Finding Nick

by Janis Reams Hudson

  But she didn’t seem ill at ease, so that was something.

  On the other hand, she had yet to acknowledge that anything had happened between them, much less the most spectacular sex he’d ever experienced. If she thought it wasn’t worth a comment, that was troubling.

  After the band finished “The Eyes of Texas,” it started up with the school fight song.

  Three bars into it, Shannon laughed. “That’s my school song.”

  “Get out,” Nick said.

  “No, really. Yours is probably ‘Red and White Forever.’ Ours was ‘Green and White Forever, Loyal are we,’” she sang. “Wow. I haven’t heard that song in years.”

  When the song was over, the crowd cheered and the band marched on. The crowd cheered again and laughed at the antics of the school mascot.

  The Tribute Tiger, in all his—or her—glory—red and white, rather than black and orange—was hamming it up big time for the crowd, throwing candy, dancing around, running from one side of the street to the other, and thoroughly entertaining the onlookers.

  “Oh, look,” Shannon said with a squeal. “Your tiger has a pocket protector stuck to its chest. You have a nerdy tiger.”

  “What can I say?” Nick answered. “It’s Nerd Day.”

  The parade wound up with a half-dozen teenagers on horseback, sporting a 4-H and FFA banner on a pole.

  Shannon shot a few more pictures, then stowed her camera. “That was fun.” Shannon tilted her face up to the sun and smiled. So far, the day was a definite ten.

  “There’s my boy.”

  A woman in her late fifties or early sixties, decked out in the red-and-white Tribute Tigers school colors, strolled up to Nick and planted a big red kiss on his cheek. Grinning, she used her thumb in a practiced gesture to wipe the lipstick off of him.

  “Are you going to introduce me to this lovely lady?” the woman asked sweetly.

  Nick smiled sadly and shook his head, the perfect picture of long-suffering patience. “Could you be any less subtle?” He put his arm around the woman’s shoulder and smiled. “Shannon, this is my aunt, Beverly Watson. Aunt Bev, Shannon Malloy, ace reporter from New York.”

  Shannon returned the woman’s smile and the two of them shook hands.

  “I’ve been hearing—”

  “—about you.” They spoke at the same time, then laughed.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Shannon said. “I’m really a nice person.”

  “Now, dear, he hasn’t said—”

  “Wait.” Shannon held a hand up to stop her. “I don’t mean to put you in the middle. But I know what he thinks of reporters, so don’t try to cover for him.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Beverly got a definite twinkle in her eye. “Has he agreed to be interviewed yet?”

  “No,” Shannon said with a dark look for Nick.

  “Well, then, why don’t the two of you come around for dinner this evening, and you and I can double-team him.”

  Surprise held Shannon quiet for a moment. His aunt was on her side? “You mean you think he should let me interview him?”

  “Yes, and I’ve told him so, but he’s stubborn.”

  “Stubborn? Not Nick.”

  “The stories I could tell you.” Beverly raised her gaze to the sky as if beseeching the heavens for aid.

  “Ladies, please.” Nick wore a decidedly pained look on his face. “No female bonding allowed on Main Street.”

  “You’ll live.” Shannon patted his shoulder.

  Beverly patted his other shoulder at the same time and said, “There, there, you poor, put-upon thing, you. Will lasagna make you feel better?”

  He gave a beautiful imitation of a sad five-year-old, his head drooping, one side of his mouth twisted. “Maybe.”

  “With cheesecake for dessert?” his aunt tempted.

  He peered at her with one hope-filled eye. “With strawberries?”

  “If that’s what you want.” She turned to Shannon. “Dinner’s at six. You don’t have to bring him if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, now I’m hurt,” Nick said.

  With just more than an hour until dinner, Beverly dashed home to prepare and Nick headed back to the school to lock everything down. Shannon rushed back to her motel room, the idea for a new book burning in her head.

