Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Praise for A Season for Second Chances
- Also by Jenny Bayliss
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Discussion Guide
- About the Author
- What’s next onyour reading list?
“I don’t believe this,” said Charles, running his hand through his hair as though he’d just lost big at the races. “Guy did you a real solid in putting together that investigation for Isaac.”
“I know. And I’m grateful for it. But it doesn’t negate what’s already past. I don’t want to argue with you, Charles, you know I love you. We all want what’s best for Guy, that’s not in question. I wish him all the best, I really do. I hope he’s able to be the person he wants to be.”
Charles nodded. “I get it,” he said, rubbing wearily at his forehead. “I do. It’s just. You know.”
Nory rubbed his arm. “I do. Guy will be okay.”
“And what about you?” asked Jenna. “Will you be okay?”
Nory shrugged. “What other choice do I have?”
“Is Isaac worth it?” asked Charles. “Worth all this angst?”
Nory didn’t need to think. “Yes. He is. Every bit of it.”
Charles nodded. “Well, as someone who spent half his life in the unrequited-love club, all I can say is, don’t give up hope.”
Jenna rested her head on Charles’s shoulder.
“Thanks, Charles.” Nory smiled. “I’ll try.”
Charles and Jenna left with hugs and kisses and calls of “Merry Christmas!” Friendship groups like theirs were like a family in lots of ways; complicated and simple all at once. Sometimes they fought, sometimes they drifted, but the knots that bound their lives were too intricately tied to ever untangle truly.
Thirty-nine
Nory’s mum had called just as she was closing the shop, and instead of heading straight home, she found herself walking and talking. It was dark but the streets were busy, and Nory made sure she kept to well-lit areas and dropped her location into conversation frequently, as was the unfortunate necessity of any woman walking alone after sundown.
By the time she had assured her mum that she was not crying herself to sleep every night (she was) and that she was eating well (she wasn’t), she had wandered off Park Lane and was about to turn toward the direction of Shepherd Market.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come home now—right now? You could jump on a train and be here by suppertime.”
Nory’s parents were the only people she knew who still ate supper. Mealtimes in the Noel household went: breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, supper.
“Mum, I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me.”
“Don’t worry? Pah! You wait till you’re a parent and then you’ll know.”
“I’ll be home on the twenty-third, it’s only three days away.”
The call ended with her mum somewhat mollified, although Nory fully expected her to begin a WhatsApp conversation later.