by Beth K. Vogt
Logan swallowed. Adjusted his response. “No, sir, I don’t think so, either. I don’t like to ride in the rain. Not safe. Can I help you get inside?”
“Well, now, son, I dunno. Why don’t we wait and see if this lets up soon?”
Logan’s shoes and socks were soaked, as were the bottom of his jeans. Meanwhile, Cressida dumped more water down on his head. How was he going to convince Mr. Wright the hurricane had no intention of “letting up” anytime soon?
“Need some help?” Vanessa’s voice sounded just over his shoulder. Why wasn’t he surprised she hadn’t listened to him? “Mrs. Wright insisted I pack a wheelchair and a walker—both of which he refuses to use. Now, I like independence as much as anyone, but I would prefer to have him inside before the hurricane makes landfall.”
“Agreed.” When Logan looked at her, cold rain pelted his face. “He, um, wants to see if it’ll let up.”
The way her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open caused a renegade chuckle to slip past his lips. Within seconds she giggled, and then they both gave way to laughter, the sound almost blocking out the storm.
Vanessa came to her senses first. “Okay . . . this is no time to be standing around laughing. Be serious.”
“Right.” Logan stood and swiped the moisture off his face to hide his smile. “My bad.”
“Let me have another try—”
“Vanessa, go back inside. I’ll do this.”
“Well, let me at least get the luggage.”
He gripped her wrist, holding her still. “My team’s in there—the guy with a brace on his leg is Max. And then there’s Brady—you remember him . . .”
“Yes.” Vanessa tensed at the mention of Brady’s name.
“Have him help you—and then tell him that he needs to go get the radio and flashlights.”
“I can do this—”
“Just tell him, okay?” He couldn’t blame her for not being thrilled about being here with his team—especially Brady. But he couldn’t worry about that now. “We’ve been here all of fifteen minutes, and he’s already bored. A bored Brady is a bad, bad thing.”
Man, he’d forgotten how he loved to make Vanessa smile—and he’d managed it twice in less than thirty seconds.
“Go on. I’ve got a stubborn gentleman to deal with here.”
He squatted down beside the passenger door again. “Hey, Mr. Wright, I don’t think it’s going to stop raining anytime soon. How about I help you get inside?”
The old man shook his head. “Not as spry as I used to be.”
“Well, that’s okay. We can take it as slow as you need to—or I can give you a piggyback ride.”
The older man stared at him for a moment, and then a rusty laugh rumbled up from deep in his chest. “A piggyback ride. Now, wouldn’t that be a sight for my wife? I haven’t had a piggyback ride since I was a little tyke. But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll walk.”
It’d been worth a try, and Logan knew he would have gotten a full-fledged laugh out of Vanessa if he’d carried Mr. Wright into the gym on his back. But he could at least tell her about the offer—maybe see another one of her smiles.
• • •
Life was never dull when Logan Hollister was around—not that he was responsible for the hurricane arriving twenty-four hours sooner than expected.
No. Logan usually brought the storm with him.
Vanessa found a hair tie in her jeans pocket and secured the end of her braid, tossing it behind her shoulder. For eight years, she hadn’t talked to Logan. Hadn’t seen him—except for when he showed up in the national news, usually standing tall in the midst of the devastation left behind by a tornado. And then she comes to Destin and immediately runs into him again in the middle of the Gulf—when they’re both rescuing a drowning teenager.
And now she comes across him again during the mandatory evacuation for a Category 3 hurricane. Why was Logan at the shelter and not at his parents’ house? Was Mindy wrong about his parents still living in Niceville?
Vanessa’s gaze kept wandering to the double doors, but Brady made it back inside with two plastic grocery bags before Logan and Mr. Wright did.
“They’re fine. Slow but steady progress. The old guy—”
“Mr. Wright.”
“Yeah, sorry. Mr. Wright is going to need some dry clothes by the time he gets in here.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks, Brady.”
