Crazy Little Thing Called Love (5 page)

A purely optional activity.

Deep breath. She had one more chance to ease into the past with a slow drive through Niceville.

The town had changed. Of course it had. Nothing and no one stayed the same. She managed to keep her eyes on the road instead of looking left and right, noticing all the new restaurants that had appeared but how the Dairy Queen still anchored the center of town. How so many grocery stores and retail stores—even a Publix—had been built in the years since the Mid-Bay Bridge opened, and residents no longer had to take the circuitous, forty-five-minute drive to the Gulf beaches in Fort Walton.

The bridge.

Vanessa pressed two fingertips against her left temple. The traces of a dream she'd had the night before she flew to Montana fluttered at the edge of her mind like a tattered curtain in the window of an abandoned house.

What was it? She'd been . . . walking across the Mid-Bay Bridge. No cars traveling in either direction. It was dark . . . the middle of the night, maybe? . . . and the far end of the bridge was shrouded in fog.

And then what?

She'd been sitting on the edge of the bridge . . . looking down at the Choctawhatchee Bay, trying to see the water . . . someone yelled, “Jump, Vanessa!”

And then the bridge started to crumble beneath her . . .

She shook her head, scattering the memory. It was just a dream . . . just a dream.

She could do this. Brave the bridge again . . . cross over the expanse of sparkling waters. Park the car and leave her shoes near one of the dunes. Walk along the sand, just close enough for the waves to play tag with her toes.

Yes, this trip conjured up memories she'd tried her best to leave behind. Would an invisible companion walk alongside her, reminding her that this was his favorite place to be, wanting to discuss past choices, past mistakes? Well, she had a week to confront him and then leave him behind for good.

Vanessa blinked her eyes against the sunlight streaming into the car. How had she forgotten to put on her sunglasses? With one hand on the steering wheel, she used the other to dig around in her purse, finding them between her wallet and her change purse, slipping them on so that the world faded to a calmer hue.

This was how she needed to get through this week. Surrounded by a protective layer that prevented her heart from getting scorched. Focus on the wedding—her future—and keep the memories of the past from overwhelming her.

•  •  •

As dusk settled over the Emerald Coast of Florida, shadows stretched out across the white sand that formed into dunes topped by feathery sea oats, muting the vibrant colors of the water that transitioned from a pale blue to turquoise to deep green.

“You ever get tired of coming here?”

Brady's question interrupted Logan's musings—unwanted conversation when what he liked to do best was walk along the shore and
not
talk. Just because they'd been together since Logan had first brainstormed about forming a storm-chasing team didn't mean Brady had to dog his heels when Logan walked the beach in search of some elusive serenity.

“I mean, you grew up here—”

“That doesn't make me love it any less.” After graduating from college, he came back to Destin every October like a pilgrim on a journey to a seaside mecca. No better way to shake off months of storm chasing. “We all love what we do, but eating fast food and sleeping in motels while we wait on storms and try to gather data gets old.”

And the near-disaster that marred this past season on the run in Tornado Alley still scraped his emotions raw. The reality that they had all survived did nothing to appease the memories that woke him up too many nights—and kept him pacing his apartment until his alarm sounded on his cell phone.

Logan scraped the palm of his hand down his face. When he was awake, he knew Max was alive, rehabbing his way back to normal. When he fell asleep, too often his mind subjected him to instant replays. He hadn't battled nightmares in years—not since high school—but now he found excuses to stay up late.

“Of course, I'm not complaining about sun and surf and all the seafood Max can eat.” Brady's nudge sent Logan closer to the waves, the warmth of the water still bearing the hint of the summer just past.

“You got that right. And Julie's managed to work on a tan, so she's happy.”

“And then it's back to Oklahoma—processing data, looking at grants for next season.”

If they still had grants for their work. Not that Brady needed to know about the emails and phone calls he'd been fending off for the last few months. Logan shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Same old, same old.”

