First Kiss Fireworks

by Kristen Ethridge

  She eyed him sideways. “Good evening, Mr. Thomas. You’ve never once called me Dr. McGovern, and you know it.”

  “True. But I’m an usher this evening. The AD said we had to use our best manners.” He put out his hand. “May I show you to your table?”

  As long as it’s at the back of the room, she thought to herself. “By all means.”

  Quickly, Amanda realized she was not going to get her wish. Instead, Lark guided her through the sea of tables, and stopped at a chair at the very first table in front of the speaker’s podium. He pulled out the empty seat.

  Amanda nodded and thanked Lark and went to sit down, then noticed the place card next to her.

  Dane Vasquez, Head Baseball Coach

  Her heart sunk to the bottom of her strappy summer sandals. She should have just eaten another PB&J. This free meal came with far too high of a price.

  “Coach, hey!” Lark’s voice boomed just behind Amanda’s head. “I mean...it’s very nice to see you here this evening, Coach Vasquez.”

  Dane laughed, and it pierced straight to the center of Amanda’s heart. She’d missed that slightly sarcastic sound lately. She hadn’t even realized how much until just now.

  “Cut the choirboy act, Thomas.”

  “Yes, sir. Enjoy your evening.”

  Amanda stared straight ahead as she heard Dane pull out the chair next to her. Her breathing sped up and she could feel the breaths stopping far short of her diaphragm. Their lack of cooperation made her light-headed. She could not look to her right. Dane could not know he had this kind of effect on her. He’d forgotten about her. She needed to at least pretend like she’d forgotten about him.

  “I...um...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before, Amanda.”

  Well, if that wasn’t the strangest greeting ever, Amanda didn’t know what was. Why was he stammering? And why did he choose to comment on her hair? Self-consciously, she smoothed it behind her ears, wishing she’d just pulled it back in her trusty ponytail.

  “It seemed like we were supposed to dress up.” She lost all will-power and snuck a glance to the side. “You’re wearing a suit.”

  As much as she’d enjoyed seeing him in his athletic shorts and baseball pants, Amanda couldn’t believe how sharp Dane looked in his crisp black suit with a blue tie that matched the Tidal Waves’ official colors.

  Now she knew she’d have to focus on the floral arrangement in front of her all evening. Looking to the right was a definite recipe for trouble.

  “Speaking of recipes, this had better be the best steak ever,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Absolutely nothing. Just like what she meant to him.

  Thankfully, waiters began passing baskets of bread around the room. When one landed in front of Amanda, she swiped a fluffy wheat roll. As she placed it on her plate, she wondered if she could just stuff the whole thing in her mouth at once so she didn’t have to utter any more pleasantries in Dane’s direction.

  She remembered Lark’s admonition that this was a formal event, though, and she was forced to reconsider.

  “Amanda, about tonight...” Dane started a sentence, but Amanda waved him off.

  “Sssh,” she said, flapping her hand slightly. “The program is about to start. It’s fine. Whatever.”

  That seemed to sum up anything and everything she wanted to say anyway. Whatever.

  The Athletic Director himself emceed the event, dropping in funny anecdotes and touching human interest stories along the way as he highlighted each sport and presented a number of awards. Despite Dane’s awkward presence next to her, Amanda allowed herself to enjoy celebrating the many successes of the student-athletes at Provident College and those who coached and worked with them. A few staff award recipients had served with Amanda on the Judicial Affairs council or were in the Faculty and Staff Bible study with her, and Amanda cheered enthusiastically for each award recipient she knew personally.

  “This evening isn’t just about current success,” Peter Downley said into the microphone. “It is about setting a standard, blazing a trail, and doing things that pave the way for future success. One of those areas we’ve been committed to doing more in is the area of student-athlete health. Many of our students find themselves injured while playing, and I don’t have to tell you that concussions are one of the most challenging aspects of athlete health today. We know more than ever before, and we know a full and supported recovery is vital—not just so our athletes can return to the field, but so they can return to the classroom. We want them to be prepared for their future, no matter what that may be.”

