Summers' Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story (LPC Romantic Comedy Series) (27 page)

“Isn’t the airport back that way?”

Hattie tapped the GPS screen. “Says we’re to follow Calhoun to East Bay Street and then turn left.”

“I’m pretty sure west is back that way,” Stu said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

“You want me to turn around I will.” Without waiting for Stu to respond, Hattie started to make a U-turn.

Stu quickly reached over and grabbed the wheel. “No, no, this way is fine. Let’s just try to stay in our lane, okay?” Stu tried his best to keep from telling Hattie how to drive but it remained a struggle. She refused to use her turn signal, kept drifting over the center line, and constantly turned her head sideways in order to look at him when she spoke. “What am I going to do when I get to the airport? My luggage and things are back at the hotel.”

“You still have your wallet, don’t you?”

“Eyes on the road, Hattie. Yes, if I still have my tux, I have my wallet.”

“Isn’t that all you need to get your boarding pass?”

“I meant, what makes you think I am going to be able to find her? I don’t even know which airline she is flying out on.”

“You’ll figure it out. I have great faith in you.” She paused. “And the airport’s intercom system.”

“You keep saying that like faith is going to help.” He swallowed. “Hattie, please, pick a lane and stay in it.”

“All things work for the good of those who love God. You’ve been praying, haven’t you? Like I told you to?”

“A little.” Stu cringed as the truck raced past a cyclist, its door mirror barely missing the rider’s elbow. “Hasn’t helped.” Hattie blasted through a yellow light. In the distance he saw signs directing traffic toward the Straw Market. No doubt about it; they were definitely going
away
from the airport. And now at a high rate of speed.

“Hold on, it’s telling me to turn here.”

Hattie yanked the wheel and swerved onto a side street — a one-way street. Directly ahead, Stu saw a bicycle rickshaw coming toward them. Behind the rickshaw, a few cars back, was a police cruiser. For a split second Stu thought he recognized the woman peddling the rickshaw, but before he could get a closer look, Hattie hung a hard left and accelerated. When they reached the next intersection Stu saw a sign pointing toward the airport.

Well I’ll be, he said to himself. Looks like she was right. This
is
the way to the airport. With a weariness that came from years of living a lie, Stu exhaled, thankful it was almost over. Glad to be done with the posing and posturing and pretending. “Maybe,” he said aloud.

“Maybe?” Hattie responded.

Stu looked sideways. “Did I say that out loud?”

“You did. What’s the rest of it?”

“I was just thinking that maybe … maybe it will work out, just like you always say. Maybe God
does
have a plan. A good one.”

“His ways are always good. Trust Him.”

Stu flinched at the loud squawk of a police siren. He turned in his seat. The police officer was waving them over.

“Crud,” he said under his breath. “Crud, crud, crud.”

* * *

Kate stood in the hospital lobby, demanding the receptionist give her the room number for Stu Summers. When she was told he’d checked out, Kate smiled and said politely. “Look, I know you can’t give me his room number unless I’m a relative, but we’re practically married.” She held up her left hand. “See?”

“Ma’am I’m sorry, but he is no longer a patient.”

“Any idea where he went?”

The receptionist shook her head gently.

“None at all?”

More head shaking by the receptionist.

Kate gathered herself. She pulled out her phone and dialed the only logical person she could think to call.

“Where are you?” Red asked by way of answering.

“The hospital. You?”

“About to board my plane. So I take it you
are not
going to make your flight.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw two uniformed officers walk through the hospital’s front doors. “No, I guess not. Any sign of Stu? I’m at the hospital and they told me he checked out already.”

“Haven’t seen him. If you’d called sooner I could have looked for him.”

“That’s okay, it was a long shot anyway.” And not just finding him. The whole Stu Summers falling in love with Kate Winston thing was a long shot. “Listen, tell the girls from the party, thanks for everything. They made me top salesperson of the year.” Kate could feel hot tears forming in her eyes. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been honored by her peers. She’d been the belle of the ball and on the arm of the handsomest of men. And now? She looked up to see that the officers had spotted her. “Tell them I appreciate them.”

Kate hung up and put her phone away.

When the officer cuffed her wrists, Kate didn’t react. Just kept her head down. She could feel the scorn and judgment of everyone in the lobby who stared at her but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what she’d missed telling Stu she loved him. And now he might never know.

“Ma’am,” one of the officers said. “Did you steal that rickshaw?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But I can explain … really …”

“You have the right to remain silent.” The officer continued reciting her rights as he walked her outside. He cupped the top of her head as he eased her into the back of the squad car. He then leaned his head in. “Do you understand your rights?”

She’d watched enough
Cops
to more than understand. Kate nodded. “Yeah.”

As the squad car pulled away from the hospital, she took a final look back at the PediCab. The second officer stood next to it, securing it to a handicap parking sign.

If only, she thought. If only she hadn’t been so bitter and cynical.
Roger is right. The problem isn’t that guys can’t be trusted. The problem is that I cannot be trusted with love.

The squad car pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. She managed to hold it together for a whole city block before she finally lowered her head and sobbed.

Chapter Thirty-three

New Providence, Bahamas

I’m sitting in a deck chair beneath a canopy of palms overlooking the dinghy beach. We call the patch of sand in front of Pete’s Pub our lounge area because there’s a rotten wooden table and a few plastic chairs and a charcoal grill that’s nearly rusted through. Hardly anyone ever uses the grill anymore but it’s a good place to wedge a cooler between friends and watch the sun melt into the Gulf Stream.

