Crazy Little Thing Called Love Page 4

  “Of course, I’m not complaining about sun and surf and all the seafood Max can eat.” Brady’s nudge sent Logan closer to the waves, the warmth of the water still bearing the hint of the summer just past.

  “You got that right. And Julie’s managed to work on a tan, so she’s happy.”

  “And then it’s back to Oklahoma—processing data, looking at grants for next season.”

  If they still had grants for their work. Not that Brady needed to know about the emails and phone calls he’d been fending off for the last few months. Logan shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Same old, same old.”

  “You don’t sound excited, boss.”

  Logan scanned the sky as it darkened to purple, the sun dipping along the horizon. Now was not the time to talk about the future—and what the future held for them in Oklahoma. That was a conversation for the whole team.

  The waves nipped at his feet as he continued along the shore. He also couldn’t explain how, while he came here to relax, all of this reminded him of a loss he regretted no matter how many years distanced him from then and now.

  And yet he came back, year after year, willing to taste the bitter for just a sip of the sweet.

  The sand, still warm from the day’s sunshine, squelched beneath his bare feet. Only a few people remained on the beach. A family shored up the sides of an elaborate sand castle, their laughter mingling with the cries of seagulls, An older couple walked hand in hand wearing wide-brimmed hats. And a lone woman farther down the beach, her long-legged stride putting even more space between them, her brown hair teased by the breeze.

  The woman stopped near a trio of drenched teenagers stumbling out of the Gulf. Arms flailing, they pointed back toward the water. She seemed to listen for a few brief seconds. Her head swiveled left, then right, as if she were searching for something. Then in one swift beat of a heart she kicked her feet, sending her shoes catapulting into the air behind her, and pulled off her white long-sleeve sweatshirt to reveal a dark camisole underneath. As she knotted the sweatshirt around her waist, she dashed into the surf, the waves splashing against her legs.

  “What?” Brady stood beside him, watching the scene unfold. “Why is she running into the water like that?”

  Diving beneath the rolling waves tinted by the setting sun, the woman disappeared from sight for a few seconds, then appeared again, her arms moving in smooth, even strokes.

  Faint broken cries directed Logan’s attention . . . there! Someone fought against the choppy breakers, going under and surfacing in the inky water again—and just as quickly vanishing.

  “Call nine-one-one—now!” Tossing Brady his wallet and keys before pulling off his long-sleeve T-shirt, Logan raced down the beach, churning up the sand beneath his feet. He trained his eyes on the woman, following her path toward the drowning person before he, too, plunged into the surf. The waves seemed to push him back toward the shore, but Logan powered forward. For all he knew, there was more than one person out there, near drowning, possibly caught in a riptide.

  A riptide. All of them could end up drowning.

  God, help us.

  The salt water burned his eyes, even as it weighed down his cargo shorts. He kicked harder, willing his breathing to even, spewing water out of his mouth. He raised his head above the swells as he kept swimming. How far out from shore was he? Where were the woman and the person—or persons—she was trying to rescue?

  • • •

  Vanessa shoved the teen away, treading water and gathering the soaked cotton material of her sweatshirt back in her hands. She spit out the gulp of salty water she’d inhaled when he’d grabbed her, pulling both of them beneath the water.

  “Relax!” Her voice rasped against her throat. “Relax!”

  If the kid didn’t calm down he was going to drown them both.

  She fought to stay above the water, kicking harder and tilting her head back, her long hair an unwelcome burden. What was the rescue routine she’d memorized so many years ago?

  Call 911.

  Well, she had told his friends on the beach to do that.

  Reach. Throw. Row. Go.

  She couldn’t reach the boy from the shore. There was nothing to row out to rescue him. And when she threw the length of water-soaked material toward him the first time and yelled, “Grab this!” he ignored it, arms thrashing, eyes wide, and disappeared underneath the water.

  Releasing her sweatshirt, Vanessa held her breath and dove beneath the surface, searching the murky darkness for anything—an arm, a leg—as she tried to position herself behind the boy and pull him back up.

  Come on, God. Help me find him. Please. I’m not going back to shore without him—and he’s going to be alive.

  There!

  With both hands, she grabbed the light material of his T-shirt that billowed away from his body, straining and kicking to pull him up to the surface, all the while trying to avoid any of the boy’s blind strikes from his arms and legs.

  She broke the surface and sucked in welcome air. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Come on, kid! Let me . . . help . . .”

  As she tried to maneuver her arm underneath both of his to anchor him on his back on the surface of the water, he twisted around, gasping for air, grabbing for her again. She didn’t want to slap the kid, but if that’s what it took to save him—and herself . . .

  Once again she tried to turn him over, only to be shoved aside, losing her grip on the teen, water splashing her face and stinging her eyes.

  What?

  Another swimmer, who’d appeared off to her left side, grabbed the boy, flipping him over onto his back. Then a muscular arm slipped under both the boy’s arms so he couldn’t struggle. The boy’s eyes widened in his pale face.

  “It’s okay . . . okay.” Vanessa treaded water, raking the strands of hair out of her face. As the unknown man towed the teen toward the shore, she swam beside them. “Not going . . . to let you drown.”