  High-school homecomings. There were surely as many different customs as there were schools that celebrated the annual event. There would be regional differences. Bound to be. Cowboy Day, for one, wouldn’t be a biggie in New Jersey, where she’d gone to school.

  Back in her room, she booted up her laptop and started making notes, things she’d seen, ideas that came to mind. She’d been at it maybe five minutes when someone pounded on her door.

  “Go away,” she muttered while she finished typing a thought.

  Bang bang bang. “Shannon?”

  “What?” She sat up and blinked. What was Nick doing here so early?

  A glance at the clock beside the bed told her he wasn’t early at all. She’d been hunched over her keyboard longer than she’d realized.

  “Coming!” she yelled toward the door.

  A quick glance in the mirror, a dash of fingers through her hair. She could put on lipstick in a minute. She opened the door and there he stood, looking so good she wanted to lap him up. She reached for him, then clenched her fists and stepped back. “We don’t have time.”

  Nick stepped inside her room and kicked the door shut behind him. “You keep looking at me like that, saying things like that, dinner can wait.” He slipped his arms around her and brought his mouth to hers, and she melted against him. “Oh, yeah,” he mumbled against her lips. “It can wait a long, long time.”

  She kissed him back and reveled in the feel of his heart pounding against hers. One of them needed to be sensible, yet when he spread his hand on her backside and flexed his fingers, she doubted it would be her.

  Then again, he didn’t seem inclined to stop.

  She tore her lips free of his and swore. “Why do I have to be the sensible one?”

  “Who says you have to be?” He nibbled along the side of her neck.

  “Cut that out. Your aunt’s waiting for us.”

  “Oh.” He straightened, stepped back. “Yeah. My aunt. Another minute with you and I might forget I even have an aunt. You pack a punch.”

  “So do you.” She held out a hand to ward him off. “So let’s not do that again.” Lipstick. She needed lipstick. That would keep his mouth off hers. Which wasn’t what she wanted, but under the circumstances, Aunt Beverly, dinner. Lasagna. “You or cheesecake? Sorry, you lose.”

  “My heart would be broken, but I’m after the lasagna.”

  Shannon shook herself in hopes of regaining her common sense. She swiped lipstick across her lips, fluffed her hair again, then shut down her computer and put it in the bedside drawer.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” They stepped out of the room. “Are we walking?”

  “If you don’t mind,” he said.

  “Are you kidding? I’m from New York, remember? I’m used to walking several miles a day. But I notice nobody walks anywhere around here, except you.”

  “And one other transplanted New Yorker.”

  “Wade Harrison?” she asked.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I recognized the name of the newspaper and remembered that this is where he made off to last summer. What a stir that caused back home, let me tell you.”

  “I’ll bet. Caused quite a stir here, too.”

  Shannon laughed. “I can only imagine.” She hefted her purse strap onto her shoulder and strolled beside him.

  “It’s something I’ll never again take for granted,” Nick told her.

  “What is?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Walking.”

  “I remember. You were injured. They said you wouldn’t walk again. Now you’re a walking miracle. Pun intended.”

  “Pun accepted. It is a miracle, and I don’t take it for granted. Or at least I
try not to.”

  “Is that why you walk everywhere? So you won’t take it for granted?”

  “I walk because if I don’t, my back and hip and leg stiffen up.”

  “But don’t you get tired from all the walking? You’re on your feet all day, aren’t you?”

  “I’m on my feet, and yeah, my busted parts get tired and I start limping. I have to walk out the pain before I pack it in for the day, or I’ll be sore as hell the next morning.”

  “Is that your physical therapy? Do you still see a doctor about your injuries?”

  “No. They might tell me I’ll never walk again, and I’d rather not know that.”

  Shannon shuddered. “I don’t blame you. That must have been terrifying. All of it, from the accident to the prognosis and physical therapy.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me,” Nick told her.

  “But you did it,” she said with quiet awe. “You did it all and survived. Let’s celebrate with lasagna and cheesecake.”

