Falling For Nick

by Joleen James

  While he waited for Mitzi, Nick looked around the shop. The counter top was an emerald green marble, beautiful and classy. The barstools at the counter were done in a matching shade of green leather. All around the shop were framed photos. Clea's photos? Nick scanned the pictures. Yes, her business cards were placed in the corners of each frame.

  There were traditional shots of the canal, of the blue herons, of Port Bliss. Nick slid off the barstool and cruised the room, taking his time at each piece. There were photos where the people in the café looked like ghosts, their images transparent and haunting. There was a photo of an old woman's face, but the image had been split, cut in half, so part of her face was seen in profile. Clea had then painted part of the photo, using bright colors. The picture was unusual and creative, like Clea. Some of the photos looked modern to him, abstract, with the pieces of the photo cut apart and rearranged. Clea had talent. There was no doubt in his mind. He could see why she'd won the internship.

  Nick made his way back to the counter, and climbed onto the barstool. More photos lined the wall above the coffee bar. A photo of John at the beach caught his eye. John played in the sand, his head bent.

  "It's great, isn't it?" Mitzi said, joining him. She glanced up at the photo.

  "Is it for sale?" Nick wanted that picture, no matter the price.

  "Yes." Mitzi took the framed picture from the wall and passed it to him. "She never sells photos of John, but you can't see his face in this one. He's anonymous."

  "Not to me," Nick said. "I'll take it." He turned the picture over. The tag read thirty-five dollars. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

  "All right," Mitzi said, a knowing smile on her face. "Can I get you a drink?"

  "I'll have a cup of coffee, black."

  "What? No flavor of the day? It's mocha hazelnut today." She smiled.

  Nick smiled back. "Just regular coffee."

  Mitzi poured him a steaming cup. "How come you haven't been by before now? I expected you sooner."

  "I didn't want to bother Clea at work."

  Mitzi took a large chocolate chip cookie from a jar on the counter and handed it to him. "Here, on the house."

  "Thanks." Nick chuckled. "Do you still have your sweet tooth, Mitzi?" Nick remembered all the runs they'd made for chocolate for Mitzi when they'd been in high school.

  "I feed it every chance I get." She helped herself to a cookie. "Are you looking for Clea, or did you drop by to see me?"

  "I'm looking for her. Any idea if she's home? I didn't want to knock on the door with Boomer's car parked out front."

  "I think she's there. She brought her mother home from the hospital today. Vivian's upstairs, too."

  Nick suppressed a groan. Boomer and Vivian. Is that why John hadn't shown today? Maybe he couldn't get away.

  "Do you want me to call her? I can ask her to come down to the shop." Mitzi's eyebrows rose slightly as if to encourage him to say yes.

  "Would you? It's important. I need to talk to Clea and I'd rather not upset everybody else in the process."

  Mitzi smiled as she reached for the phone. She punched in Clea's number. "Robert? It's Mitzi. Is Clea there?"

  She paused while Robert spoke. The conspiratorial smile slipped from her face. "Is he all right?" she asked.

  Nick set his cookie down. His heart sped up. Something was wrong.

  "Well, tell her to call me when she has a chance," Mitzi said. "Bye for now." She hung up.

  "What's wrong?" Nick asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  "John was in a fight at school. Clea had to go into Bradley to meet with the principal."

  "Is John all right?" Nick asked.

  "Robert didn't know. Apparently Clea didn't say much before she left."

  "Damn it." Nick glanced down at the photo of John on the beach. The kid was drowning and Nick had no idea how to save him. "Ring me up, Mitzi."

  "Okay, Nick."

  Nick paid his tab.

  "Do you want me to tell Clea you came by?" Mitzi asked her eyes filled with worry.

  "No." Nick stood, replacing his wallet in his pocket. He picked up the picture. "I'll call her myself. Thanks for the coffee, the cookie, and the conversation."

  "Anytime, Nick," Mitzi said, her tone warm. "Take care."

