Crazy Little Thing Called Love (3 page)

“You said it yourself, Vanessa. You want a beautiful, elegant wedding. And I want you to have all that—and more.” He gave her one of his reserved kisses—the kind that created a slight warmth in her heart without demanding she lower the barrier she'd erected there years ago. “And while you're gone, I'll have your ring resized. It'll be waiting for you when you get back home.”

Backed into a corner by her own proclamation—and a caring, considerate fiancé.

She found her glass of Coke chased with a liberal squeeze of lemon sitting on the top shelf in her closet, diluted by melted ice. What was this, her third or fourth jolt of caffeine?

Just what she needed to spike both her stress and sugar levels. Between the soda overload and the lack of sleep, she'd be a jittery wreck when she went through security. The TSA agents would pull her out of line so fast . . .

But just in case she
did
make it all the way to Florida, she needed to pack. Vanessa rubbed her hands along the bottom of her
I'M A PARAMEDIC. WHAT'S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
T-shirt. At least she didn't have to pack any uniforms. Vacations were times to wear “real” clothes.

Boots first.

She'd need two—no, three—pairs. Her well-worn low-cut blue pair with a dusting of gold, and then her old reliable brown burnished-leather boots with harness-ring accents, and another pair of tan low boots with lacy accents.

Time to turn her back on the rest of her boot collection or she'd be hauling an entire suitcase full of her addiction.

Within thirty minutes she'd scrounged together two pairs of boot-cut jeans, a red-striped pullover, a coral sleeveless tank, her brown eyelet dress, and her Pemberley-style blouse, along with the needed underwear and socks and her comfortable pair of red Merrell tennis shoes.

She stared at the pile of clothes on the floor of her closet. She needed a suitcase . . . a Windbreaker . . . and at least one pair of shorts. Her Teva sandals. She was going to the beach, right? Yes, she was. It was still warm in Destin in early October. And even if she had to walk along the shore from dawn to dusk, she would put her past to rest so she could embrace everything waiting for her.

When she pulled her rolling suitcase from the top shelf of her closet it hit the floor with a thud, barely missing her bare toes.

“Okay, I don't really want to go back to the hospital anytime soon . . .”

Now, where were her Tevas? Probably in the hall closet with her Windbreaker.

She grabbed her glass of watery Coke. She could refresh her drink and pass by the hall closet on the way back to her room. If she kept up this level of efficiency, she'd be packed before midnight.

Vanessa dumped the liquid down the sink, stretching and twisting as she walked to the fridge. Aha! Her iPhone lay on the kitchen counter—probably forgotten after she'd texted Ted while getting more ice and soda. Had he replied?

No text—but there were three missed calls from her mother.

Why would her mother call her multiple times in one night?

As she hit redial, Vanessa popped open a can of soda, the cool liquid easing her dry throat.

“Vanessa?” Her mother's voice came across the phone like a zing of electricity.

“Hey, Mom. Sorry I missed your phone calls—”

“Vanessa, where were you? I've tried and tried to call you!”

“I'm sorry.” Vanessa's fingers tightened around the soda can. “I was in my closet—my bedroom—packing for a trip. What's going on? What's wrong?”

“Your father . . . he had a heart attack . . .”

Vanessa closed her eyes, the words rooting her bare feet to the floor. She needed to stay calm. Assess the situation. Ask the most important question. “What's his condition now? Is he—”

“He's alive. He's in the cardiac-care unit at Benefis Hospital.”

She leaned back against the kitchen counter, easing her grip on the can. “What happened?”

“We went out to dinner—your father wanted steak and a baked potato—”

“Mom, I don't want a rundown on what Dad ate.”

“I'm sorry.” A shaky inhale interrupted her mother's words. “He started having some indigestion—he's complained of heartburn a lot lately. I gave him some antacids. It didn't help, so we were going to head home. But then he said this was worse than any heartburn he had before. And his left arm started hurting. So I told him I'd take him to the hospital.”

“Mother! Why didn't you call nine-one-one?”

