Crazy Little Thing Called Love (9 page)

“How are you, Mrs. Wright?”

“I'm just fine. Come on in here and say hello to Mr. Wright. We were just finishing up a late lunch.” The woman's white slippers scuffed along the wood floor. “You want some lemonade?”

Vanessa had grown up learning just how quickly things could change. But Mrs. Wright's offer of lemonade brought an unexpected rush of tears to her eyes. How many glasses of the tart, cold drink had she consumed on their back porch? “Yes, please. That sounds delicious.”

Mrs. Wright's oil paintings still decorated the walls leading to the kitchen. It, too, was unchanged, decorated in cheery yellow, the windows hung with blue and white gingham curtains.

“We're out on the enclosed porch today. Mr. Wright likes it out there.”

Out of habit, Vanessa braced herself for the yips of two little dogs as they came bounding to greet her, but only Mr. Wright was in the screened-in room.

His tall, lanky frame sat slumped in a chair, a wooden TV tray to one side, a plate of food left untouched, the chicken patty and green beans cut into pieces. A Miami Dolphins ball cap covered his head, and he wore his slippers in a one-on, one-off fashion.

“Sweetheart, look who came to visit—Vanessa from up the street.”

“Who?” The elderly man lifted his chin, his gaze fixed on his wife's face.

“Vanessa. You know, the girl who used to walk Maggie and Mollie.”

Mr. Wright tilted his head back, struggling to find Vanessa, and then a grin lit up his face. “Vanessa-girl! Where you been?”

Vanessa grasped his hand, the skin dry and cracked. “I'm sorry it's been so long. I've been busy—”

“Is Logan with you? I want him to give me a ride on that snazzy motorcycle of his while you walk those puppies!”

Vanessa's grip tightened around his thin hand. “What?”

“Is he mowing lawns today?”

Mrs. Wright, who was clearing up the lunch dishes, just nodded, offering a small smile.

“Y-yes, Logan's working today.” Vanessa blinked away the moisture blurring her vision. “I'm sorry. Maybe he'll come by tomorrow.”

“Well, I hope so. I'm going to convince that boy to let me on that motorcycle one of these days.”

“Vanessa, will you grab those glasses for me?” Mrs. Wright motioned toward the kitchen, then turned back to her husband. “Now you just rest, and I'll bring you some cookies.”

“Not the sugar-free ones. I don't like 'em.”

“Of course not, dear.”

Once in the kitchen, Mrs. Wright stored the leftover food in a plastic container. “He might want it later. I'm so glad you came by, Vanessa. He's having a good day. He even let Christina, the home health care woman, dress him and bring him downstairs.”

This was a good day?

“Has he been sick, Mrs. Wright?”

“Well, he hasn't really been sick, but his memory isn't what it used to be.”

“Are you okay? You know the news is talking about a hurricane watch, right? I could get you some groceries if you need anything.”

“Yes, dear. I watch the news in the morning and at night, too. It's nice to have the TV on. I like to watch the old movies, you know—although Mr. Wright doesn't care for the musicals.” The older woman closed the fridge, finished storing the leftovers. “And our daughter, Ruth, in Tuscaloosa checks on us. It's just a little rain and wind. No need to get upset. We'll be fine.”

Vanessa knew the answer to her next question, but she had to ask. “And the dogs . . . ?”

“I lost the girls a few years ago now. And it's for the best. I spend all my time taking care of Mr. Wright.”

No Maggie, no Mollie—and in a sense, no husband. How did Mrs. Wright stand it, day in and day out?

Plates clinked against the dishwasher spokes. “So, what brings you to town?”

“I'm here to plan my wedding.” Vanessa filled the glasses halfway with lemonade. “I'm . . . well, I'm getting married again.”

“You and Logan are getting remarried?” Mrs. Wright closed the dishwasher with a soft click. “But why would you do that?”

Yellow liquid sloshed over the edge of the pitcher and onto the countertop. “No, no—not me and Logan. We divorced eight years ago.” Vanessa searched the kitchen for a roll of paper towels. “I'm living in Denver now. I'm a paramedic, and I've been dating an ER doctor. We're getting married—having a destination wedding in Destin.”

“Really?” Mrs. Wright opened a package of molasses cookies. “Does Logan know?”

“No.” A jerk of her hand caused Vanessa to pull too many paper towels off the roll she found hanging on the side of the fridge. “Why would Logan need to know?”

“Because he's your husband. What if he wants to do the
I object!
part?”

Maybe Mrs. Wright wasn't as alert as Vanessa first thought.

“Logan is my
ex
-husband. That's not going to happen.” Vanessa mopped up the spill with the wad of paper towels. “Our relationship ended years ago.”

Mrs. Wright stopped arranging cookies on a small plate decorated with blue flowers, reaching over to pat Vanessa's hand. “Just because you and Logan divorced, that doesn't mean you and he are over.”

Vanessa was about to argue, but Mrs. Wright interrupted her when the doorbell rang. “Oh, that must be Christina, back for the second home health care shift. Would you take these to Mr. Wright while I go get the door?”

Mr. Wright had dozed off. After introducing Vanessa, Mrs. Wright got caught up talking about the day with the home health care representative. Vanessa made her exit once Mrs. Wright returned, her lemonade untouched, promising to come back again before she left for Denver.

“You better. Mr. Wright won't remember you've been here to miss seeing you—but I will!”

You can't base your life on other people's expectations.

—STEVIE WONDER (1950– ), MUSICIAN

“Y
ou can't go home again.”

How many times had Logan proven that statement true?

While they'd lived in Niceville all his life, his parents seemed to make a habit of moving to a newer, bigger house every few years. Or renovating a room or two in the home they were living in. Changing the landscape so the yard looked completely different.