  Nick walked from The Coffee House. He had no idea what to do next. Most likely Clea was already on her way back to town. He couldn't do anything until she got home, and even then it wouldn't be wise to contact her tonight, not with her mother and Robert at her place.

  He was tired of being an outsider when it came to his own kid. He wanted to be there with Clea, to help her and John through this. He wanted Clea and John to know they could count on him.

  But how did he make them believe in him the way he believed in them? The question drove Nick crazy.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clea turned the television off and stood up, stretching. She'd hoped watching a show would help put her to sleep, but she felt more keyed up than ever. Seeing John at school in the principal's office had thrown all her own doubts into overdrive. She no longer knew what was best for John. The little boy had so much anger. One good thing had come from his fight today. They'd had the opportunity to speak with the school counselor, Mrs. Wilson.

  Mrs. Wilson had suggested John might like to attend her anger management group. John had balked at first, but had finally agreed with some pressure from the principal. Mrs. Wilson had also suggested private family counseling for all of them, including Nick and Robert, pointing out that all of their lives had been changed by Nick's return. Everyone needed help adjusting, including and especially, Nick.

  Clea sighed, walking over to the window. Nick's place was dark. She wanted to call him, share the details of today with him, details she'd withheld from Robert. She didn't want to ask herself why she hadn't told Robert about the family counseling. She'd intended to, but he'd had an "I told you so" look in his eyes when she'd returned from the school that had stopped her cold.

  Clea turned away from the window. She wouldn't find any answers staring out into the darkness. Somewhere she had to find the strength to make the right choices for John. After today she wasn't sure about anything, not about leaving town, or about marrying Robert. It terrified her to think that she might make the wrong choice, the choice that would send John even farther away from her.

  And she couldn't even begin to think about where Nick fit into her life.

  Clea walked down the hall to do one last check on her mother and John before bedding down on the couch for the night. She peeked into her room. The sound of Vivian's deep, even breathing reassured her all was right with her mother. A smile on her lips, Clea closed the door and moved on to John's room. She opened the door and went to the bed. He looked lumpy and small under the blankets. She pulled the quilt away from his head, wanting to see his sweet face, but found herself looking at a pillow. Clea jerked the blankets back. The bed was empty.

  Frantic, she searched the room. His coat was gone. His boots were missing.

  "Mother!" she cried, running down the hall. "Mother."

  "What is it?" Vivian asked, her voice groggy with sleep.

  "John's missing. I need your help."

  * * *

  Nick's eyes opened in the darkness.

  For a minute he thought he was back in his cell, but the dead quiet brought him back to reality with a snap. In prison the combination of concrete and steel caused a roar that never died. The constant clamor: the voices, the moaning, the screaming, bounced around, circling into a never-ending echo. Over time he'd learned to live with the noise. Once home, he'd had to learn all over again how to live with the silence.

  But something had woken him. What?

  A loud banging sounded at the door. "Nick, are you in there?"

  Clea. The urgency in her voice shook the last remains of sleep from his mind and he bolted to the door, yanking it open.

  "What's wrong?" he asked. Lines of worry creased her forehead. A frantic light
danced in her eyes.

  "Is John here?" she asked, pushing past him.

  "John? Why would he be here?" Confused, he followed her. She glanced around the room, and then made a beeline for his bedroom.

  "John," she called.

  "He's not here." Realization dawned in Nick's sleep-fogged brain. A sick feeling seized his insides. "Is he missing?"

  She ignored him, and went to Maude's room, trying the knob.

  "No!" Nick cried, but she went in anyway. The last thing he wanted to do was to follow her in there.

  When he reached her, she stood in the middle of chaos. She'd flipped the light on, exposing the room to their eyes.

  Dirty, yellowed sheets twisted on the bed. Clothes littered the floor. The dresser drawers hung open, their contents spilling out. An ashtray on the bedside table overflowed with smoked butts. A box, filled with cheap costume jewelry sat on top of the dresser, the necklaces, bracelets, and rings a jumbled mass of rhinestones and plastic and metal.

