Crazy Little Thing Called Love (2 page)

“I guess it makes sense—”

“Of course it does.” Ted reached for his water, draining the last of the liquid from the bottle. “Our schedules are crazy, and I don't want to be behind on CME next year, too. By planning the wedding for the April conference, I'm getting a jump start on credits.”

Brilliant. A bit lacking in the relationship category, but she hadn't fallen in love with Ted because of the way he'd swept her off her feet with flowers and chocolates and Hallmark cards. Unlike their adrenaline-fueled jobs, the pace of their romance had been slow, Ted's patience enabling their friendship to ease into a love that would last through whatever the future held for them.

“So where in Florida is this meeting?”

“It's in the Panhandle, I think.” Ted flipped the colored flyer over. “Let's see . . . oh, that's right. Destin. We'd fly from Denver into Atlanta and then—”

Destin?

No.

Vanessa stiffened as if she were in the middle of a childhood game of freeze tag. Ted's verbal “touch” dragged her into the past and turned her into an ice sculpture. She needed to tell Ted no . . . and no . . . and no. But she needed to be able to breathe to form words.

As if in slow motion, she curled her fingers into fists. Forced one inhale. One exhale. Her gaze landed on the potted philodendron, wilted from neglect, which sat on her dining room table. What had the well-meaning ER nurse said when she'd handed Vanessa the plant for her birthday months ago?
“Everyone needs a plant or two in their home—and it's almost impossible to kill a philodendron.”
Imagine that—she'd performed the impossible.

Vanessa twisted around to face Ted where he sat on the couch, popping a piece of spicy shrimp into his mouth.

“We need to pick another medical conference. Another location.”

“But this is the best one.”

Vanessa tapped her fist against her mouth. She was only going to say this once. Once would be enough. “Ted, I was married before, remember? In Florida? And Destin is near where I lived—where I was married.” Vanessa moved aside the top brochure and studied the others. Ted would understand. He always did. Maybe they could plan a nice destination wedding on a beach overshadowed by a dormant volcano? “Let's find another conference location for our destination wedding—”

“Is that all that's bothering you?” Ted interrupted her, reaching down to pull her away from the coffee table and up onto the couch with him, ignoring how the pamphlets scattered onto the floor. “Nessa, that was years ago. You're not that impulsive teenager anymore. You're a grown woman, in love with me. You don't have to be afraid of your past.”

“I'm not
afraid
of my past.” She maintained eye contact. Kept her voice level. See? She was calm. “I just prefer not to have a second wedding in Florida.”

“Babe, you haven't told me a lot about what happened, but I know it was some kind of shotgun wedding—”

Vanessa pushed away from him. “Not
shotgun
. I wasn't pregnant!”

“Sorry. Wrong word choice. I meant
whirlwind
. Crazy. Look, I don't care about your first marriage. We're having a real wedding this time.” Tugging her back into his arms, he kissed the top of her head. “Don't you see how even more perfect this will be? You go back to Florida and have the wedding you always wanted. We'll go down a few days early with the wedding party and a few close friends and family and do some fun things. Snorkel. Parasail. Whatever you want. Have a one-of-a-kind wedding—our wedding.”

Vanessa settled against Ted's shoulder, snuggling closer as his arm wrapped around her waist, and inhaled the faint musky scent of his aftershave. Listening to Ted, she could just begin to imagine going back to Destin. To get married. Again.

“I haven't been to Florida in years—not since I left for college, really. Well, except for my brother's high school graduation. And occasional holidays.” But how could she explain to him that she'd never made time to drive over the Mid-Bay Bridge, to walk along the beach in Destin? That yes, she was afraid of ghosts. Specifically, of one particular ghost she might see when she strolled along the shore.

Could she do it?

“Trust me, Nessa.”

Wasn't that exactly why she was marrying Ted? Because she trusted him enough to say yes when he proposed?

“Maybe you're right.” She picked the medical brochure up off the floor and gazed at the tranquil photo of white sandy beaches again. “
Where
we marry isn't the most important thing—it's
who
we marry. And who we are when we get married.”

“Exactly.”

But could she do it?

She'd been an immature eighteen-year-old girl reacting to circumstances the first time she said, “I do.” Now? She was twenty-eight. She knew who she was. What she wanted. Why she was getting married—and whom she was marrying.

There was nothing rash about marrying Ted. Nothing at all.

“And if I get in a few CME credit hours, all the better.” Ted sounded as if it were all decided. “I won't be in classes all day. We can walk along the beach, ride Jet Skis, eat at some nice restaurants. Destin will be a great place to honeymoon.”

Vanessa chose to focus on the “it'll be a great place to honeymoon” part of Ted's comment. “When's the conference?”

“The first week in April.”

A little more than six months from now. Absolutely doable
. “We'll have to cut down the guest list.”

“Saving money, remember?”

Vanessa swallowed her groan, chasing it with a gulp of her lemony cola. Ted wasn't turning their wedding into a low-budget bridal event. She'd already gone that route once—her first wedding had cost less than a hundred dollars, including the motel room. She was all for practicality, but her parents had provided them a generous budget. They could afford a few splurges.

“Ted, I'm agreeing to combine the wedding with your conference. But, like you said, this is my chance—our chance—to have the wedding we want. So, yes, it will be small. Probably no more than thirty or forty guests. But I want our wedding to be beautiful. Elegant.”

“Absolutely, babe. I want you to be happy. I'll handle the conference registration, but before I do, why don't you call the hotel—” He circled the phone number with ink. “—and make certain they can accommodate a small wedding? Wait a minute . . .”