“No problem. Logan mentioned it. He said he’d handle it once they make it inside, but I thought you might want to have stuff ready.”
As another group of people entered, Vanessa backed away from the doors leading into the building. There was no sense in standing around wondering when Logan and Mr. Wright would make it from the car to the building. Logan would get them inside as fast as he could.
Mrs. Wright sat in one of the canvas camp chairs, chatting with a woman who’d commandeered the other camp chair. Logan’s teammate had set their luggage nearby, along with the cots. She could at least put some order to all of this, after she found some dry clothes for Mr. Wright.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Wright? Your husband’s clothes are going to be soaked. What will he want to change into?”
Putting her hand on the other woman’s arm, Mrs. Wright focused on Vanessa. “Oh, well, he’s going to want a nap when he gets in here.”
“Understood. But we’ll have to get him into dry clothes first. So why don’t we select those now and have them all ready for him?”
“You’re right. Let me look in the suitcase. You don’t have to do everything.”
Vanessa moved the suitcase closer to where the older woman sat, taking a moment to acknowledge the younger woman. “Hello. I’m Vanessa Hollister.”
“Yes, I know. I’m Julie Cabot, one of Logan’s teammates.”
She knew? What did that mean? What did she know exactly?
“Oh. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” She sounded as if they were having high tea. “If you don’t mind helping Mrs. Wright, I’ll go wait for Logan . . . I mean, for Mr. Wright.”
Julie stopped her with a hand on her arm. “If you give me your driver’s license, I’ll take that and Mrs. Wright’s over and check you both in at the Red Cross station. They want everyone in the shelter to check in.”
“Thank you.”
“And we have some beach towels, if you want to use those.”
“Thanks . . . again.”
Grabbing two multicolored beach towels from the pile of supplies, Vanessa returned to her post by the doors just as Logan shepherded Mr. Wright out of the storm. Once Logan helped Mr. Wright out of his drenched overcoat, Vanessa wrapped a striped blue and yellow beach towel around his shoulders. The old man’s body trembled, but whether from cold or exhaustion, Vanessa didn’t know.
“Here—” Vanessa held up the other towel. “—I brought one for you, too.”
“Don’t worry about me.” Logan ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I won’t melt.”
His smile held the hint of years past, and before she even realized what she was doing, Vanessa reached up and wiped away the trickles of water from of his forehead. In less than a second Logan’s smile vanished, his hand slipping over hers so that their fingers grazed one another.
Vanessa stilled. “Thank you for helping with Mr. Wright.”
“I’m glad to do it.”
“I know.”
“I—I met Julie. She’s helping with Mrs. Wright. If I can get her husband’s driver’s license, I’ll go over and give that to her.” She dropped her hand away from his face, fingers curling into a fist. “You should probably—”
“Go help him get into some dry clothes. You’re right.”
She backed away, fighting against a feeling of breathlessness. “And then I’ll find out who’s in charge and let them know I’m a paramedic. It’s probably unnecessary, but it’s always nice to go say hello.”
“Good idea. And I should text my parents, let them know
where I am.”
So his family was still in town. Then why was he here?
“Right.” She fingered the damp ends of her braided hair. “I should do the same . . . text my parents, I mean. And Ted. My fiancé. I’m sure they’re watching the news.”
Logan’s face paled, his jaw tight. He cleared his throat—the tenuous connection between them lost. “Yes. I’m sure they’re all worried.”
“Exactly.” They stood, staring at each other, as if there was more to say. But there wasn’t. “Okay, then. I’ll check in with you—”
“After I get Mr. Wright into dry clothes.”
“Thanks again.”
“No thanks needed.” No smile. His blue eyes seemed to be icing over. “He was always nice to me—and I know how much you love both of them.”
“I did. I do.”
Logan was the first to move, prompting Vanessa to go find her iPhone.
She needed to text Ted. Now.
OCTOBER 2003
The sand was cool beneath her feet as Vanessa held up the hem of her long purple dress with one hand. Her strappy high heels dangled at her side from her other hand. Beside her, Logan carried an oversized beach blanket, the cuffs of his black pants rolled up around his ankles.