  On the bedside table sat several prescription bottles of medicine. And next to them, the ever-present bottle of vodka.

  Nick's stomach lurched, and for the first time he felt the true impact of Maude's death.

  He turned away. A kaleidoscope of memories flashed before him; Maude combing his hair, giving him money for school pictures, tucking him in, then later her drinking, her smoking, her male friends. Before the drinking, she'd been a good mother which made her downfall so hard to take. He'd loved her, he remembered now, and a long suppressed grief rose within him. Disgust or hate hadn't kept him out of this room since his return, grief and remorse had.

  "Nick," Clea said softly.

  "I don't want to be in here."

  She walked out of the room and he followed, closing the door.

  He went directly to the window and threw it open, needing to get the smell of his mother's perfume out of his system.

  "I'm sorry," Clea said behind him, laying a gentle hand against his back. "I didn't think. I'm so worried about John. I thought he might be here. I've looked everywhere else."

  He whirled around, pushing his mother from his mind. He could grieve later. Right now he had to focus on his son. "How long has he been missing?"

  "I'm not sure. The last time I checked on him was around nine, nearly three hours ago." She headed for the door. "If he's not here, I need to go. I have to find him. It's cold outside."

  "Wait a minute," he caught up to her. Had John sneaked out to do further damage to his car? The kid knew how to get in and out of the apartment without Clea finding out. If she discovered he was gone, and he knew it, he could be hiding. "Don't panic. I'm sure he's all right."

  "He's not all right," she cried, her eyes wild. "He hasn't been all right for a long time."

  Her words cut deep, leaving a scar he didn't think would ever heal.

  Clea's fingers closed around his arm. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. He was in a fight today, at school. He's been suspended. He's upset."

  Had the combination of being caught in the act of vandalizing Nick's car and the suspension from school pushed John into running away?

  "I'll help you find him." Nick sat down and pulled on his boots. "Come on." He shrugged into his waterproof jacket. "Let's find our son."

  Together they hit the street. A glance at his car told him John hadn't been there.

  "I don't know where he'd go," Clea said, a note of hysteria in her voice.

  "Did you try his friend? What's his name? Toby?"

  "Yes. Mother's at my place. She's called all his friends. I called Robert. He's not with him. That's when I thought maybe he'd gone to you."

  He gave her a half smile. "Believe me, I wish he'd come to me, but I'm the last person he'd want to see. You don't think he'd try and get to Robert's on foot do you?"

  "I don't know. Robert was with us all evening. John didn't ask him to stay. I don't think he'd try and go to him now."

  "Is there anywhere else he'd go? A favorite place?"

  Clea's forehead wrinkled. "I don't know. Wait. The fort. John and Toby have a fort. It's in the woods. I don't let John go there without an adult."

  "You don't mean the fort up the hill behind the tavern? Billy and I used to go there when Mom brought her boyfriends home. The fort's an hour's walk from here."

  "Yes," she said, her tone hopeful. "I'm sure it's the same one."

  "That path is dangerous, even in the daylight." He couldn't allow himself to think of the danger John could be in, alone in the dark, the path slick with wet leaves and leftover snow.

  "Oh, Nick," Clea said. "What if he's gone there?"

  "I'm going to get Sheriff Kincade," Nick said. "If John's outside alone, I want as many people looking for him as possible. Go to your place and get flashlights, a blanket, maybe something warm for him to drink. We're going to find him. And then we'll figure out a way to make this right together."

  * * *

  Clea couldn't remember the last time she'd been this cold. Icy rain had started falling about twenty minutes ago, the drops stinging her cheeks. Her eyeballs even felt frozen. Wet ferns slapped at her legs, the moisture soaking her pants. Under her boots the frozen pine needles and leaves crunched, the sound mixing with their labored breathing.