“I didn't think your father was actually having a heart attack, Vanessa! He's had heartburn for years.” Now her mother sounded like her normal self. “But as soon as we got to the ER, they took him right back—so I guess they were concerned.”

Of course they were.

“After that . . . well, I can't even remember everything that happened. The cardiologist showed up within thirty minutes, and they wheeled your father away on a stretcher—to have a heart catheterization done.”

“Okay, Mom.” Vanessa closed her eyes, pressing the cold metal of the Coke can against her forehead. “What's going on right now?”

“I'm outside your father's room in the cardiac-care unit. He's sleeping—it's not surprising, since they sedated him. The doctor said they were able to open the artery back up and get blood flow back to the heart muscle. But apparently that causes other problems—I didn't understand everything . . .”

“Sometimes reperfusing the heart—I mean, restoring blood flow to the heart muscle—can cause it to have more irregular heartbeats.”

“The cardiologist is going to come talk with me more in the morning. I'm going to stay tonight—there's a recliner I can sleep in.”

“Have you talked to Rylan?”

“No, not yet. It's the middle of the night in Germany.”

“That doesn't matter. He's going to want to know about Dad. I'll call him.” Vanessa paced the kitchen. “Okay. Let me think. I have a flight out of DIA tomorrow to Destin. I'll work on getting that switched—”

“Destin? Why are you flying to Destin?”

Even in the midst of a medical crisis, her mother didn't miss a thing.

“I, uh, I had some vacation time. I'm going to see Mindy—you remember her, right? We were friends in high school and college.”

There. She hadn't lied to her mother. She was going to see Mindy—she just needed to call Mindy and say,
Surprise! I'm coming to town
. Announce she was getting married. And then ask Mindy to be her matron of honor.

That was going to be an easy conversation.

“Mom, it's not important what I was doing—I'll change my flight and get to Montana as soon as I can.”

“Vanessa, why don't we wait? Let me call you after I talk to the cardiologist in the morning.”

“No, Mom. This is not the time to wait.” Vanessa headed for her bedroom. She'd need to add a few more clothes to her suitcase. “You go get some rest. I'll call Rylan. Then I'll work on changing my flight. I'll see you tomorrow—as soon as I can get there.”

•  •  •

If she didn't keep walking, she'd collapse on her parents' couch right there in the immaculate living room and sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

The cuckoo clock, the one her father took hours selecting one Saturday afternoon in Germany, sounded the half hour. The notes of “It's a Small World” were familiar. Comforting. If Vanessa closed her eyes, she could imagine the little figure of a man chopping wood . . . the cuckoo bird that would appear at the top of every hour . . .

Had she dozed off standing up?

“All things considered, a good day, Mom.” Vanessa opened her eyes and realized she stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the upstairs bedrooms. “The nurses I talked to say Dad's cardiologist is one of the best. Very knowledgeable and compassionate.”

“I like him.” Her mother hung her navy blue coat up in the hall closet.

“I wouldn't say that's all that matters, but it's nice to know the other medical staff respect him, too.” Vanessa pulled her suitcase behind her, causing it to bump against her heels as she ascended each carpeted step. “First bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs, correct?”

“Yes. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to change the sheets.” Her mother followed behind her.

“Not important.” She probably wouldn't even pull the bedspread back. Just fall across the mattress, still fully clothed. And sleep.

But the gallery of family photos lining the wall on her right caused her to stop on the landing. The Hollister family, caught in dozens of photographic freeze frames. School photos where she and Rylan smiled for the unknown man behind the camera, growing up year-after-picture-perfect-year. Her father's air force promotion photos—another reason to assemble the family in their best clothes and best smiles. Family vacation montages interspersed with artwork from around the world, compliments of Uncle Sam's decision to move them every two to three years.

“Do you need anything?”

Vanessa startled at the sound of her mother's voice right behind her. “No. Once I manage to get up these stairs I'm going to drag myself to bed.”

“I'll get you some towels—”

“It's okay, Mom. It can wait until tomorrow.”

