Crazy Little Thing Called Love (4 page)

The worn packing tape tore easily, the top of the box lifting back to reveal a layer of crumpled white tissue paper. Vanessa pressed her fingers into the softness, probing for . . . there! Her fingers touched the sculpted outline of a figurine. But which one? Unwrapping several more layers of paper, she revealed a graceful lady with ginger curls in a green gown and black gloves, seeming to sway in a half-curtsy. A birthday gift from Logan. Next, she uncovered a woman dressed all in white, except for the red ribbons tying her bonnet. The very first Royal Doulton figurine Logan had given her—and which had once belonged to his grandmother.

Enough.

Vanessa rewrapped the two statuettes. Four more remained in the box, each just as delicate, as lovely. Each a gift from Logan.

She closed the box, moving it aside. Her mother could mail this box back to her, and Vanessa would pay her for shipping and insurance.

On to box number two.

The flaps weren't even taped together, merely folded in on one another. What had she cared so little about that she hadn't even sealed the box . . . ?

A shimmer of purple covered the top layer.

Her homecoming dress.

“I'll get my dad's car—no riding the motorcycle that night.”

Her fingertips grazed the simple bodice of the gown, Logan's voice whispering through the room.

Underneath lay a white T-shirt emblazoned with the words
CLASS OF 2004
and the still-vivid airbrushed image of a sunset over Pensacola Beach.

Spring break.

Her Niceville High School yearbook and maroon graduation cap, the gold tassel still in place.

A framed photo of her, sitting astride Logan's silver and red motorcycle, a ridiculous grin on her face, her helmet tucked in the crook of her arm, taken the first day she'd mastered the controls and succeeded in driving around the school parking lot.

Oh, how her parents had lectured her about being all kinds of reckless when they'd found out about her motorcycle lessons.

What else?

Her journal.

She pressed the brown leather book to her heart. Had she really forgotten about that? How she used to scribble her thoughts . . . hopes . . . dreams? She hadn't journaled a single word in years. No longer browsed the store aisles trying to find just the right notebook to use, examining covers and pages. Selecting the perfect pens.

Setting the journal aside, Vanessa found a small cherrywood box underneath everything else. She knew what she'd see once she released the latch. Two rings: Logan's larger class ring—white gold with a ruby-colored stone—resting next to the plain white-gold band he'd bought for her a few days after they were married.

She held up the class ring, twisting it around in the light, noticing again how Logan's initials—
LH
—were etched inside in basic block print.

The trill of her iPhone shattered the silence, causing her to jump and drop the box and rings onto the bed. She scrambled, reaching for her phone where it lay on the bedside table.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe.” Ted matched her whisper. “Did I wake you?”

She collapsed against the pillows, her hand seeking and finding the rings. “No, no—I'm awake. Having a hard time unwinding.”

“That's what I figured—so I thought I'd call. Check in on you. How's your father?”

“Overall, doing well. He's sleeping, so I convinced my mother to come home with me and rest in her bed tonight. Rylan flies in tomorrow. I'll stay another day or two and then head to Destin. I won't have a whole week to plan for the wedding.”

“Why not? You've got at least two months of untouched vacation. Talk to Gary. Ask him for more time off.”

“I don't know—”

“Vanessa, you're not the only paramedic in Denver. This is our wedding. Beautiful and elegant, remember?”

Was Ted going to make her regret speaking those words out loud?

“Fine.” She stared at the ceiling, shifting against the pillows. “I'll talk to Gary tomorrow and see if I can extend my time off.”

“I miss you, babe.”

Vanessa unclenched her fist, allowing the rings to fall onto the quilt. “I miss you, too.”

“Listen, I know you're exhausted. Try to get some sleep. When you get to Florida, take some time to lie out on the beach and relax—don't make it all about the wedding, okay?”

“Ted, the whole reason I'm going down there is to plan our wedding—”

“You know what I mean. Have some fun. Go get a pedicure or something with Mindy—”

“Right.”

“Go out to eat. What's that fish you mentioned—the one you can only get down there?”

“Amberjack?” Vanessa thought of asking Ted where he was in his apartment. Sitting on the couch, maybe? Or in bed?

No. She couldn't imagine Ted in anything more—or less—than his scrubs and a white medical jacket. At work.

“That's it. Go out to eat and order amberjack. Got it?”

Vanessa nodded. “Yessir.”

“And eat some hush puppies for me.”

She couldn't hold back a laugh. “Absolutely.”

“Now get some sleep. I love you.”

“Love you, too. G'night.”

Vanessa scrolled through the camera roll on her iPhone, the various photos of Ted causing her lips to curve into a smile. He was a good man—a competent ER doc, an avid Broncos football fan like she was, a man who understood her introvert's need for space.

Why was she sifting through this box from her past when so much good waited for her in the future—waited for her now?

Time to get some sleep.

But first . . .

Vanessa gathered up the homecoming dress, the T-shirt, the framed photo, and the graduation cap and tassel. A quick trip to her parents' garage to toss them in the trash can and . . . done. She had no need for them. Why had she ever thought she would?

She wiped her hands on her flannel pajama top as she walked back upstairs and made a mental list.

She'd mail the figurines herself on the way to pick up her brother at the airport. Her mother had enough to do—and she'd avoid any questions. Not that she had to explain herself to her mother anymore.

The rest of it—the yearbook, the journal—were easy enough to toss into her carry-on bag. She might want to show her kids her high school yearbook one day. And she couldn't convince herself to throw away her old journal, even if she never read it again. There was something wrong about throwing away handwritten memories.