  Nick walked ahead of her. Their flashlights provided meager light this deep into the woods, and this far away from any town lights. She knew John had his flashlight, she'd checked his bedside table where he kept it, and found the flashlight missing. The knowledge gave her some relief, but the path was as bad as Nick had claimed, narrow, slippery, with a gully on the left side that scared Clea to death.

  "John," she called for the hundredth time. "John, where are you?" She could hear the desperation in her words, feel it deep in the pit of her stomach.

  "John," Nick shouted into the darkness. "John, can you hear me?"

  She thanked God for Nick. He'd been her rock tonight. He'd taken charge with ease, helping to organize the search.

  "How much farther is the fort?" Clea asked. They'd been walking for close to an hour. Her feet and hands had gone numb with cold. Just thinking about John, shivering alone made her move at a faster pace.

  "It's got to be close. It didn't seem this far away when we were kids," Nick said.

  He stopped. Clea almost ran into him.

  "What?" She tried to peer around him to see what had caught his attention.

  He bent down and picked something up, showing it to her.

  John's flashlight.

  Clea glanced wildly around. "John," she called. "Honey, where are you?"

  Nick walked to the edge of the gully, shining his flashlight into the dark pit. She did the same.

  "John are you here?" Nick asked. The beams of light played over the brush. "Look."

  Clea followed the glow of his flashlight. At the edge of the path the pine needles had scattered, pieces of fern were ripped, as if John might have clutched at them, trying to save himself.

  A strangled sob left Clea's lips. "Oh, my God. He's fallen. Nick, do something."

  "John," Nick called again. "Can you hear me?"

  "John," Clea echoed.

  "Quiet," Nick said. "I need to listen."

  Clea waited, the frantic beating of her own heart roaring in her ears. A horrifying silence filled the air. Then she heard him.

  "Mom." His voice was far away, but strong.

  "John," she returned. "I'm here, honey. Nick's coming down. Keep talking so he can find you."

  "I'm coming, John." Nick pointed to the gully. "Shine your light done there so I can see. I need you to guide me to him. The brush is thick. Keep him talking so I can hear him." He reached for her hand, squeezing her fingers. "I'm going to get him."

  Clea nodded. "I know. Now, go."

  Nick left her, making his way down the side of the ravine. Twigs snapped, brush whispered. Clea held the light with shaking fingers, helping Nick find his way.

  "Your dad's coming." She knew Nick would bring John to safety. She
had no doubt of that. "Are you hurt, John?"

  "My arm hurts. I can't get out," John said from below. "My boot is stuck in the mud."

  "Keep talking, John," Nick said, shining his flashlight toward the sound of John's voice.

  Clea kept her light on Nick until he disappeared, the thick foliage swallowing him up.

  "Can you see him?" she yelled.

  "John, talk to me," Nick said.

  "I'm here. I can see your light," John said, excitement in his voice.

  A dizzy relief filled Clea. She waited, her light on the last place she'd seen Nick.

  "I see him," Nick called.

  "Is he all right?" A rush of love for John brought tears to her eyes. Her baby was with his father.

  "He looks okay," Nick replied. "I'm going to bring him up."

  "All right."

  She could hear Nick talking to John, but couldn't make out the conversation. The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. Below she could hear the rustle of the brush being disturbed, then she saw them. Nick had John on his back, piggyback style, with John's face visible over Nick's left shoulder. Clea used her flashlight to help light the way. When they were close enough, she held her hand out to Nick, helping to pull them to the path.

  "Oh, John." She reached for her son, wanting to take him from Nick, needing to see for herself that he was all right.

  "Careful," Nick warned. "He's bruised."

  She helped Nick set John on the ground. Once there, Clea ran the beam of her flashlight all over him, checking him for possible fractures, but found none. A tear in his pant leg revealed a wicked scratch on his knee, but not much else. Relieved, she threw her arms around him, hugging him, kissing his tear-streaked face. "I was so scared. Don't you ever do that to me again, Johnathan Rose!"