Stu looked up from his laptop and took it all in the half-moon bay, white-sand beach, and the occasional slap of small waves breaking onshore.

Tonight is one of those hot, muggy evenings with the wind out of the east. The pink glow of a December sunset is reflecting off thunderheads out in the Gulf Stream and there is a steady stream of customers sideling up to the bar to order overpriced drinks served with little umbrellas. Palm fronds rustling overhead, the laughter of tourists on vacation, boats swinging on the hook … another gorgeous day in paradise.

His writing had improved, that was obvious to anyone who bothered to read his blog postings. Not that many people did. His followers were few, site traffic in double digits. Writing under the pen name Benjamin Gray, he’d long ago stopped keeping count of his followers. Fame was overrated, fans fickle. His dramatic descent into publishing obscurity had proven that. Better to write from your heart; that was Hattie’s advice. But then Hattie was also the one who had suggested he pull a mea culpa on television. “Come out and be honest. Let this girl see the man she’s about to marry.” Look how well that turned out. Publically disgraced, sued by his former publisher. Stripped of all possessions. And not even a phone call from Kate. Not one. So much for forgive, forget, and love me forever.

Stu shielded his eyes from the glare bouncing off the water. He turned the thoughts over in his head, wishing he could take back those last few hours in Charleston. Kate Winston had fallen in love with the image. She wanted to marry Stu Summers, the rich, successful best-selling author, not some broke boat bum. He used to be somebody. Now he was somebody else and that somebody was a nobody.

Boat traffic has been heavy this week due to that tropical storm out in the Atlantic. Here we are one day away from the official start of winter and Barometer Bob is talking hurricanes … and not the University of Miami kind. That tropical storm out in the Atlantic has everyone scrambling to get someplace safer than where they are in case the thing turns nasty and comes our way. It’s a waste of time if you ask me, since nothing is safe on this island but mosquitoes and cockroaches. But I guess people like to feel like they’re in control, so they untie dock lines and head up a creek or into a mangrove lagoon and tie off to tree trunks and dock pilings as best they can. The way I see it, you take your pick of slip mates and sunsets and hope for the best. It could all blow up this season or the next, but we live like it never will. Anybody who worries about the weather has no business on a boat and they sure as heck better not tie up next to me.

Stu allowed his gaze to drift down the dock in the direction of his boat. The cutter-rigged sailboat had been a simple purchase during a moment of panic. Desperate to find a place to live after he sold his townhome, Stu had found the old wooden boat lashed to a drooping finger pier at the end of a narrow creek in Maryland. Despite the owner’s attempt to inflate its value, Stu had paid cash for the vessel for less than what most boat owners spend on dockage and yard bills in a year. Repairs and restoration took a better part of two months and then after rechristening her the
Summers’ End
he was off. Hopping down the coast, dodging storms, putting his past and Kate behind him.

For the last hour I’ve been watching this sailboat beating to windward. I’m hoping it’ll keep on going. Sail right on past our place and into Nassau harbor. We already have boats rafted three deep off the end of West Dock and our big Full Moon Christmas Eve party isn’t for another few days. Last thing I need right now is another rowdy crew on the docks yapping it up all night. The fact that we’re this crowded this early in the Snowbird season gives you some idea of how popular our marina is.

Popular and perfect.

Or it would be perfect if there were someone to share it with. But I guess there’s no chance of that.

Not now.

Not ever.

He added a sad face to the end of the blog post and hit the publish button, checked to make sure it formatted correctly, and stowed his laptop aboard
Summers’ End
. Then he started up the long, looping path that led to Widow’s Peak.

The evening walk was a ritual now. Though his spiritual transformation remained in its infancy, he had discovered spending time alone, in silence, listening for that still small voice of God, helped. Hattie had once advised him to pray
through
the Bible, not just read it. That such discipline was the hallmark of a saint. Stu considered himself neither a saint nor, for that matter, even “saved.” The term “Christian” still made him uncomfortable. He’d seen the bigotry and insensitive comments spewed by those who claimed to be defending the honor of God. As though God needed defending. Still, he found that praying the promises of God back to God made him feel better … gave him a sense of peace. Maybe that was all prayer was ever meant to do: change the person, not the person’s circumstances.

Stu followed the trail until he reached the white church. The humid air and hike had left his skin coated in a fine layer of sweat. The breeze, stronger on the bluff, cooled him. He ran his fingers through his hair and watched slow rollers break over shallow reefs. The wind caused pine branches to swish against each other. From below came the festive sounds of steel drums blasting through patio speakers at the bar.

Stu gazed upward, taking in the changing colors of the sky. “Nice sunset. I especially like how you held off the rain another day.” He checked over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He didn’t mind talking to God out loud; he just didn’t want anyone else listening in. “How’s that good and perfect plan of yours coming along? Hattie says you’re always at work, your eyes constantly searching and seeking out those with a heart for you. I doubt that’s me. Mine is broken. But I thought I’d check in and see if you had any advice of where I go from here.”

He turned his gaze back toward the Windex waters ringing the island. In the distance he saw the white beard of foam being pushed by the bow of a cruise ship steaming into Nassau Harbor. Gulls dipped and soared in its wake. The smells of pine and sea dredged up memories of Ocracoke, his cottage, and Kate. He took a seat on the church steps. and tried again to put her out of his mind. Four months and still the pain remained as sharp as the shock of her stun gun against his ribs. He subconsciously touched the area of his wound and took in the last measure of daylight as the sun dropped behind a low band of clouds. With his head lowered, he tried to erase the memory of her face from his mind.