  Amanda’s spine straightened. The Athletic Director was speaking her language. She tuned in, keenly interested in whatever he was about to introduce.

  “And so because of that, I’d like to present our Trailblazer Award this year to someone who is not actually in our department, but to someone who jumped in to assist one of our student-athletes when he needed it the most. She worked outside the box and the reports I’ve received show me that there’s a lot more coordination we can do between our department and our colleagues on campus. Dr. Amanda McGovern is joining us tonight from the Education Department, and I hope you will all join me in thanking her for the work she did this summer to help Cole Vasquez on the baseball team with his rehabilitation from a severe concussion. Cole’s doctors informed him just this afternoon that they’re seeing improvements and hope to clear him to come back to PC in the fall. His playing days are over, but his school days are not. Cole will now be here on an academic scholarship, and he’ll be joining his dad in the dugout as a team assistant instead of playing. Dr. McGovern, will you please come up here and accept this award with my thanks?”

  Amanda stood up and tears began to slip down her cheeks. She picked up her napkin and dotted the corners of her eyes. She’d been shocked to hear her name called, but hearing Cole’s progress report lit up her heart and released a flood of emotions.

  Just as with any of her students, it wasn’t about her. It was about them, their futures, and the lives they would touch. To know that Cole’s future was as bright as the fireworks over The Splash—it almost brought her to her knees.

  “Coach Vasquez, will you come up with Dr. McGovern?” the AD asked. “I know this is an area near your heart as well, so I’d like for you to share with Dr. McGovern and the rest of your coaching colleagues what’s coming next.”

  Amanda could barely feel her feet as she walked around the front row of tables to get up to where Peter Downley stood. As she rounded the last corner, she felt a palm in the small of her back, steadying her. She closed her eyes just for a moment, and wiped away another tear.

  This one wasn’t for Cole.

  It was for her. It was for Dane, and everything she knew she wanted but could never have.

  As she got close to the podium, Peter Downley handed her a certificate in an oversized dark wood frame.

  “Thank you,” she said. “This means so very much to me. I didn’t do it to be recognized. When I learned about Cole’s story, I just wanted to help.”

  The AD held the microphone up again and spoke into it. “The good news is, you’re going to have the opportunity to do much more of that. Thanks to a generous gift from Neil and Erica Patton, the lead donors on our success center, we are partnering with the School of Education and Provident Medical Center to create a research lab into concussion rehabilitation for student-athletes, with an emphasis on their academic needs.”

  He handed the microphone to Dane.

  “We want to you to be able to do your research here at Provident College. We want to lead the way in this area,” Dane said. “And I want you to know that you were right. Sometimes you’re brought to a certain place and certain people for no reason other than it’s meant to be.”

  The crowd stood and began to applaud.

  Dane put the microphone back on the stand, then leaned over and wrapped his arms around Amanda, pulling her cl
ose. He whispered in her ear. “It’s a God thing. I know I some have relationship building to do. With Him, with my son...and with the woman who taught me all of these lessons. I’m sorry I checked out after Cole left, but I know the day you came into my life was definitely a God thing. Can I have another chance? Can we restore what we were in the process of building?”

  Amanda leaned further into the embrace. She wanted to reciprocate, but the big frame in her hand prevented her from doing so.

  “Can you promise me there will be fireworks?” Thick emotions in her throat kept her from saying more.

  “Oh, Amanda. There will always be fireworks.”

  PORT PROVIDENT: HURRICANE HOPE (BOOK ONE)

  Sample Chapter: Shelter from the Storm

  What happened the night Hurricane Hope came to town? Enjoy this sample chapter from Book One of the Port Provident: Hurricane Hope series.

  Ten years ago, Becca Collins caught a bus to Port Provident, Texas because it was as far south as she could get from Wisconsin without falling into the water. She never expected to take another bus to leave. But today, she found herself standing in a line in front of Port Provident High School, waiting to board a school bus headed for San Antonio. Hurricane Hope was expected to make landfall overnight. This was the last evacuation bus scheduled to cross the Causeway which connected Provident Island with the Texas mainland.

