Crazy Little Thing Called Love (17 page)

He spread the faded blanket in the slight valley between two sand dunes. They sat side by side, the sound of the waves caressing the shore with the hush of a lullaby.

“I can never decide if I like the beach better at night or in the morning.” Logan stared straight ahead, his elbows resting on his bent knees, his hands linked together. He'd taken off his dress jacket and tie, leaving them both in the car. “I love watching sunrises and sunsets—it's when I feel closest to God.”

Vanessa rested her head against his shoulder, trying to feel whatever it was that Logan experienced sitting here. “You believe in God?”

“Yeah.” His answer was so low it was almost lost in the soft murmur of the waves. “Sometimes it's easier to believe in God here than when I'm sitting in church, you know?” He took her hand, intertwined their fingers, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on the palm of her hand. “I'm not a God-is-in-nature kind of person. I know God made all of this—the world, you, me—but when I'm here I sense his power. Or sometimes when I watch lightning zigzagging across the sky and listen to the rumble of thunder . . . that's when I know God is real.”

Vanessa sat quiet, trying to absorb Logan's belief. His assurance in God.

“I know I mentioned my grandfather to you, right?”

“Yes.”

“He . . . he was this giant of a man. Tall—six-foot-four. He knew what he believed, and it seemed like he never doubted himself—or God. He married my grandmother when he was eighteen and she was sixteen—”

“You're kidding me!”

“He saw her in Sunday school when he was fifteen and said he fell in love with her then. Felt like waiting three years was long enough. They were married for sixty-two years.”

For a few moments Logan sat silent, watching the waves. “After that tornado came through that I told you about—the day before my grandmother's funeral—my grandfather and I walked the land, looking at what was left. Not that there was anything. While we were walking, Pop Pop said, ‘God is in this, Logan.' ”

Vanessa pulled away from him. “What?”

“Let me finish. He said, ‘God is in this, Logan. Not in the destruction. Not in the loss. But you catch a glimpse of how powerful God is when you see the fury of a tornado—only God is powerfully merciful. He comes to give us life, not death. And you'll see him in the way people respond to this—the way they choose to help one another even as they grieve.' ”

“Your grandfather sounds wonderful.”

“He was. I want to be like him.”

“You
are
like him, Logan.”

He turned and traced the outline of her face with the lightest touch. “When I'm with you, Vanessa, I believe I can be the kind of man my grandfather was. I believe my dreams can come true.”

“They will, Logan.”

“When you say it, I believe it.”

His gaze held her hostage, and then he kissed her with an intensity that stole her breath and seemed to scorch her heart—an unseen mark that made her his.

His kiss seemed to ignite something that caught both of them off guard. When he pressed her back against the blanket she didn't resist . . . didn't want to resist.

The warmth of his body against hers, the enticement of his kisses, both lured and lulled her. It seemed only seconds before his shirt was unbuttoned, her dress twisted . . .

“I love you, Vanessa . . .” His words rasped against her ear.

“Logan . . .”

Vanessa knew they were going somewhere dangerous . . .

And then Logan shoved himself away from her. Sat up. Turned, so that all she saw was his back. His shoulders shook. Vanessa lay on the blanket, looking up at the canopy of stars scattered across the sky, the skirt of her new gown caught around her knees, the night air cool against her shoulders.

What had she done wrong?

After a few moments she sat up, adjusting her dress, fumbling with the thin straps, the zipper, trying to breathe as tears dripped off her face onto the twisted bodice.

•  •  •

What was he doing?

Logan knew what he wanted. He wanted to turn back around, not think about where they were or how they would feel about . . . everything after it was over. Not think about whether what they did was wrong . . .

He wanted to tell Vanessa it was right. It was good. That he meant it when he said he loved her.

And he did.

But somehow his grandfather's voice intruded on his thoughts, interrupting what he wanted. Reminding Logan of something he'd told him the summer Logan was fourteen. The last time he'd seen his grandfather.

“There'll come a time, son, when you're gonna want to make love to a gal. You're gonna even tell her you love her—and she'll believe you. But the question is, will you love her enough to stop before you both do something you'll regret?”

He reached behind him and tried to find his shirt, but his fingers found only the soft weave of the blanket.

“Here.” Vanessa nudged his arm with her hand, offering him his shirt.

His whispered “Thank you” disappeared into silence.

How was he supposed to face her?

His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt, the breeze off the Gulf blowing the strands of his hair into his face.

Vanessa was never going to want to see him again.

And then he heard a faint sniff . . . a shuddery inhale . . . and his guilt welled up and strangled him.

He turned, scrambling on his knees, reaching for her, only to stop when she raised a hand to fend him off.

“Vanessa . . . this is my fault. I'm sorry . . .”

She shook her head, the curls of her updo tumbling around her face, as if discounting his words.

“No—what? What are you saying no to?” Logan fisted his hands on his legs. “Are you saying it's not my fault? It is. I shouldn't have brought you here. I was a jerk.”

She looked at him then, her lips trembling and tears evident in the moonlight. “What did I . . . do wrong?”

With a groan, he hauled her into his arms, the curves of her body sparking heat through him again. But he gritted his teeth. He would do the right thing—for both of them.

