Crazy Little Thing Called Love (37 page)

There is nothing wrong with making mistakes. Just don't respond with encores.

—AUTHOR UNKNOWN

H
ow ironic that she didn't know Logan's address. Didn't know where he lived in Oklahoma.

She gathered the cardboard box, bubble wrap, the roll of packing tape, and the scissors from her dining room table, carrying them back to her bedroom and dumping it all on top of her bedspread. This was the last thing she needed to do to erase Logan Hollister from her life.

The six Royal Doulton figurines still stood on the bookshelves, as if frozen in time. Lovely ladies, one and all, in long gowns. Some wearing dress gloves. Some with bonnets with bows. All with smiles—knowing or coquettish or shy.

Which statue should she wrap up first?

Why not the lady all in white—the very first figurine Logan had given her for Christmas when they had just started dating?

“What . . . what is this?” Vanessa held the beautiful china lady, tracing the outline of the red ribbons adorning her bonnet.

Logan couldn't stop smiling. “It's a Royal Doulton figurine. My grandmother collected them—and this one was one of her favorites.”

“This was your grandmother's?” Vanessa turned the figurine around, studying it from all angles.

“Yes, a few of them somehow survived the tornado. A miracle, my grandfather said. But don't worry. I asked my mother if I could give it to you, and she said yes.” His hand rested on hers. “Do you like it?”

“She's beautiful, Logan. Absolutely beautiful.”

And the figurine
was
exquisite—too lovely, too valuable for Vanessa to keep. Something irreplaceable like this belonged in Logan's family. And she was no longer a part of that. She should have sent them back to Logan right after their divorce, but she'd forgotten all about the figurines. That oversight wasn't going to continue.

Vanessa wrapped the statue in two layers of bubble wrap, sealing it with tape. She did the same with each of the other five figures. Then she lined the bottom of the box with bubble wrap and placed the statues inside.

Almost done.

The wooden box containing Logan's class ring and her white-gold wedding band went into the box next, nestled among the bubble-wrapped figurines. Then she sealed the box shut with packing tape.

Now all she had to do was to figure out where to send the package.

Mindy to the rescue—again.

But for once, Mindy didn't answer her phone. Of course, the woman deserved a life of her own. She wasn't waiting around to rescue Vanessa whenever she had a problem. She'd leave a voice message and go on with life—normal, everyday life.

“Hey, my friend. It's Vanessa. Would you call me back when you get a moment? I need Logan's sister's address, if you've got it. Or his parents' address—although that would be my last resort. Thanks.”

Now all she had to do was wait.

Again.

She placed the box on the top shelf of her closet, shoving it all the way to the back. Until she heard back from Mindy, she wasn't going to trip over the thing.

•  •  •

Logan set his plate of microwave lasagna on the table beside his couch. Not just like his mother made—but he was hungry and this was easy.

He took a couple of quick bites, grimacing when one bite was too hot and another was still cold in the middle. He set the dish aside, powering up his laptop. Time to work on his résumé so he could continue pursuing job options, post-Stormmeisters.

But before he could even open the file, his sister IM'd him.

Logan, are you there?

Yes.

I have something here that belongs to you.

What?

A package came to my condo—but it's for you.

Logan abandoned Instant Message and dialed his sister's number on his phone.

“Hey, big brother.”

“You are not making any sense, Caro.”

“Yes, I am. I'm trying to tell you that a package was mailed to me—but it's for you.”

He reached for the lasagna again, searching for another heated portion. “See, this is what I mean—”

“I think it's from Vanessa.”

The microwave dish slipped in his hand, and he juggled it for a few seconds, balancing it against his knee. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, there's no name on the return address, but it's from someone in Denver, Colorado. I don't know anyone else who lives in Denver except Vanessa. And maybe a couple of friends from college.”

“Well, then, it may not be from Vanessa.”

“Logan, it's addressed to you
in care of me
.” His sister waited in silence for a few moments. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to do with the package?”

His sister asked a very good question.

“I don't know why Vanessa would be sending me anything.” He debated his answer for a moment. “Go ahead and open it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, it's either that or you mail it out here to me.” He chuckled, thankful to be able to find a little humor in the situation. “And then you're going to insist I call you and tell you what she sent me, anyway.”

“That's the truth.” Caron picked up on his mood change, her voice lightening. “You want to tell me what happened between you two when she was here?”

“No.” Logan stood and paced the length of his living room. “Just open the box, Caron Amelia.”

“Oh-ho. You never call me Caron Amelia—unless you are ticked off at me.”

“Will you open the box, please?”

His sister must have tired of playing with him, because it was silent on her end of the phone. And then Caron announced, “I'm putting the phone on speaker.”

The squeaking sound of tape being peeled off plastic bubble wrap had Logan wincing.

“Logan, it's . . . it's one of Mom Mom's figurines.”

Logan closed his eyes. She hadn't. He forced himself to ask the question. “A Royal Doulton lady?”

“Yes. I don't know which one.”

“It doesn't matter.”

How many had he given to Vanessa while they were dating and married?

“One, two, three . . .” Caron counted out loud. “There are six of them in here.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Wait a minute. What's this?”

“I can't see you, Caro. You're going to have to tell me.” Logan swallowed back the sour taste building in the back of his throat. “I'm sorry. This isn't your mess, even if the box was sent to you.”