“You don't sound excited, boss.”

Logan scanned the sky as it darkened to purple, the sun dipping along the horizon. Now was not the time to talk about the future—and what the future held for them in Oklahoma. That was a conversation for the whole team.

The waves nipped at his feet as he continued along the shore. He also couldn't explain how, while he came here to relax, all of this reminded him of a loss he regretted no matter how many years distanced him from then and now.

And yet he came back, year after year, willing to taste the bitter for just a sip of the sweet.

The sand, still warm from the day's sunshine, squelched beneath his bare feet. Only a few people remained on the beach. A family shored up the sides of an elaborate sand castle, their laughter mingling with the cries of seagulls, An older couple walked hand in hand wearing wide-brimmed hats. And a lone woman farther down the beach, her long-legged stride putting even more space between them, her brown hair teased by the breeze.

The woman stopped near a trio of drenched teenagers stumbling out of the Gulf. Arms flailing, they pointed back toward the water. She seemed to listen for a few brief seconds. Her head swiveled left, then right, as if she were searching for something. Then in one swift beat of a heart she kicked her feet, sending her shoes catapulting into the air behind her, and pulled off her white long-sleeve sweatshirt to reveal a dark camisole underneath. As she knotted the sweatshirt around her waist, she dashed into the surf, the waves splashing against her legs.

“What?” Brady stood beside him, watching the scene unfold. “Why is she running into the water like that?”

Diving beneath the rolling waves tinted by the setting sun, the woman disappeared from sight for a few seconds, then appeared again, her arms moving in smooth, even strokes.

Faint broken cries directed Logan's attention . . .
there
! Someone fought against the choppy breakers, going under and surfacing in the inky water again—and just as quickly vanishing.

“Call nine-one-one—now!” Tossing Brady his wallet and keys before pulling off his long-sleeve T-shirt, Logan raced down the beach, churning up the sand beneath his feet. He trained his eyes on the woman, following her path toward the drowning person before he, too, plunged into the surf. The waves seemed to push him back toward the shore, but Logan powered forward. For all he knew, there was more than one person out there, near drowning, possibly caught in a riptide.

A riptide.
All of them could end up drowning.

God, help us.

The salt water burned his eyes, even as it weighed down his cargo shorts. He kicked harder, willing his breathing to even, spewing water out of his mouth. He raised his head above the swells as he kept swimming. How far out from shore was he? Where were the woman and the person—or persons—she was trying to rescue?

•  •  •

Vanessa shoved the teen away, treading water and gathering the soaked cotton material of her sweatshirt back in her hands. She spit out the gulp of salty water she'd inhaled when he'd grabbed her, pulling both of them beneath the water.

“Relax!” Her voice rasped against her throat. “Relax!”

If the kid didn't calm down he was going to drown them both.

She fought to stay above the water, kicking harder and tilting her head back, her long hair an unwelcome burden. What was the rescue routine she'd memorized so many years ago?

Call 911.

Well, she had told his friends on the beach to do that.

Reach. Throw. Row. Go.

She couldn't reach the boy from the shore. There was nothing to row out to rescue him. And when she threw the length of water-soaked material toward him the first time and yelled, “Grab this!” he ignored it, arms thrashing, eyes wide, and disappeared underneath the water.

Releasing her sweatshirt, Vanessa held her breath and dove beneath the surface, searching the murky darkness for anything—an arm, a leg—as she tried to position herself behind the boy and pull him back up.

Come on, God. Help me find him. Please. I'm not going back to shore without him—and he's going to be alive.

There!

With both hands, she grabbed the light material of his T-shirt that billowed away from his body, straining and kicking to pull him up to the surface, all the while trying to avoid any of the boy's blind strikes from his arms and legs.

She broke the surface and sucked in welcome air. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Come on, kid! Let me . . . help . . .”