This time, the landscape remained the same, but his sister warned him that they'd expanded and retiled the sunroom, adding space for his mother's plants.

More than a casual dinner waited for him behind the large wooden door with smoky glass panels on either side guarding the front of the house.

“Let's go this way.” Logan motioned for Brady, Max, and Julie to follow, knowing Max would be able to navigate the well-manicured lawn even on his crutches. He sidetracked to the back, where an in-ground pool covered half the yard, screened in and surrounded by an assortment of low-growing bushes. The gate was unlocked, and from the pool area he entered the updated sunroom, decorated with an assortment of new white wicker furniture. How did his mother manage all of the foliage?

No family in sight, but the faint hum of voices and the rich aroma of his mother's beef brisket led them to the kitchen—and his mother and sister, Caron. She stood in front of Alex, who towered over her, his arm around her waist. Visual proof to back up his mother's report that Caron and Alex were dating. Had they caved to parental pressure—decades' worth of not-so-subtle hints from both sets of parents that they were perfect for each other—or was there real potential for a long-term relationship between them?

“Logan!” Caron slipped away from Alex and dashed, barefoot, across the kitchen, pulling him into a tight embrace. “How are you, big brother?”

He squeezed her in return, enjoying her laughing protest. “Good to see you again, Caro.” Over her shoulder, he nodded at Alex. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Logan.”

His mother added onions and shiitake mushrooms into the Crock-Pot on the kitchen counter and replaced the glass lid. “Now I'm a happy mother. Both of you are home.”

Logan opened his arms and pulled her in next to his sister, both of whom barely came up to his shoulder, completing the tradition they'd repeated hundreds of times through the years. Would he ever outgrow these double hugs? The jasmine scent of his mother's perfume, the soft chime of his sister's giggle—
this
was coming home for Logan. He'd ignore how his mother's hair was more gray than blond now, how a few more fine wrinkles bracketed her wide smile. Yes, his mother was getting older—but she never aged.

“Mom and Caron, you both remember the team, but I'll do introductions for Alex. So, Max is the one on crutches, Brady's our resident bald guy—” Logan talked over Brady's groan. “And Jules brings class to our motley crew.”

As he talked, his mom hugged each team member, and then insisted they all get comfortable in the family room while she finished with dinner.

“Caron made a baked crab dip, so why don't you relax a little bit longer and enjoy that?” His mother pointed to the room just off the kitchen. “Logan, help them get settled, will you? And find out what they want to drink.”

“Sure thing, Mom.”

Once the trio was settled with dip and veggies and tall glasses of iced tea, he excused himself and headed back to the kitchen.

“Where's Dad?”

“Oh, you know how he always has just a few more things left over from work.” His mother patted his back, standing on tiptoe to place another kiss on his cheek, and then moving to retrieve a spinach salad from the side-by-side fridge. “Even with Caron working there now, he hasn't slowed down a bit.”

“Enjoying being a Realtor, sis?”

“Absolutely.” Caron rejoined Alex, who seemed more than happy to stay by her side. “You know it's been my plan since I was in high school.”

“I know. And thanks to you, I don't have to go near that corporate ladder to success.”

“No—you always wanted to go drag real ladders from the garage and use them to climb up on the roof. And then jump off. I'm happy to rescue you from the life of planning open houses and negotiating contracts.” His sister leaned back into Alex's embrace. She'd cut her hair shoulder-length and dyed it a soft blond. His father must have requested she have a normal hair color if she was going to be a part of Hollister Realty. “So, we're still trying to convince Dad to finally take that cruise down the Danube he and Mom have always talked about—‘we' being Mom, me, Alex, and his parents. Who knows, maybe next year he'll relax enough and book it.”

Leaning down from his height of six-foot-six, Alex pressed a kiss on her lips. “You're doing a marvelous job, sweetheart.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Caron stood on her tiptoes and returned his kiss, brushing his brown hair back off his forehead. “It's nice to know someone believes in me.”

“I always have.” Alex stole another kiss. “You're beautiful and talented.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just see if you can talk up the Danube over dinner.”

Just how serious was this thing between his sister and Alex? So long as the guy treated her right, then Logan was good with this. It was nice to see his sister laughing. Content. An air of wounded uncertainty had lingered after her last breakup—but that was gone now.

“So what's the latest on the hurricane?” Logan noticed the small TV mounted under one of the rows of kitchen cabinets. A new addition—convenient for his mom while she cooked.

“Alex and I checked the news about ten minutes ago. It's still only a hurricane watch.”

“Okay, then. Are you and Dad still planning on throwing a block party and riding it out here if it actually turns into the real thing?”

“Logan—we do not throw a block party.” Even as she reprimanded him, his mother laughed. “We just let the neighbors know they're welcome to stay here if they want.”

“Well, Dad built this house like a fortress.”

“And that's why we won't have to evacuate—ever. You know you and the team can come here if the hurricane shows up, right?”

“Yes—but I'm not worried about it. And really, I wouldn't want to interrupt the party.”

“Enough.” His mother pulled a bottle of her homemade creamy bacon salad dressing from the fridge. “Go tell your dad dinner is ready in five, will you?”

“Sure thing, Mom.” He nodded toward the family room. “Caro, will you and Alex check on Julie and the guys?”

He grabbed a bottle of water for his father and a Coke for himself, noting his mother had a small dish of sliced lemons waiting on the shelf. “Thanks for remembering.”

“How could I forget? You've been guzzling that stuff since middle school. I don't understand it, but I'm your mother and I like to spoil you when I can.”

“I'm not spoiled.”

“Shoo!” She snapped the towel at his backside, reminding him of all the times she'd sent him scurrying from the kitchen in the same way. His mother knew how to wield a kitchen towel like a guy in a high school locker room.