“It's okay, Logan.”

“So what else did you find?”

“It's a little wooden box. Hold on a second.”

He didn't have much of a choice.

“Oh, Logan . . .” His sister sounded as if she were trying not to cry. “She sent back your class ring and . . . and . . .”

“What else?”

“Her wedding band.”

He deserved it. He deserved it all. The figurines. The class ring. Even the wedding band.

The phone dropped from his hand. Logan leaned forward on the couch, his arms crossed over his knees, and buried his head on his forearms. His blood thundered in his ears as he fought to breathe.

Vanessa had sent back her wedding band.
Her wedding band.

A few moments later, he realized Caron was yelling at him on the phone. He scrabbled to find his cell phone on the floor and slumped back against the couch cushions.

“I'm here.”

“What are you thinking?” His sister's voice was soft. Gentle.

“Why would she send back her wedding band?”

“Logan, you're not married anymore.”

His sister's words stopped him cold.

He had no reason to question Vanessa's actions. There was no hope of a future—of a relationship—between them. She was returning his gifts—Christmas, birthday, just because—and her wedding band. She wasn't being cruel by sending back the figurines and the rings. It made sense . . . because she was getting married in just a few months. It was best to get rid of the shards of their broken relationship.

She'd been Vanessa Hollister when he'd met her. And she'd become Vanessa Hollister when they'd married. But once she married Ted, she'd be
his
wife.

They were done.

You never find yourself until you face the truth.

—PEARL BAILEY (1918–1990), ACTRESS AND SINGER

“H
ave a seat, Logan.”

After shaking his hand, Frank Morgan, the manager at one of the local television stations, motioned to the chair positioned in front of his desk. As he settled into the swivel chair, Frank picked up a piece of paper and waved it in front of Logan.

“I've got to say, I was surprised to see your résumé come across my desk.”

“You do have a job opening, right?”

“Yes, but not for a storm chaser.”

“I know what job I applied for, Frank.”

“And I know you're not a weatherman, Logan.”

“I've got a degree in meteorology.” Logan held himself still. “I know storms. Give me some time in front of the green screen, and I think—”

“Are you kidding me?” Frank tossed the paper back on the desk. “What's going on? Your team quit on you or something?”

“I'm not with the Stormmeisters anymore.”

“Why?” Frank held up his hand, stalling Logan's response. “And don't tell me you all of a sudden got a hankering to be an on-air meteorologist.”

“You know about last summer's disaster in Kansas—it was all over the news.”

“So?”

“My recklessness—my stupidity—almost killed one of my teammates.”

“If you're telling me your team axed you, I'm not going to believe that.”

“I quit.”

“How noble of you.”

“What?” Logan had never imagined the job interview careening out of control like this.

“You were being noble, right? Sacrifice yourself because you made a wrong decision—”

“It's not like that—”

“Then explain it to me. Explain to me why you're down here applying for a job at my TV station and not planning for next season.”

“If I stayed on the team, there wouldn't be a next season. They were threatening to pull our grants.”

Frank leaned forward on his desk. “So you apply for other grants, Logan. You don't run scared. You don't
quit
.”

The man's words were an invisible blow, shoving Logan back into his seat. “This is turning into quite a job interview.”

“I had no intention of offering you a job, Logan.” The man's smile held no hint of an apology. “I invited you here out of curiosity.”

“Well, I hope you're satisfied.” Logan rose from his seat.

“You have a great reputation among storm chasers, you know that, right? I remember you being interviewed by one of my reporters when you were still in college—starting a storm-chasing team. People thought you were crazy—and you proved 'em wrong.”

“I'm not so sure about that.”

“I know how the community was rocked by the deaths of Tim Samaras and his son, Paul, and Carl Young back in 2013. It was a heartbreaking tragedy—but you're still here, Logan. Yes, your team took a hit, but it's still here. You need to be safe—every storm chaser balances safety versus seeking answers every day.” Frank stood, coming around the desk to face Logan. “I know you're careful when you're out there. If you quit now, you walk away from all the work you've put into trying to understand tornadoes—trying to predict them, to protect people. I don't know what you'll accomplish in this field one day, but we both know what you'll accomplish if you walk away. Nothing.”

Logan held out his hand. A handshake and he was out of here. “Well, if that's all—”

“One more thing before you go.” Frank picked up his résumé, tapping the line that read “References on request.” “All those references? They believe in you. In what you've done. That's why they're willing to put in a good word for you. You think about that.”

•  •  •

Jules arrived at his apartment first, carrying a huge pot of chili fragrant with spices wrapped in a white and blue towel.

Logan held open the door, stepping back when Julie brushed off his offer of help with a shake of her head.

“Max didn't come with you?”

“He dropped me off at the curb and then went to park the car. He'll be here in a sec.”

“That guy treating you okay?”

“No complaints.” Julie's smile hinted at more than “no complaints.” “Actually he's been a perfect gentleman.”

“Glad to hear it.” Logan moved the stack of crockery bowls to the side of the table to make room for the chili.

Once Julie set the pot in the middle of the table, she offered him a hug, wrapping him in the brisk scent of the coming snowstorm. “It's good to see you again, Logan.”