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?
Where Ameerah was tall and Marlene Dietrich sleek, Nory was five foot five at a pinch with decidedly Rubenesque proportions. Nory had a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, emphasized by almost permanently rosy cheeks; if she were an actress she would surely be typecast as a buxom wench. Her shoulder-length hair, like her eyes, was a mixture of browns, golds, and ambers that caught the light. Her friend Jenna had once said that Nory had the coloring of a tortoiseshell cat. Nory had decided there were far worse animals to be likened to.
Nory checked her watch. “Shouldn’t you be in court, defending the defenseless?” she asked.
“The case was adjourned until the morning.”
“Lucky us,” said Andrew slyly.
“Don’t pretend you’re not delighted to see me,” said Ameerah. “Now, bring my goddaughter over here so that I can coo over her.”
“Actually, Ameerah, Matilda is my goddaughter.”
“Yes, but we’re best friends, so she’s my goddaughter by proxy.”
Nory couldn’t argue with that.
The bell jingled, and Hannah, the owner of Delizioso Coffee, came in bearing three cardboard cups, steaming in the cold air.
“Thank you, Hannah,” said Nory, taking the cups. “You didn’t need to bring them over, I would have come and got them.”
“It’s no bother. We’re quiet at the moment. The lull before the lunch rush. Lots of people are talking about your window display. It’s quite a hit.”
Andrew beamed. This year’s Christmas window design had been his idea: a three-foot plump and jolly Father Christmas sat in a rocking chair, reading, his half-moon glasses slipped to the end of his nose. Around him were piles of well-loved books and vintage Christmas titles propped up, covers facing outward. This morning they had sold a particularly crusty-looking copy of The Little Match Girl from the display.
“Let’s hope it brings the customers in,” said Nory.
“If she can bear to actually part with the books,” added Andrew. He was kneeling at Ameerah’s feet, the papoose still attached to him while Ameerah poured adoration upon his daughter. Having men at her feet, even gay men, was something Ameerah was used to.