As she tried to maneuver her arm underneath both of his to anchor him on his back on the surface of the water, he twisted around, gasping for air, grabbing for her again. She didn't want to slap the kid, but if that's what it took to save him—and herself . . .

Once again she tried to turn him over, only to be shoved aside, losing her grip on the teen, water splashing her face and stinging her eyes.

What?

Another swimmer, who'd appeared off to her left side, grabbed the boy, flipping him over onto his back. Then a muscular arm slipped under both the boy's arms so he couldn't struggle. The boy's eyes widened in his pale face.

“It's okay . . . okay.” Vanessa treaded water, raking the strands of hair out of her face. As the unknown man towed the teen toward the shore, she swam beside them. “Not going . . . to let you drown.”

The boy's eyes darted back and forth, his skin pale, his hands clawing at the other swimmer's arm. Vanessa used one arm to swim, grabbing the boy's hand with her free hand. Out of the corner of her eye she could just see the man's head bobbing in the water against the night sky, his hair slicked back as he swam toward shore.

“It's okay.” She kicked harder so the guy wouldn't have to pull both of them in.

The moment her toes touched sand, Vanessa stumbled to her feet, fighting the invisible pull of the tide against her trembling legs. The man lifted the teen into his arms and trudged through the surf, water rolling off his bare shoulders. The lights of several emergency vehicles flashed red and white in the parking lot, and three emergency personnel came toward them with a stretcher.

Vanessa swiped at the water streaming down her face, her hair heavy against her neck and shoulders. Her camisole clung to her torso, her jean shorts were congealed against her thighs. Her sweatshirt was lost in the Gulf. The night air cooled the skin on her arms and legs, the sand gritty between her toes. With the arrival of the paramedics and EMTs, there was nothing more for her to do. Still, she waited, bent over at the waist, gasping, watching them stabilize the teen before transporting him to the hospital. Their familiar actions anchored her back to reality.

“What were those kids thinking?” The other rescuer, who had shown up at just the right time, stood off to the side, hands on his hips.

“I don't know—” As she caught sight of the shadowed profile in the glare of the emergency vehicle's headlights, the rest of her reply died on her lips. “Logan?”

The sound of his name caused the man to look away from the crowd gathered around the teen. Shadows hid his face.

She had to be mistaken. The man standing a few feet from her wasn't her ex-husband. He couldn't be.

“Vanessa?” He took a half step toward her, stopping when Vanessa stumbled backward. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I heard somebody yelling . . . and I went to help.” She hadn't answered his question.

“But why are you
here
—in Destin?”

She hadn't seen Logan Hollister in eight years, and all she could do was stand there, the water dripping off her body onto the sand, and give him half answers. “I'm visiting Mindy.”

Someone came up behind her and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, a flimsy shield against the humidity-laden air. “How are you feeling? That's amazing what you did, saving that kid.”

Vanessa gripped the soft edges of the blanket, a shiver coursing through her body. “I didn't do it alone.”

Logan waved away the offer of a blanket. Before she could say anything else—and really, what would she say?—another man pointed a handheld video camera at them.

“I got it all on tape! You guys are heroes! My wife's calling the local news station—they're gonna want to see this!”

“I just helped.” Logan's voice pitched low as he motioned to Vanessa. “But she got to the kid before I did.”

The ambulance lights glinted off Logan's wet hair—cut so much shorter than he used to wear it—and outlined his muscular build.

Vanessa couldn't seem to speak above much more than a whisper. “I only did what anyone else would have done.”

The man pointed his camera at her. “What's your name?”

“It doesn't matter—”

“Oh, come on! What you did was amazing.”

Vanessa clutched the blanket closer. “Vanessa. Vanessa Hollister.”

“Do you live here?”

“No.” She kept her eyes averted, knowing Logan watched her. “I don't live here.”

“How do you feel—”

“I'm wet. And tired. And you're not a reporter.” She rubbed the soft cotton of the blanket across her face and bit her bottom lip. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap like that.”