  The line had been moving consistently, but now there had been no progress in getting aboard the bus for a few minutes. The crowd, mostly made up of women and children, was beginning to get restless. Becca could hear it in the rustle of voices that were beginning to raise above a whisper and in the stirring and stomping of feet as they adjusted the positions where they stood.

  She could also feel it in the heavy layer of humidity that had pushed ashore with the first bands of Hope’s clouds and winds.

  Damp circles were beginning to soak through the thin cotton of her T-shirt and she felt a sticky clamminess working its way down her spine. She just wanted to get on the rattley yellow school bus and get moving. As the director of the Port Provident Animal Shelter, she’d seen the last dog in her care off the island this morning, headed to a shelter in a northern suburb of Houston. The last group of cats had departed around dinner time yesterday. The animals who had depended upon her would be safe.

  The only thing left was to ensure her own safety before the storm arrived. If her compact Toyota hatchback wasn’t on its last leg, she would have just taken matters into her own hands. But most days, she wasn’t sure it would make it to the grocery store. A two hundred and fifty mile trip that was expected to take double the normal amount of time due to heavy traffic congestion? That was out of the question.

  In fact, Becca realized, she might have had a breakdown before the little hatchback. The last few weeks had been so stressful. First the showdown at the board meeting with the president—and most unreasonable member—of the shelter’s board of directors, Dr. Ross Reeder. Now Hurricane Hope.

  She needed a break and she needed it now.

  She also needed to get on the bus. What was taking so long? Becca took a step to the right side of the line, trying to discern the cause of the hold-up.

  “I’m sorry. The dog has to stay. We cannot take dogs on the bus or to the shelter.” A blonde-haired lady holding a clipboard spoke with a stern voice that carried over the ever-strengthening gusts of wind.

  “But she has to come. She’s my grandma’s dog. She requires a special diet. We can’t leave her behind. She’ll die.” A teenager with a thick black braid down the back of her head spoke up, then gestured at a Labrador retriever near her feet.

  “Then she’ll have to stay behind with the dog. The Port Provident Animal Shelter is closed. Your only options are to get on board without the dog or to stay here with her. I’m sorry, but we can’t make exceptions.”

  “But Grandma can’t stay. She’s not in good health. I take care of her.” She gave another look down toward the dog’s sturdy head. “And so does Polly. We’re all a team.”

  The woman with the clipboard shifted slightly, blocking a little more of the door to the bus. “I’m sorry. Those are the rules. You need to decide. We have to be loaded and en route in ten minutes and there’s a whole line behind you.”

  A dog. A grandmother. Becca looked heavenward. She took a deep breath as the memories of Bess popped into her head like fragile soap bubbles.

  “I’ll take the dog.” Becca picked up her backpack and slung it over one shoulder, then walked toward the Labrador and her visibly-shaking owner. “I’m Becca Collins, director of the Port Provident Animal Shelter. The shelter is closed. But I’ll stay behind with your dog.”

  The girl turned her head slowly. The older woman’s eyes released a stream of silent tears.

  “You’ll take Polly? But you don’t even know us.”

  “I don’t. But I know all about dogs and grandmothers. And hard choices.”

  Becca held out her hand for the leash. With deliberate, almost hesitant motions, the girl pressed the loop end of the leash into Becca’s outstretched palm. Becca felt the worn weave of the purple fabric.

  “Wait.” The girl said, reaching into a reusable grocery store bag and pulling out a bag of specialized dog food. “There’s a prescription label on the bag with directions for how to feed her. Oh, and we have to keep her well-hydrated.”

  “You said her name was Polly?” Becca said, giving the dog a scratch behind the flopped-over ears.

  The grandmother spoke. The syllables cracked like popcorn. “Polly Wolly Doodle. I’ll be back for her. Take care of her, please.”