But in typical she'd-do-what-needed-to-be-done-no-matter-what fashion, her mother bustled past her. She headed straight to the linen closet, which was organized with baskets and plastic bins, leaving behind the faint scent of her rich floral perfume. White Diamonds. Her father bought her a bottle every Christmas.

Thank you, God, that he'll be here to carry on the tradition this year, too.

The guest bedroom was painted a soft Wedgwood blue, the queen bed covered in a Mariner's Compass quilt in rich blues and white. How did her mother have the patience to craft such stunning hand-stitched works of art? The bed in each of the four bedrooms boasted a handmade quilt—and who knew how many her mother had given as wedding gifts? Most likely her mother had started working on one the minute she found out Vanessa and Ted were engaged.

Vanessa set her suitcase just inside the door beside the antique white dresser cluttered with . . . two medium-sized packing boxes?

Why were the cardboard boxes in here, reflecting in the oval mirror? Her mother didn't do disorder, and brown boxes were hardly part of the room's décor.

“Here you go.” Her mother bustled into the room like the hostess at a bed-and-breakfast. “Fresh towels—and I brought you a spare robe, just in case you didn't pack one.”

“Thanks.” Vanessa motioned to the boxes. “Um, do you want me to move these?”

“Hmmm?” Her mother stopped pulling back the quilt. “Move what? Oh, no. Those are yours.”

“The boxes are mine?” Vanessa ran her hand over the surface of one of the boxes, the packing tape rough beneath her fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Your father and I were going through things stored in the basement, and we found those. They have your name on them. Since you're here, I thought I'd ask you what you want me to do with them.”

Since she was here—because her father had a heart attack. Turning the box around, Vanessa read
VANESSA HOLLISTER
,
2004
scrawled in black marker across the side.

How had she forgotten about these?

“You're not going to open those now, are you?” Her mother was plumping the pillows. “It's late, and you have to go pick Rylan up at the airport at nine tomorrow—”

Did she want to play the part of some modern-day Pandora, opening not one, but two boxes best left alone? Vanessa closed her eyes, imagining the contents, realizing that knowing what was inside them wouldn't diminish the pain when—
if
—she looked at the contents.

“No. No, I won't open the boxes tonight. You're right. We both need to get some sleep.”

But an hour later, Vanessa sat cross-legged on the bed. Wide awake. Both boxes set in front of her on top of the quilt like unwanted birthday gifts—socks, maybe, or hand-me-downs that you knew weren't your size or style.

Vanessa braided her hair, threading her fingers in and out of the wet strands. She shouldn't have indulged in a hot shower. Yes, it had rinsed away the tension of her flight and the few hours she'd spent at the hospital. Watching her father sleep. Evaluating his skin color. His heartbeat. His respiration. Talking to his cardiologist. But now she was awake, and the contents of the boxes demanded her attention like an open bag of potato chips.

Vanessa's faint laugh slipped into the silence of the room as she pulled the larger box closer. It was nice to know she still had some sense of humor, because there was nothing funny about opening either of the cartons. Doing so would only unleash the power of her past . . .

And now she was being ridiculous.

Nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . . had that kind of hold on her. The past couldn't hurt her anymore. And she'd prove that truth to herself by dealing with the boxes. Then she'd go to Florida two days from now and march up and down the shoreline of Destin until she made it so. And the next time she set foot on the white sands of the Emerald Coast she'd be walking toward Ted, prepared to say, “I do.”

Besides her name, one simple word identified the contents:
FIGURINES
.

“Logan . . .”

So many questions wrapped around his name, stained with tears and laughter. Years ago, she'd thought it best not to ask them. Or maybe she thought she knew all the answers. And then she'd abandoned everything. Walked away from both the questions left unanswered and the ones that were answered all wrong.

What had he been thinking, starting her a collection of delicate figurines? He knew she didn't collect things. Too many moves had taught her it was better to stick to the essentials. Clothes. Shoes. Even books by her favorite authors could be checked out of the library and returned.