“You okay with leaving the homecoming dance early?”
“Yes.” Slow dancing with Logan had been wonderful—the strength of his arms around her, listening to him sing along to the music, song after song. But when he’d kissed her during Celine Dion’s “The Power of Love,” and said, “You ready to get out of here?” she hadn’t hesitated to agree. On the drive down in his father’s sedan, he’d kissed her at every red light. How did Logan know how to kiss like that?
He spread the faded blanket in the slight valley between two sand dunes. They sat side by side, the sound of the waves caressing the shore with the hush of a lullaby.
“I can never decide if I like the beach better at night or in the morning.” Logan stared straight ahead, his elbows resting on his bent knees, his hands linked together. He’d taken off his dress jacket and tie, leaving them both in the car. “I love watching sunrises and sunsets—it’s when I feel closest to God.”
Vanessa rested her head against his shoulder, trying to feel whatever it was that Logan experienced sitting here. “You believe in God?”
“Yeah.” His answer was so low it was almost lost in the soft murmur of the waves. “Sometimes it’s easier to believe in God here than when I’m sitting in church, you know?” He took her hand, intertwined their fingers, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on the palm of her hand. “I’m not a God-is-in-nature kind of person. I know God made all of this—the world, you, me—but when I’m here I sense his power. Or sometimes when I watch lightning zigzagging across the sky and listen to the rumble of thunder . . . that’s when I know God is real.”
Vanessa sat quiet, trying to absorb Logan’s belief. His assurance in God.
“I know I mentioned my grandfather to you, right?”
“Yes.”
“He . . . he was this giant of a man. Tall—six-foot-four. He knew what he believed, and it seemed like he never doubted himself—or God. He married my grandmother when he was eighteen and she was sixteen—”
“You’re kidding me!”
“He saw her in Sunday school when he was fifteen and said he fell in love with her then. Felt like waiting three years was long enough. They were married for sixty-two years.”
For a few moments Logan sat silent, watching the waves. “After that tornado came through that I told you about—the day before my grandmother’s funeral—my grandfather and I walked the land, looking at what was left. Not that there was anything. While we were walking, Pop Pop said, ‘God is in this, Logan.’ ”
Vanessa pulled away from him. “What?”
“Let me finish. He said, ‘God is in this, Logan. Not in the destruction. Not in the loss. But you catch a glimpse of how powerful God is when you see the fury of a tornado—only God is powerfully merciful. He comes to give us life, not death. And you’ll see him in the way people respond to this—the way they choose to help one another even as they grieve.’ ”
“Your grandfather sounds wonderful.”
“He was. I want to be like him.”
“You are like him, Logan.”
He turned and traced the outline of her face with the lightest touch. “When I’m with you, Vanessa, I believe I can be the kind of man my grandfather was. I believe my dreams can come true.”
“They will, Logan.”
“When you say it, I believe it.”
His gaze held her hostage, and then he kissed her with an intensity that stole her breath and seemed to scorch her heart—an unseen mark that made her his.
His kiss seemed to ignite something that caught both of them off guard. When he pressed her back against the blanket she didn’t resist . . . didn’t want to resist.
The warmth of his body against hers, the enticement of his kisses, both lured and lulled her. It seemed only seconds before his shirt was unbuttoned, her dress twisted . . .
“I love you, Vanessa . . .” His words rasped against her ear.
“Logan . . .”
Vanessa knew they were going somewhere dangerous . . .
And then Logan shoved himself away from her. Sat up. Turned, so that all she saw was his back. His shoulders shook. Vanessa lay on the blanket, looking up at the canopy of stars scattered across the sky, the skirt of her new gown caught around her knees, the night air cool against her shoulders.
What had she done wrong?
After a few moments she sat up, adjusting her dress, fumbling with the thin straps, the zipper, trying to breathe as tears dripped off her face onto the twisted bodice.
