Boardwalk Summer

by Kimberly Fisk

  A hot wind whipped through the mesh-covered side windows. Grit coated his mouth. Sweat drenched the inside of his helmet and his throat was as dry as chalk.

  “Four laps.” Penshaw came across the headset again.

  Nick squinted through his dirty visor into the bright rays of the sun. He came off the turn and looked down the backstretch. He knew the fans would be on their feet, their deafening cheers blending with the roar of eight-hundred-horsepower engines.

  He kept one eye on the track and one eye on the mirror. The cars blared over the heat-warmed ribbon of gray.

  Jarrett began to weave behind Nick. Nick grinned. The kid was looking for his spot. Nick knew he was going to try to use the draft to slingshot past.

  They roared by the white flag. One lap left.

  With movements so perfectly executed they seemed rehearsed, Nick and Jarrett sped around an oval of pavement. They headed into turn three. Gravity pulled Nick up. He fought to keep the car low and prayed like hell the tires would stick. When Jarrett made his move, he’d have to do it on the outside. The lower line was a fraction faster. There was no way Nick was going to hand over that advantage.

  They headed down the final stretch. Jarrett faked to the right. Nick wondered if the young hotshot really thought he’d fall for that old trick. For just a second, he let Jarrett believe he’d fooled him. At the last second, he swerved back down to the inside line and hung on for all she was worth.

  Ahead, the checkered flag snapped back and forth.

  “Nick. Nick,” Penshaw yelled into the headset. “Twenty-four! Twenty-four is making his move!”

  Seconds. It all came down to seconds.

  The home stretch was upon them. He shifted out of the turn, kept her low, and hit the gas. The car shot out.

  “You got ’em,” Penshaw yelled. “YOU GOT ’EM!” As Nick took the checkered flag.

  Life didn’t get any better than this.

  Shouts of excitement from Penshaw and the rest of his pit crew filled his headset.

  A few minutes later, he spun into the winner’s circle, his tires smoking. A crowd surged forward, hands reaching through the window and clapping him on the back. A black baseball cap with his sponsor’s logo landed in his lap. He took off his hot helmet and put it on.

  He eased himself out of the car window to shouts of congratulations and a roar of approval from the stands. The minute his feet hit the ground, it rained champagne.

  A loud, distinctively southern whoop of satisfaction rang out. Dale Penshaw fought his way to the front of the crowd, carrying another bottle of champagne. “You did it!” he yelled above the crowd.

  Nick grinned as he grabbed his crew chief and slapped him on the back. “You all did it. The car ran like a champ.”

  “Thought Jarrett might get the better of you on that last lap.”

  “Not even close.”

  They laughed as the crowd kept pushing in.

  “Number eight, here we come.”

  “Don’t jinx us,” Nick said good-naturedly, wiping champagne from his eyes.

  “Jinx? Boy, haven’t you heard—you’ve got the Midas touch. Nothing’s gonna stop you. In just a few months, you’re gonna make racin’ history. The only man to win eight NASCAR championships. You’ll be a legend. The best of the best.”

  As Nick made his way up the stairs to the winner’s stand, his crew chief’s words echoed in his mind.

  The best of the best.

  A legend.

  As he stood there, surrounded by his friends and fans, he waited for that old feeling of exuberance to overtake him.

  But it never came. Not even when they placed the trophy in his hands and the cheers from the crowd grew even more deafening. But it would. Nick was sure of that. Once he clinched the eighth championship he knew that feeling would never leave him again.

  * * *

  NICK looked up from the report he’d been reading to see his secretary, Evelyn Summerfelt, at his office door. Her short gray hair and conservative business suit were in stark contrast to the bright interior of Fortune Enterprises.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Great race yesterday.”

  “Thanks.”

  Evelyn took off her coat and draped it over her arm. “I didn’t think I’d see you in here today. Monday’s supposed to be a day off for you drivers.”

  Nick grinned and tossed his pen onto the desk. “When have I ever done what I was supposed to?”

  “Never.” Her smile faded and was replaced with a look of genuine concern. “You really should take some time off. You can’t keep up this pace.”

  “I’ll have plenty of spare time in December.”

  She gave a soft huff of disbelief. “I’ve worked for you for eight years and not once have I seen you slow down during the off-season.”

  “You slack off, you lose.” He leaned forward and grabbed a file from the edge of his desk, ending a discussion he didn’t want to have. Racing was his life, his whole life. Take time off for what?

  “I’m expecting a fax on the new restrictor plate requirements,” Nick said after a moment’s pause. “Let me know when it comes in, okay?”

  “Restrictor plates? Is that Greek?”

  Nick smiled. “After all these years of working for me, you’ve had to have learned something about cars by now.”

