Second Chances in Lavender Bay (The Lavender Bay Chronicles #3)

33. Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

D iana took Sam’s words to heart. She lay awake at night, thinking about them. What was maddening was that she knew deep down that he was right. So many men had not returned from the war and here she was, getting a second chance. And what was she doing? Secluding herself in her house. Avoiding other people. Not engaging. But still she held back. Talk was easy. Doing was hard. But what was it FDR had said? “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

One Tuesday afternoon, after lunch, she said to her mother, “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Her mother looked up at her, surprised. “You will?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a good idea. The fresh air will do you good.”

Before she left the house, she checked her headscarf several times to make sure it was secure. The longer she delayed, the weaker the impulse to actually leave the house became. Finally, she muttered to herself, “Pull yourself together, Diana Quinn, and walk out that door.” It was late September, and even though the sun was warm, the breeze was cool. Like the other seasons, fall had its own feel. Cooler air and weak, watery sunshine. Still, she tilted her head toward the sky as she walked, liking the feel of the sun on her face. She cut down their street, waving to Mr. McAlister as she passed, as he shoveled a pale of ash around the base of a fruit tree.

Her destination was the VFW, Veterans of Foreign Wars, on Primrose and Vine. She took the side streets over, avoiding Main, not quite ready to mingle with the throng of pedestrians. Children were back in school, so the streets were quiet. Some of the leaves on the trees were beginning to fade to yellow and orange. It was a pleasant walk.

The VFW was not a purpose-built building. It was a converted older redbrick home of Italianate architecture, with a low-pitched roof and tall, pedimented windows.

Taking a deep breath, she climbed the front steps and stood at the double front doors, suddenly unsure. Did she knock, or did she just walk in? There was a momentary sense of panic. A sign hung on the window reading All welcome . And that decided it.

Carefully, she tried the doorknob, and when it turned, she opened the door and stepped inside, finding herself in a long, narrow hall with reception rooms on either side. Pocket doors stood half open. A wide staircase with a decorative banister led up to the second and third floors. Sunshine slanted in through the beveled windows, casting distorted geometric patterns across the hardwood floor.

Coming from the back of the building was the deep sound of men’s voices. Then some laughter.

Diana lifted her chin and straightened her posture. She walked down the hallway and called out, “Hello?” When no one answered, she cleared her throat and said louder, “Hello?”

When there was no answer—as it was quite possible they hadn’t heard her—she followed the sound of the voices to the back of the house. Above her, there was movement upstairs, footsteps echoing across a floor.

She poked her head through the doorway of a large room that must once have been a library, as evidenced by the bookshelves on every wall.

The room was smoky, and the smell of nicotine gave her a craving for a cigarette.

Five or six men sat in club chairs, three of them arranged around a small square table with cards laid out on it. They all looked up at her and seemed to regard her with curiosity more than anything.

One man stood, an elderly gentleman with silver hair and a patrician nose, wearing a row of medals across the chest of his suit jacket.

“Can I help you?” His voice was gruff, but he didn’t sound mean.

Aware of all their eyes on her and wishing she’d stayed at home minding her own business, she silently cursed Sam. She pulled out an index card from her purse.

“My name is Diana Quinn. I’m a seamstress. And, well,” she stammered, all the words of the speech she’d prepared bunching up in her head and getting out of order, “I wanted to offer a discount on mending, sewing, laundry, and ironing for any veteran.” She would do the sewing and mending, and her mother would do the rest.

She shifted on her feet, nervously holding her purse in front of her.

The older man said, “I’m Trevor Dann.” He accepted the card she handed him and studied it. The other men watched him, silent. Diana felt as if she’d stepped into the lion’s den. On the card was her phone number and a description of her sewing services.

When Trevor said nothing more, she said, “Anyway, I thought I’d drop it off in case anyone needs alterations or anything. Sewing. Mending . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Trevor narrowed his eyes at her and asked, “Are you a good seamstress?”

She stood a little straighter. Mustering some confidence, she said, “Yes, I am.”

He broke into a smile. “That’s good then.” He pointed to a board on the opposite wall. “I’ll put it up on the board over there. You said there’s a discount for veterans?”

“That’s right. It’s there on the card,” Diana said, pointing a red-lacquered nail to the index card.

“So it is.” Trevor walked over to the board and pinned it up with a tack.

“Thank you,” Diana said. She wondered if perhaps a female presence wasn’t welcome in their lair. Trevor went to escort her out and she said, “I can show myself out, thank you.” She paused in the doorway, half turned, and said, “Good day.”

She stepped out into the fresh air and blinked as sunshine hit her in the face. There were still a few cards in her handbag, and she walked on and tacked them up in the post office and on the small corkboard in the grocery store. Finally, she walked into the offices of The Lavender Bay Chronicles and placed an ad for two weeks. As an afterthought, she added, Discount for veterans .