  Beverly Watson and Nick lived two blocks off Main in a small, two bedroom brick house with a neat front yard, with purple and yellow pansies decorating the edge of the sidewalk and front porch. Inside, the house was warm and welcoming, as was the hostess.

  “So, you decided to bring him after all.”

  Shannon shrugged. “He said he was hungry. What could I do?”

  “Guess I know where I stand,” Nick muttered.

  “That’s right,” his aunt told him. “Why don’t you pour the tea, dear, while I finish the salad?” She kissed his cheek.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shannon followed them to the kitchen with an offer of help, and within minutes they were all seated around the oval table in the dining room. The smell of lasagna made Shannon’s mouth water.

  They talked of this and that, critiqued the parade, considered the upcoming bonfire, which Shannon made Nick promise to take her to see later that evening.

  “This lasagna is wonderful, Mrs. Watson.”

  “Thank you. I knew you had good taste.” She smiled and almost winked. “And it’s Beverly, please.”

  “Beverly,” Shannon acknowledged. “And I hear your cheesecake is worth…quite a bit.”

  Under the table, Nick’s foot tapped her shin.

  “Nick has a weakness for it. Tell me what you do when you’re not writing this book you’re working on.”

  “I work for the Times.”

  “The New York Times?”

  “Is there any other?”

  “Spoken like a typical New Yorker,” Beverly said with a chuckle. “You write for them?”

  “Yes,” Shannon said.

  “I can’t believe,” Beverly said, “that a smart, pretty young lady like yourself hasn’t managed to convince my nephew to let you interview him yet.”

  “I can’t believe it, either,” Shannon said with a look to Nick.

  “Does the Times know you’re writing a book?” Nick asked.

  “Yes. They’re fine with it. You want to be included?”

  “Oho,” he said. “You sure slipped that right in there, didn’t you?”

  She shrugged and smiled. “Seemed like an opportunity too good to pass up.”

  “You’re wasting your breath,” he told her.

  “Come on, Nick,” Beverly said. “Think about it.”

  “You know I don’t go in for that kind of thing,” he told her.

  Beverly waved a hand in the air as if waving away his words. To Shannon she said, “Those photographers, they violated his privacy time and again, taking pictures of him when he was so hurt he couldn’t move. He told them to go away, but they didn’t. They had him at what he thought was his worst all over the papers and on television. It wasn’t his worst, it was the bravest thing in the world, but that’s beside the point. They should have left him alone.”

  “I agree,” Shannon said. “I’m not like that. You know I’m not.”

  He nodded, giving her the point.

  “In their defense,” she offered, “you were such big news because you actually saved several lives that they could point to. There wasn’t too much of that that day. There was some, but not much. You and the men you saved were individuals they could point to, so they did. Doesn’t help you any, but that’s what they were thinking at the time.”

  “You’re right,” Nick said. “It doesn’t help any. A lot of people died that day. You said yourself that you have firsthand knowledge of that.”

  “Did you lose someone there?” Bev asked.

  Shannon nodded, feeling the old bittersweet ache flood through her. “My father.”

  “Oh, dear.” Bev reached across the table and placed her hand over Shannon’s. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. He was a cop.” The words made her heart ache, but she spoke them anyway, as a tribute to her father. “He was pulled from the rubble that first day, but he was already dead.”

  It was quiet for a moment while they all ate a few more bites and let the ghost of Shannon’s father drift away.

  “What are you writing about the other people you’re including in your book?” Beverly asked.

  “Whatever they tell me about themselves. How they have or haven’t changed since 9/11. What that day and their part in it has cost them. Their families.”

  “Maybe you should show Nick what you’ve written so far. Maybe it would convince him you’ll be careful with his story, treat him with respect.”

  Shannon thought for a moment, thought hard. She normally didn’t allow anyone to see her work until it was as clean and polished as she could make it. No eyes on her rough drafts but her own. But she had three chapters she could let him look at that were polished. “Sure,” she said. “Will you read some of my manuscript, see what I’m doing? Then, if you still don’t want to take part, I’ll back off.”