• • •
What was he doing?
Logan knew what he wanted. He wanted to turn back around, not think about where they were or how they would feel about . . . everything after it was over. Not think about whether what they did was wrong . . .
He wanted to tell Vanessa it was right. It was good. That he meant it when he said he loved her.
And he did.
But somehow his grandfather’s voice intruded on his thoughts, interrupting what he wanted. Reminding Logan of something he’d told him the summer Logan was fourteen. The last time he’d seen his grandfather.
“There’ll come a time, son, when you’re gonna want to make love to a gal. You’re gonna even tell her you love her—and she’ll believe you. But the question is, will you love her enough to stop before you both do something you’ll regret?”
He reached behind him and tried to find his shirt, but his fingers found only the soft weave of the blanket.
“Here.” Vanessa nudged his arm with her hand, offering him his shirt.
His whispered “Thank you” disappeared into silence.
How was he supposed to face her?
His hands shook as he buttoned his shirt, the breeze off the Gulf blowing the strands of his hair into his face.
Vanessa was never going to want to see him again.
And then he heard a faint sniff . . . a shuddery inhale . . . and his guilt welled up and strangled him.
He turned, scrambling on his knees, reaching for her, only to stop when she raised a hand to fend him off.
“Vanessa . . . this is my fault. I’m sorry . . .”
She shook her head, the curls of her updo tumbling around her face, as if discounting his words.
“No—what? What are you saying no to?” Logan fisted his hands on his legs. “Are you saying it’s not my fault? It is. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I was a jerk.”
She looked at him then, her lips trembling and tears evident in the moonlight. “What did I . . . do wrong?”
With a groan, he hauled her into his arms, the curves of her body sparking heat through him again. But he gritted his teeth. He would do the right thing—for both of them.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. This is on me.” He brushed the ha
ir back from her face, resisting the urge to kiss her. He was not going there again. “I meant what I said, Vanessa. I love you. And I want to do this right. Which means I am not going to do this here . . . on an old blanket covered with sand. You deserve better than that.”
She touched his face, her fingertips soft on his skin. “But what if—”
“No what-ifs.” God help him, she needed to stop trying to talk him into it. “I don’t want either of us regretting something tomorrow, okay? I don’t want you avoiding me in school on Monday because you’re sorry about tonight.”
“What am I going to do with you, Logan Hollister?”
“I hope you’re going to forgive me. And then I’m going to drive you home, kiss you good night on the doorstep—and hope your mom isn’t watching from the living room—” That comment earned him the ghost of a laugh. “—and then I’m going to call you in the morning and ask you out to a movie tomorrow night.”
ELEVEN
Looking back, I have this to regret . . . that too often when I loved, I did not say so.
—DAVID GRAYSON (1870–1946), AMERICAN JOURNALIST
The concrete wall pressed against Logan’s back, causing the still-damp material of his cotton shirt to stick to his skin. He’d peeled off his soggy shoes and socks, but the soaked material of his jeans clung to his ankles and lower legs.
He needed to get up off the arena floor. Grab some dry clothes from his suitcase. Go change in one of the men’s bathrooms. And he would—as soon as he felt like he hadn’t been knocked flat on his back.
Vanessa was engaged. To some guy named Ted.
The entire time he’d helped Mr. Wright out of his wet clothes and into a dry sweatshirt and sweatpants, he kept hearing Vanessa’s voice again: “I should do the same . . . text my parents, I mean. And Ted. My fiancé.”
Vanessa was getting married again.
The thought hit him like the first sighting of a funnel cloud—the times when his rational mind told him to run but he always overruled himself and drove straight toward the danger.
What if he and Vanessa had made it? What if they’d figured out a way to make their long-distance marriage work? What if he’d chosen differently—or she’d chosen differently? Would she and Julie be friends? Would she have become part of the team—inviting them over to their house for cookouts on the weekends? Sitting outside on their porch swing, talking and laughing with him and Brady and Max and Julie?
