Free Second Chances by Brenda Chapman

his big nicotine-stained fingers hunted and pecked the keys, staccato time. “What’s it about this week?”
    Gideon grunted. “Why big business wants the Vietnam War to continue. How the United States and the western hemisphere have been suckered into fighting in a country we have no damn right to be in.” He turned away from me and coughed. “Bloody cold. I’ll be glad when I shake it.”
    â€œI hate war.”
    â€œYou and every other person with an ounce of brains. Have you been managing to get some writing in?”
    â€œUh-huh.” I sat in Gideon’s easy chair and he swivelled around to face me. His eyes searched my face.
    â€œYou look a little down. Anything you want to talk about?”
    â€œI’m okay. Just the normal teenage stuff, you know: Why is my hair red? When will I get a date? When does the exciting part start?”
    â€œIt’s a rocky road, no way around that. Patience, Little Fin. Patience. All things unfold as they should. Is your father coming for the weekend?”
    â€œDad should be here around suppertime. Mom’s cooking a big meal.”
    Gideon nodded and smiled. “I saw your mom in town this morning having coffee in Downy’s. She’s one helluva woman, your mama.”
    I think I hid my surprise. It wasn’t about her being special, but the coffee part. Dad said having coffee in a restaurant was a waste of money and Mom went along with him.
    â€œShe wanted a break from the store,” I said.
    â€œI can see that,” Gideon nodded. “It must be nice for that young man to have a friend like your mom, being new to the lake and all. He looks like someone who keeps to himself. Being around your mother makes people shine.”
    My heart started beating funny and I wouldn’t look Gideon in the face. I had a feeling I knew who he was talking about and it wasn’t good. Not good at all. I sipped my water and spilled some down the front of my shirt. The shock of cold made me gasp.
    Gideon had turned back around. “Do you want to read what I’ve got written so far?” His pulled the page out of the typewriter. “You can tell me if I’ve broken down into more of a rant than usual.”
    â€œSure.”
    I took the pages from him. I wasn’t an expert, but I liked nothing better than working with Gideon on a piece of writing. It would take my mind off my mother and her coffee date. It would keep Gideon from reading what was written on my face.
    By the time I got home, Dad was sitting in the kitchen with the newspaper spread out in front of him on the table. Mom was making supper while keeping an eye out for any customers.
    â€œThere you are,” said Mom. “How was babysitting?”
    â€œGood.” I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. I couldn’t look at her. “Hi, Dad.”
    â€œHello, Darlene.” Dad lifted his head and nodded at me then looked back down at what he was reading. His work shirt was draped across the back of his chair and he was dressed in his undershirt. He kept speaking with his head down. “Your mother could use some help.”
    Are your hands broken? The thought popped into my head. I looked away so he wouldn’t read in my eyes what I was thinking. “What would you like me to do, Mom?” I asked to keep myself from saying something I’d regret.
    â€œIf you watch the store until I get these vegetables going, that would be perfect.”
    I looked at Mom then, I mean really looked, trying to see her as Gideon did … and Johnny Lewis too. She was five foot five with shoulder length brown hair, today tied back in a ponytail. Slim with curves that I hoped to inherit some day; a wide mouth and warm eyes the colour of nutmeg. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that deepened when she smiled or frowned. I’d always found it easy to read my mother’s moods, but she’d become preoccupied lately, and her distance