements and recreating the accident. By the time the cars were gone, and the glass and debris swept away, it was afternoon. The lunch crowd came in as usual but in somber tones and hushed whispers. News of the accident had spread within an hour. As Mae traveled the room with plates and glasses, she caught snippets of conversations at each table.

  “I heard she hit the windshield, and she’s in a coma.”

  “And just before Christmas too.”

  “Fat Chris is going to go to jail.”

  “Poor thing has an art show coming up.”

  “Did you hear that Miles Hannaford rode in the ambulance with her? Miles Hannaford, can you imagine?”

  Mae bit her tongue and said nothing. She was counting the hours until she could close the café and leave with anxious dread. Three more, she told herself, then she’d go to the hospital and see Rosabelle. She gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of that place. The last time she’d been there was when her father died, nearly six years ago.

  The harsh fluorescent lighting, the scratchy, rough fabric of the office style waiting room chairs, the constant intercom chatter, and stethoscope draped white coats. The sound of the doctor’s shoes tap-clapping against the speckled cream linoleum floor as he came down the hall. It came rushing back in a torrent.

  “You can come back in the room, Miss Huxley. It—it might be time to say your goodbyes. Do you have anyone coming to be with you?”

  “I—yes, my aunt. She’s on her way,” Mae replied in a voice that sounded far away to her own ears. She’d known this moment was coming for months, and yet it felt surreal. Time to say your goodbyes. How? How was she supposed to let the best man and father in the world go?

  A hand on her shoulder brought Mae back to the present. “Hello, sweetheart. “

  Mae cried out, “William! You’re home? But you weren’t due back until next week. How—”