“What? What are you thinking?”

Ted tapped the end of the pen against his chin. “Don't you have a vacation week coming up?”

“Ye-es. I have the week after next off. To relax.
R-e-l-a-x
.”

“This is perfect. You can fly down to Destin and talk to the wedding coordinator face-to-face. Check out florists . . .”

Of course his plan sounded perfect to him—he'd be back here triaging emergencies in the ER while she hopped on a plane and handled the wedding details on her own, all the while dodging her past.

“I'll think about it.” She forced a smile, hoping she looked like a happy bride-to-be, eager to plan their wedding. “Let's keep making a list. What else?”

“Invitations—and maybe those things they do nowadays . . .”

Vanessa scrawled a numbered list on the back of the take-out receipt from the Chinese restaurant. “Save-the-date announcements?”

“Yes, those.”

Vanessa wrote down the number three and circled it. “I also want to do engagement photos.”

“Engagement photos? How expensive are those?”

“Ted, you cannot ask ‘How much?' every time we talk about wedding details. Most photographers have wedding packages, and engagement photos are included. I'll look into it. And—” She held up her hand, fending off his next question. “—I'll outline a basic budget, okay?”

“I was going to ask if you think the photographer would come to the hospital and take photos of us there.”

Vanessa dropped the list, pushing away from Ted, gathering up their plates and disposable chopsticks. “Not funny.”

“Who said I was kidding?” Once in the kitchen, Ted leaned against the white tile counter while she rinsed the dishes under scalding hot water and loaded them into the stainless steel dishwasher. “I'm not saying we have to wear scrubs. But you've got to admit the hospital is our life. We could get a picture by the ambulance or the nurses' station. It'd be fun.”

Proof that she needed to let go of the idea of a normal wedding. Again. But was this worth fighting about? Probably not. After all, marriage was about compromise, right? Planning the wedding was giving her plenty of opportunity to practice. Creative engagement photos, check. “I'll see what I can do.”

Ted bent to open the cabinet beneath the sink, talking over his shoulder. “So, with a small wedding, we'll both have just one person in the wedding party, right? I'll have a best man, and you'll have a maid of honor.”

“Sure.” Even the simplest of weddings were complicated—not that she hadn't learned that inescapable truth years ago. Now to figure out who could be her bridal attendant. Somebody.
Anybody.

Nobody.

She retrieved another can of soda and a slice of precut lemon from her container in the fridge, along with a bottle of water for Ted. “Why don't we skip the whole best-man-for-you, maid-of-honor-for-me tradition?”

“Really?” Ted looked up from loading soap into the dishwasher. “I should ask my brother to be my best man. Tradition, right?”

“Oh.” Right. Tradition. Vanessa shrugged. “I'm sure I can think of someone.”

Because, somehow, some way, getting married for the second time would be easier than the first. It had to be—even if she had to hire someone to be her maid of honor.

We cannot change our past. We cannot change the fact that people act a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude.

—CHARLES R. SWINDOLL (1934– ), PASTOR AND AUTHOR

V
anessa should call Ted. Insist the whole Florida-destination-wedding-and-medical-conference idea wasn't going to happen. She hadn't even packed for the trip—the one he'd talked her into that sacrificed her time off—and her flight to Florida left in less than twelve hours. All hopes for a relaxing week of vacation vanished the moment she told Ted yes. Yes, she'd go to Destin and plan their wedding.

Back to her past to plan her future.

God knew she didn't go backward. Life was all about moving on to the next thing in front of her. No looking back. Because what was the use of that? It seemed as if by saying yes to Ted's “Will you marry me?” her life had spun out of control.

The first thing she needed to do was laundry. She needed clean uniforms waiting for her when she got back to Denver and had to go to work. Then she needed to pack for her six a.m. flight. And she should probably toss a little water on the philodendron. Pray it survived until she got back. Even if she asked Ted to water it while she was gone, he wouldn't remember.

The hours to sleep between now and her departure were getting fewer.

Vanessa could have skipped going to see the Ackermans. But then she would have worried about them all week. Wondered if Anna had any money to buy groceries or if her husband had spent his paycheck on beer and cigarettes and lottery tickets and who knew what else. And if they didn't have groceries, then the baby wouldn't have diapers. And with no family living nearby, who was going to help them?

Of course, some might say the Ackermans weren't her concern. Yes, Vanessa had been working a year ago when Anna called 911 because her then-thirteen-month-old son was in respiratory distress from a croup attack, but that didn't mean Vanessa had to worry about them now.

But she did.

Something about the woman reminded Vanessa of herself. Maybe it was because Anna was new in town. No family. No friends.

She wasn't Anna's friend. Not exactly. She was only checking in.

Besides, while she shopped for groceries earlier tonight and then sat in Anna's small apartment with its few pieces of rented furniture, she didn't think about arriving in Florida . . . crossing the Mid-Bay Bridge . . . seeing Destin again, much less fine-tuning the details of her destination wedding. All of that had taken a backseat while she made a little boy laugh.

But now she had to make up for lost time. Vanessa sidestepped the laundry hamper in her walk-in closet. If she wasn't careful, she'd trip. Break an ankle. And miss her flight. No, she was not going to inflict bodily harm on herself to avoid this trip. But how had she let Ted convince her to take her week's vacation—her chance to do nothing—and fly to Florida to meet with a wedding coordinator? Florists. Caterers.

And the ghost of a wedding past.

No matter how many times she assured Ted that all the particulars could be managed long-distance, he vetoed her idea.