  The boy’s eyes darted back and forth, his skin pale, his hands clawing at the other swimmer’s arm. Vanessa used one arm to swim, grabbing the boy’s hand with her free hand. Out of the corner of her eye she could just see the man’s head bobbing in the water against the night sky, his hair slicked back as he swam toward shore.

  “It’s okay.” She kicked harder so the guy wouldn’t have to pull both of them in.

  The moment her toes touched sand, Vanessa stumbled to her feet, fighting the invisible pull of the tide against her trembling legs. The man lifted the teen into his arms and trudged through the surf, water rolling off his bare shoulders. The lights of several emergency vehicles flashed red and white in the parking lot, and three emergency personnel came toward them with a stretcher.

  Vanessa swiped at the water streaming down her face, her hair heavy against her neck and shoulders. Her camisole clung to her torso, her jean shorts were congealed against her thighs. Her sweatshirt was lost in the Gulf. The night air cooled the skin on her arms and legs, the sand gritty between her toes. With the arrival of the paramedics and EMTs, there was nothing more for her to do. Still, she waited, bent over at the waist, gasping, watching them stabilize the teen before transporting him to the hospital. Their familiar actions anchored her back to reality.

  “What were those kids thinking?” The other rescuer, who had shown up at just the right time, stood off to the side, hands on his hips.

  “I don’t know—” As she caught sight of the shadowed profile in the glare of the emergency vehicle’s headlights, the rest of her reply died on her lips. “Logan?”

  The sound of his name caused the man to look away from the crowd gathered around the teen. Shadows hid his face.

  She had to be mistaken. The man standing a few feet from her wasn’t her ex-husband. He couldn’t be.

  “Vanessa?” He took a half step toward her, stopping when Vanessa stumbled backward. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—I heard somebody yelling . . . and I went to help.” She hadn’t answer
ed his question.

  “But why are you here—in Destin?”

  She hadn’t seen Logan Hollister in eight years, and all she could do was stand there, the water dripping off her body onto the sand, and give him half answers. “I’m visiting Mindy.”

  Someone came up behind her and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, a flimsy shield against the humidity-laden air. “How are you feeling? That’s amazing what you did, saving that kid.”

  Vanessa gripped the soft edges of the blanket, a shiver coursing through her body. “I didn’t do it alone.”

  Logan waved away the offer of a blanket. Before she could say anything else—and really, what would she say?—another man pointed a handheld video camera at them.

  “I got it all on tape! You guys are heroes! My wife’s calling the local news station—they’re gonna want to see this!”

  “I just helped.” Logan’s voice pitched low as he motioned to Vanessa. “But she got to the kid before I did.”

  The ambulance lights glinted off Logan’s wet hair—cut so much shorter than he used to wear it—and outlined his muscular build.

  Vanessa couldn’t seem to speak above much more than a whisper. “I only did what anyone else would have done.”

  The man pointed his camera at her. “What’s your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter—”

  “Oh, come on! What you did was amazing.”

  Vanessa clutched the blanket closer. “Vanessa. Vanessa Hollister.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “No.” She kept her eyes averted, knowing Logan watched her. “I don’t live here.”

  “How do you feel—”

  “I’m wet. And tired. And you’re not a reporter.” She rubbed the soft cotton of the blanket across her face and bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap like that.”

  “I understand. You’ve got to be exhausted.” The man stepped back, one hand held up, the video camera still pointed at her face. “No problem.”

  As the man turned his attention on Logan, Vanessa saw her chance to escape. Besides, did she really want to hear the whole Wow, you both have the same last name—how funny is that? reaction?

  There was no reason for her to wait around to see if a professional reporter showed up. She’d done her job—just in a different state. She’d pray the teen would be okay and could watch the news for that information. Hope he would be smart enough not to go swimming in the Gulf again after drinking too many beers just because his friends dared him.

  She’d learned the hard way how foolish it was to take stupid risks. How you could lose your life—yourself—if you weren’t careful.

  FOUR

  A wise girl knows her limits, a smart girl knows that she has none.

  —MARILYN MONROE (1926–1962), ACTRESS

  Sanctuary.

  Vanessa retreated to her hotel room—the stillness a buffer from all that she could have said to her ex-husband. The activity of the paramedics. The growing crowd of gawkers—and the arriving news team. Only when her sand-covered feet made contact with the cool of the lobby tile did she realize she’d left her sandals behind somewhere. She ignored the stare of the front desk clerk, holding her head high as she walked past, avoiding the elevator and climbing the stairs to her room.

  Thank God the plastic key card to her room had somehow remained in the pocket of her shorts, not ending up in the Gulf with her sweatshirt. The air-conditioning blew a frigid kiss against her chapped lips, threading unseen fingers through her hair where it lay against her neck.

  If she wasn’t soaking wet . . . if her legs weren’t shaking as if she’d just swum an Olympic trial . . . if her eyes weren’t stinging from salt water . . . she’d book the first flight back to Colorado and insist Ted go back to their original plan to get married in their home church.

  Tomorrow.

  Not in April.