  “All the day...all the day.” Becca scratched the dog’s ears again as her own throat tightened. Her own grandmother had loved Shirley Temple movies. As clearly as though it had happened yesterday, Becca remembered pushing a VHS tape in the recorder and snuggling on the couch with Bess, watching Shirley’s little curls bounce as she sang Polly Wolly Doodle. “She’ll be waiting for you when you come home. You’ll find us both at the Port Provident Animal Shelter.”

  Before Becca knew it, everything was taken care of. Within two minutes of the last resident of Port Provident taking their seat, the bus was out of the parking lot and the last group of evacuees were on their way off the island. The engine of the bus jumped to life with a diesel-fuel rattle...and then there was nothing but silence.

  Becca stood in the parking lot, rooted. The last bus was gone and she was not. She was still in the parking lot of Port Provident High School. With a dog. And a less than half a bag of expensive prescription-only dog food.

  She lifted the bag and looked at the label stuck in the center.

  Dr. Ross Reeder.

  Of course Polly’s vet was Ross Reeder. Because if there was one person she wanted to stay clear of today—well, every day, really—it was Port Provident’s argumentative vet. The president of the board of directors of the Port Provident Animal Shelter, Ross had blocked Becca’s plan to relocate the shelter from the old, outdated facility on Harborview Drive to a building in town that she believed in her heart would give them room to grow.

  He’d made every step of the last two months feel like a twenty-mile hike in the mountains. Without shoes. Or a trail.

  Dealing with him was painful.

  But she’d committed to keeping Polly the Labrador safe and healthy—and she knew the half-empty bag of dog food was not going to last a dog of Polly’s size very long. She also knew this specific, specialized brand was only sold in one place on the island.

  Dr. Ross Reeder’s office.

  Ugh. The syllable pushed into every fiber of her body like some kind of green viscous slime. In fact, that feeling summed up her impression of Ross. Everywhere she turned with regard to the new shelter location, every idea she had...there he was, guaranteed to put a suffocating blanket of negativity over it all.

  Polly thumped her tail on the ground twice, oblivious to Becca’s internal dilemma. The simple canine gesture did remind her though that
she’d promised to take care of this furry patient, and one of the basics of care was food.

  Besides, most of Port Provident’s citizens had already heeded the recommendations to evacuate. Ross Reeder was probably one of them. He was too uptight and by-the-book to go through a hurricane. He’d probably left before Mayor Blankenship’s press conference yesterday that implored residents to leave Provident Island.

  Becca didn’t know Ross well—didn’t want to know him well—but clearly, he didn’t have an adaptable gene in his body. Becca assumed that staying on the island through a storm like this would take a lot of go-with-the-flow.

  So, she’d knock on the door of Dr. Reeder’s office, and when he wasn’t there, she’d drive back over to the animal shelter and get some of the prescription food they had stocked in the back room. It was a slightly different formula, made by a different company—and a good rule of thumb was not to quickly change a dog’s diet, especially a specialized one—but it was also highly recommended for canine kidney patients and it should work for a few days until everything returned to normal.

  She gave one more scratch behind Polly Wolly Doodle’s furry ears. “Come on, girl, let’s figure out our new game plan.”

  Polly let out a sound that was more bellow than woof. She hadn’t really even expressed wariness at being left with a stranger. She seemed like a kind, trusting dog. You could see it in her tired, old eyes. Becca interpreted the dog’s strong vocalization to mean that Polly was ready for what was to come. The idea made her chuckle. Polly the Labrador probably had more go-with-the-flow in her four chunky paws than Ross Reeder had in his whole body.

  Dr. Ross Reeder pulled the zipper around the perimeter of the suitcase where he’d put the last of the supplies he and his traveling companion would need in the days ahead. It was time to go. He didn’t know when the Causeway would be closing, but judging by the strength of the wind, it would not be a viable evacuation route much longer. The Texas Department of Transportation had been very clear in a televised press conference a few hours ago that once winds reached a certain speed, it would be too hazardous for cars to drive across the tall bridge which spanned the more than seven hundred feet that separated Provident Island from the rest of the continental United States.