But she couldn't leave Logan's class ring here, and she couldn't ask her mother to deal with it. Throwing the ring away seemed wrong somehow. Even though Logan had never asked her to return it, the ring still belonged to him.

Vanessa reopened the box containing the figurines, slipping Logan's class ring and her wedding band into the folds of the tissue paper. She'd figure out what to do with both of the rings later.

True friendship is a plant of slow growth.

—GEORGE WASHINGTON (1732–1799), FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

T
he Florida air mugged Vanessa in an unwelcome hug as she exited the Fort Walton Beach airport terminal and made her way to the waiting rental car. Even as the days eased into the first week of October and the temperature hovered in the low seventies, humidity refused to release its grip on the Panhandle.

Vanessa stowed her brilliant green, hard-sided suitcase in the trunk and placed her laptop satchel and teal leather purse in the front passenger seat. Then she settled behind the steering wheel, cranking up the air-conditioning and tuning the radio station but leaving the car in park.

Time to point her car east and head toward Destin.

Or . . . first she could call Ted and let him know she'd arrived. He was working, but he'd be checking his phone for a voice mail or text. She wasn't truly stalling if she was calling her fiancé, right?

When the phone rolled to his voice mail, as she expected, Vanessa adjusted the seat as she spoke. “Hi . . . Ted.” She rolled her eyes at herself in the rearview mirror. Why wasn't she one of those women who did nicknames? She couldn't imagine herself calling Ted “honey” or “sweetheart” or some other syrupy term of affection. Ted called her “babe,” which was . . . fine. But she just didn't do pet names. “I'm in Florida. The flight was fine. Uneventful. I even got a full can of soda. So, yeah. I'll call you later once I'm all settled at the hotel. Love you.”

And that had taken less than one minute.

It was too early to call her mother or brother to ask for an update on her father. She'd hugged Rylan goodbye less than four hours ago. Vanessa stared at the keypad of her cell phone, thinking of the folded sheet of yellow legal-sized paper in her laptop case labeled “Wedding To-Do List.” One item near the top was “CALL MINDY.”

“I can do that.”

Her casual assurance to Ted that she'd ask Mindy to be her matron of honor came back to mock her.

Ted was right, of course. He should ask his brother to be his best man. Which meant she needed a maid—or matron—of honor. But her “I can do that” statement implied she had a friend to ask, when all she really had were business colleagues. Church acquaintances.

And Mindy.

Mindy, the closest thing she had to a friend—if they both overlooked Vanessa's abysmal ability to maintain a relationship. Yes, they were friends during their senior year of high school only because Mindy pursued her as a friend. And because they roomed together in college, because, well, that's how it worked out. And because Mindy sent Christmas cards, ignoring the fact that Vanessa didn't do Christmas cards. Or birthday cards. Or Facebook. Or phone calls.

Yes, Mindy was her friend. But Vanessa could never say she was Mindy's friend without stumbling over the word.

Still, she was here to plan her destination wedding, and she needed help making that happen. Mindy had always been there for her. And, knowing Mindy, she'd be there for her again on the other side of the yawning chasm of silence that had become their relationship since college.

Please, God, let this wedding come together without too much drama. And please help me convince Mindy to be my matron of honor a lot faster than I've been able to convince myself to call her and ask her.

Maybe she and Mindy could manage a pedicure, too. Something normal girlfriends did together. Something relaxing.

All she had to do was make a phone call.

Mindy answered the phone before the second ring ended, as if she'd been expecting Vanessa's call for the past eight years.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mindy—it's Vanessa. Vanessa Hollister.” Vanessa fisted her hand against the steering wheel, staring at the palm trees surrounding the parking lot that didn't quite hide the view of construction along the road outside the airport.

“Vanessa? Oh, my gosh! I can't believe you're calling me! How are you?”

“Good. I mean . . . I'm good.” Vanessa cranked up the air-conditioning a bit more, adjusting the vents. “And surprise! I happen to be in Florida—at the airport in Fort Walton, to be exact.”

“You're here?” Mindy's voice pitched higher.

“Yes. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. I was supposed to be here last week.” Not that she'd have called Mindy before then, either. “But then my dad had a heart attack—”

“What? Vanessa—is he okay?”

“Yes. I mean, it was bad, but he's recovering. He's home now, and my brother is in Montana with my mom.”

“Isn't Rylan stationed overseas?”

“Yes—Germany. How'd you know that?”

“Facebook is an amazing thing—that and Google Plus. And Rylan posts lots of photos on Instagram.”

Imagine that. She really ought to get online more often.

“Anyway, I had some vacation time and decided to come to Destin.” Vanessa stared straight ahead, watching a mother and father, loaded down with luggage, herd their three backpack-toting young children and make their way to a rental van. “I got a little delayed, but now that my dad's doing better, my boss okayed another week off, so here I am. I thought maybe we could meet for lunch.”

“I would love to! How about you come to my house?”

“Oh, Mindy, I don't want to put you out. I could treat you to lunch—”

“Absolutely not. This is so much easier. How about tomorrow? Is that too soon? Eleven o'clock?”

Vanessa considered her day. She was seeing the hotel wedding coordinator in the morning, so lunch should work. “That's great. Remind me where you and—” Her mind went blank. She couldn't remember Mindy's husband's name. Oh, this was awful!

“Jett.”

“Sorry. Jett. Tell me where you live, and I'll be there at eleven.”

After confirming the information, she tossed her cell phone into her purse, sliding her seat belt into place.

Now to conquer the Mid-Bay Bridge. Pay a toll. Cross a bridge. Check into her hotel. And then decide if she wanted to go for a walk along the beach.