  As another shiver shook her body, Vanessa turned off the air-conditioning. Then she opened the off-white vertical blinds and yanked open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of metal scraping against the cement going right up her spine. Dropping to the carpet the damp blanket the onlooker had draped around her shoulders, she turned back to her bed, pulled back the bedspread, and removed the blanket underneath. Her journal fell to the floor.

  It was as if daring to read a few entries earlier had conjured Logan Hollister out of the past and onto the beach—just as she’d feared.

  She picked the book up from where it lay facedown, pages splayed open against the muted blue carpeting. Her handwriting skimmed across the pages, a silent dare to face the past scrawled across the pages. Sentences. Paragraphs. Words and more words that lured her into memories best forgotten.

  Funny. I put the rings away, but I look down at my hand and I still expect to see them. Of course, I’ve only been divorced for twenty-four hours. I need to give it some time. I was Vanessa Hollister before I married Logan—and I’m still Vanessa Hollister. No one needs to know that there are actually two different versions of the same woman.

  Logan and I didn’t even say goodbye to each other.

  It was all done so quietly and nicely via mail. Sign here, convenient little yellow sticky arrows pointing to the appropriate lines for our signatures.

  But then, would I know how to say goodbye to Logan—the girl who’s always been so good at goodbyes? What do you say when a divorce is finalized? Thank you for the good memories? Thanks for asking me to marry you . . . and thank you for turning in all the paperwork on time so this didn’t drag out?

  Yeah. So you say nothing. Your signature speaks for you. We’re done. There’s no longer an “us” standing in the way of what you want to do with your life.

  Vanessa flung the journal onto the bed. How appropriate. Skip to the ending.

  She searched the hotel fridge, reaching past the six-pack of Coke she’d purchased to grab one of the “complimentary” bottles of water. Let ’em charge her for it.

  Wrapped in the comfort of the dry blanket, she hid in the darkness of the balcony. She huddled in the white plastic deck chair, her arms hugging her knees. With the chair pulled forward, the Gulf breeze caressed her face. The beach looked normal again. Safe. No more rescue crews. No more reporters. No more crowds.

  No ex-husband.

  She pressed her forehead to her knees, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Why, God, why?

  She was being brave, coming here. Crossing the bridge that led to her past.

  And then she decided to walk the beach—the same stretch of beach she and Logan had strolled so many evenings, watching sunsets. Or had sat on a blanket and watched lightning storms rage across the night sky. The same beach where he’d coaxed her from the security of the shore out into the water and onto a surfboard for the first time.

  The same beach where Logan had first said he loved her.

  Tonight, she walked alone.

  No ghost.

  Not a whisper of Logan’s voice.

  And then someone needed help—and what was she supposed to do? Ignore the pleas of the boy’s friends? Of course not. But why, God, why did she have to come face-to-face with Logan . . . so close she could have touched him.

  “Vanessa? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m getting married, Logan.” Her voice wavered. Cracked.

  Vanessa twisted the cap off the bottle of water, tipped it back, and drank, the cool liquid burning her lips even as it soothed her parched throat.

  Coming here was a mistake.

  She couldn’t start a new life with Ted by having their wedding in the same place where she’d fallen in love with her first husband.

  What was that saying again? A wise girl knows her limits.

  Between her undergrad degree and all her training to be a paramedic, she considered herself intelligent and street-smart. When it came to what she could and could not do, she was wise enough to know marrying Ted Topliff in Destin was beyond her limits.

  If Ted was determined to at
tach their ceremony to a medical conference, then he’d have to choose one in another locale.

  That was it, plain and simple.

  Ted was a reasonable man—and she wasn’t asking for much other than a change in venue.

  For now, she was going to take a long, hot shower. Order room service, without looking at the prices. And then find a ridiculous movie—something that would make her laugh until she cried.

  AUGUST 2003

  It was bad enough her parents had moved the family—again. But why couldn’t they have figured out a way to cross the Florida state line before school started?

  Vanessa lifted her chin, staring at the high school’s double doors leading outside—where she could exhale, stop smiling, and stop saying hello to everyone. Stop pretending that remembering dozens of names and faces really was as easy as she made it look. Other students flowed past her, while some stood around the lockers lining the hallways. A few called her name—evidence of how well she pulled off the new student role—snippets of conversations and laughter swirling together.

  She’d survived the first day at another new school. Proven that she knew how to be the perfect new girl, even if it meant walking into Niceville High School two weeks after classes started. One day she should count up how many times the phrase “new student” had been attached to her name. When she went to college—wherever she went—she would stay there from the first day of freshman orientation until the day she walked across the stage and received her diploma.

  As she left home that morning to walk to school, she’d straightened the worn HOME IS WHERE THE AIR FORCE SENDS YOU tole-painted wooden plaque hanging in the foyer. As Hollister family tradition dictated, it was one of the first things Mom put up in the new house. As far as Vanessa was concerned, home was where the military dragged you kicking and screaming, not bothering to ask if you wanted to move. If you were ready to say goodbye again. If you wanted to make new friends . . . not knowing how long you’d be in town . . . or if what they offered you was true friendship.