“You didn't do anything wrong. This is on me.” He brushed the hair back from her face, resisting the urge to kiss her. He was not going there again. “I meant what I said, Vanessa. I love you. And I want to do this right. Which means I am not going to do this here . . . on an old blanket covered with sand. You deserve better than that.”

She touched his face, her fingertips soft on his skin. “But what if—”

“No what-ifs.” God help him, she needed to stop trying to talk him into it. “I don't want either of us regretting something tomorrow, okay? I don't want you avoiding me in school on Monday because you're sorry about tonight.”

“What am I going to do with you, Logan Hollister?”

“I hope you're going to forgive me. And then I'm going to drive you home, kiss you good night on the doorstep—and hope your mom isn't watching from the living room—” That comment earned him the ghost of a laugh. “—and then I'm going to call you in the morning and ask you out to a movie tomorrow night.”

Looking back, I have this to regret . . . that too often when I loved, I did not say so.

—DAVID GRAYSON (1870–1946), AMERICAN JOURNALIST

T
he concrete wall pressed against Logan's back, causing the still-damp material of his cotton shirt to stick to his skin. He'd peeled off his soggy shoes and socks, but the soaked material of his jeans clung to his ankles and lower legs.

He needed to get up off the arena floor. Grab some dry clothes from his suitcase. Go change in one of the men's bathrooms. And he would—as soon as he felt like he hadn't been knocked flat on his back.

Vanessa was engaged. To some guy named Ted.

The entire time he'd helped Mr. Wright out of his wet clothes and into a dry sweatshirt and sweatpants, he kept hearing Vanessa's voice again:
“I should do the same . . . text my parents, I mean. And Ted. My fiancé.”

Vanessa was getting married again.

The thought hit him like the first sighting of a funnel cloud—the times when his rational mind told him to run but he always overruled himself and drove straight toward the danger.

What if he and Vanessa had made it? What if they'd figured out a way to make their long-distance marriage work? What if he'd chosen differently—or she'd chosen differently? Would she and Julie be friends? Would she have become part of the team—inviting them over to their house for cookouts on the weekends? Sitting outside on their porch swing, talking and laughing with him and Brady and Max and Julie?

What if Vanessa wasn't planning a wedding with some new fiancé . . . because they were still married?

Logan pressed a fist against the pressure building in his chest. Ted, whoever he was, was getting the woman Logan still loved. Ted would be the man to fulfill the dreams Logan had destroyed. The man to restore Vanessa's broken heart.

He'd given her his class ring and a night in an Alabama motel. Their “Till death do us part” vow ended less than two years later with the signing of divorce papers.

His grandfather would be ashamed of his actions.

“Hey, Logan!” Max's voice brought his attention back to the board game in front of him. “It's your turn.”

LIFE.

Logan stared at the game board, complete with the white plastic spinner with numbers against a rainbow-colored background. How did he get talked into playing LIFE with Max and Brady and a trio of teens?

How ironic.

There was no way a classic family board game, where the spin of a wheel determined if you went to college or started a career before you cruised around in plastic mini-cars waiting to be outfitted with tiny “parents” and “children,” could prepare anyone for
real life
.

Real-life choices you made.

Long-term consequences.

And sometimes you won . . . or lost . . . and watched as someone dumped the pieces of your life in the trash and walked away.

Game over.

•  •  •

In the midst of two thousand people, Vanessa found a small corner of normal.

Yes, she was wearing jeans and a sleeveless tank beneath her jean jacket instead of the familiar uniform. But she was standing around talking with people she understood. Paramedics. EMTs. Inhaling a bit of adrenaline through conversation.

“So what's going on?”

“We've had a couple of people with anxiety symptoms—” Paul, the team leader, drained his cup of coffee. “—but that's not surprising, when Cressida decides to show up sooner than expected.”

One of the EMTs joined the conversation. “Another guy forgot his meds, so we had to escort him back home. That was pretty soon after they opened the shelter.”

Vanessa accepted a cup of coffee from a slender blond paramedic, nodding her thanks. “Understandable.”

The other female team member offered creamer, which Vanessa declined. “We've got several pregnant women here, too. We just checked on them to see how they're doing. One woman's due date is tomorrow, so we're about to transport her to the hospital in Fort Walton. Twin Cities Hospital doesn't do deliveries.”

Paul motioned behind him. “Other than that, the only thing going on is a twelve-year-old boy brought over by his mom. He's been throwing up since early this morning. The family had a flu bug last week, so we're monitoring him.”

Vanessa wrapped her hands around the warmth radiating through the insulated cup. “Best to keep him quarantined.”

“Yeah. It's odd, though. He was the first one in the family to be hit with the bug a week ago. He got better—and now it's come around and taken him down again.”

“That is odd. Poor kid.”

A tall, lanky guy about her age with deep-set eyes and thinning black hair approached. “Didn't you go to Niceville High School?”

“Yes. I graduated in 2004.”

“I thought I remembered you.” He stuck out his hand. “I'm Grant Franklin. We were in the same math class.”

“Grant.” Vanessa scrambled to recall the name and face. “Sure. I remember you.”

“I'd heard you'd moved out of town—Oklahoma or Colorado or somewhere, I thought. What brings you back to Niceville?”