  Nick was surprised. She must have been pretty sure of his reaction to extend such an offer. Or she didn’t care who read her work-in-progress. “I might do that.” It didn’t mean he had to give in and be interviewed.

  “Okay,” Shannon said. “You’ll read what I’ve done on two or three guys and see what you think. I’m only out to tell your story, Nick, not to expose you or make fun of you. Or make you into something you’re not.”

  He nodded once. “Okay. We’ll see.”

  Beverly clapped her hands. “Oh, goody. This calls for cheesecake.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he told his aunt darkly.

  That was the problem, Shannon thought. Her own hopes were up, and not only about the book.

  For the teenagers, the Thursday night bonfire was the highlight of the day, not counting the parade, of course. Someone had gathered what looked like a huge pile of brush, tree limbs and logs in an open field beyond the high school. At dusk, under the watchful yet discreet eyes of police, firemen, teachers and a few parents, the brush pile was set ablaze amid cheers and shouts and laughter. Spirits were high. The cheerleaders led their classmates in several cheers to ratchet up the enthusiasm.

  The bonfire was huge. Shannon glanced at Nick and saw him staring at it with narrow eyes. Intense. His jaw flexed. Nose flaring as he drew in the scent of the smoke. Now and then his gaze darted toward one of the firemen, then back to the flames.

  What must it be like for him to watch a fire?

  “I can’t tell,” she said, leaning close so he could hear her over the roar of the crowd and the fire, “if that look on your face means you want to watch it burn, or rush in and put it out.”

  He shook his head and looked down into her eyes. “Neither. Just looking, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh. Neither? I bet it’s more like both. I read somewhere that more than half of all firefighters started out as budding arsonists in their childhood.”

  He pursed his lips. “Is that a fact?”

  “That’s what they say,” she offered nonchalantly. “Is it true?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s your fact.”

  She elbo
wed him in the ribs. “Which half do you fall in?”

  “What?” he objected. “You think I started fires as a kid?”

  She laughed. “Did you?”

  “I can’t believe you’re asking.”

  “You’re not answering. What did you like to burn?”

  “Come on, Malloy, I didn’t burn anything.” His gaze darted around to make sure no one was listening, then over to that same fireman again. “Much.”

  “Aha. I knew it. What kind of fires did you start?”

  He shrugged and gave her an aw-shucks look. “It was only the trash barrel. And maybe there was the Christmas tree one year. But in my own defense, I was only six, so it doesn’t really count.”

  “I knew it. A budding arsonist. I’ll bet your brother was, too. Am I right?”

  The instant she mentioned his brother, some of the light went out of his eyes. Shannon could have kicked herself.

  “Vinnie?” Even his voice had lost much of its playfulness and took on a tone of longing that squeezed her heart. “Naw, he was the other fifty percent.”

  Shannon rubbed his arm and bumped her head against his shoulder in a show of affection and support. For a moment, he let her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is it still painful to talk about your brother, your dad?”

  “Is it painful for you to talk about your dad?” he asked. “He died the same day, in the same way.”

  “It’s a warm ache now,” she said. “I’ll miss him until the day I die. I’ll always hate fanatics who try to force their will on other people, but I’ll always be proud of my father. He loved his job and died doing it.”

  He nodded. “Same here, with my dad and Vinnie.”

  She waited, but he said nothing more, yet there was more; it was in his eyes. “But?” she prompted.

  He straightened and his face changed. Gone was the brooding look. He was in the here and now, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As if he’d never had a love-hate relationship with fire. As if the huge blaze reaching up into the night sky had never held his gaze, never mesmerized him. As if he’d never lost his brother and his father in the flames and explosions, as if he had never had his body crushed that same day.

  “But nothing,” he said. “You pegged it.” He was just a man now, watching teenagers have fun.