  “I’ve learned two things. If they don’t start when I turn the key, it’s time to trade them in, and you like your coffee black. It’ll take me just a minute to brew some.”

  She was halfway out of the room when Nick’s voice stopped her. “I already made a pot.”

  “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to stop being so self-reliant and let me do what you pay me for.”

  “You do plenty,” Nick said, and he meant it. “Besides, if I didn’t have you, who’d answer that damn phone that never stops ringing?”

  As if on cue, the phone rang. Evelyn laughed as she went to answer it. A few moments later she was back. “That was Dale. When he couldn’t reach you at home, he knew you’d be here. He told me to tell you that since you’re working today, he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

  “Call him back and tell him to take the day off. God knows he works too hard and doesn’t see his family enough.”

  Evelyn gave him a look that didn’t take a mind reader to interpret.

  “Just call him,” Nick said.

  “Fine. By the way, here are your messages.” She handed him a thick pink stack.

  Nick took the stack from her and quickly thumbed through them. “These are all mine? You’d think I’d been gone a year, not a couple of days.”

  Evelyn turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, the message on top is from some woman. She called Friday afternoon and said it was urgent you call her back.”

  Nick tossed the pile into the corner of his desk. Both he and Evelyn knew what urgent meant. Urgent was some reporter wanting some interview for their next publication or broadcast. There had been hundreds of urgent messages before this one and there would be many more to follow. Ignoring the slips, Nick picked up the report he’d been studying and got back to work.

  A half hour later, Evelyn returned. “Here’s the fax you wanted.” She set in on his desk.

  “Thanks.” Nick didn’t bother to look up.

  It wasn’t until later, when he went to reach for the fax, that he noticed the phone message and the name on top.

  Hope Montgomery.

  His hand paused midreach.

  He read the name again.

  Disbelief flooded him. How many years had it been? Fourteen? Fifteen?

  No. Sixteen.

  It had been sixteen years since he’d last seen her.

  He raked a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the windowsill. Hope. The last time he’d seen her, sh
e’d been standing at the bus depot waving good-bye to him as the bus pulled away from the curb. Her face had been swollen and wet with tears.

  Once, she’d meant everything to him. He had thought she’d be the one person who’d never lose faith in him. But she had. Just like everyone else, she thought he’d never be more than the son of Jack Fortune, the town drunk. Now, with the distance of time and wisdom of years, he understood what he hadn’t then. She’d been so young. And her mother strong enough to convince Hope she’d end up living in some dirt-water town, married to a bitter drunk with only dreams in his pocket—as Nick’s father had been.

  He looked at the note again. At the word urgent. For just a second he toyed with the idea of not returning her call. What was the point in revisiting a past that would never be more than that?

  But even as his mind told him one thing, his hand grabbed the cell off the desk and punched in the first number. As he waited for the call to go through, he thought about hitting End, but before the thought could fully formulate, the phone rang.

  And rang. And rang. And rang.

  At the fifth ring, voice mail clicked on and a woman’s voice came on the line.

  Hi. You’ve got the machine, you know what to do.

  Hope’s voice? It sounded like her but then it didn’t. It sounded younger, lighter, than he remembered. But then what did he know? Too many years had passed for him to remember clearly. Hadn’t they?

  Beeeeep.

  He hit End without leaving a message, tossed the note aside, and got back to work. But no matter how hard he concentrated, his eyes and mind kept straying to his phone.

  Shortly before noon, Evelyn walked in. “In case you’re gone when I get back from lunch, here’s your week’s itinerary. There’s a separate sheet detailing your endorsement shoot tomorrow.” She put the folder on his desk. “Do you need anything before I head out?”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, there is something. This message.” He held it up. “The one from the woman who called saying it was urgent. Did she happen to say anything else?”

  “No. Only that she was an old friend of yours and it was urgent you contact her. Why? Problems?”

  “No.”

  He stared down at the note in his hand.

  * * *

  HOPE sat back on the heels of her tennis shoes and pushed the damp hair off her forehead. The grit and dirt from her garden gloves felt rough against her skin. Once her garden had been her sanctuary, her place of solace, but not any longer. Now there was no solace to be found. Not when her son was sick. Not when she constantly felt torn, needing to be in several places at once. At work, at home with Susan, and especially at the hospital with Joshua. But this morning, with a bright July sun gilding the yard in a golden glow, Joshua had asked Hope to chill and not rush into the hospital first thing, as was her norm. A group of his friends were going to visit and he wanted space. And with Susan having spent the night at her best friend’s and not due back until later this afternoon, when she and Hope would head to the hospital together, Hope found herself in the unusual position of having time on her hands.

  All morning she’d been on edge. She’d stared at her phone until her eyes had blurred, willing it to ring. Just as she’d been willing it to ring all weekend. When it had, the caller had not been one of the two people she was desperate to hear from. She’d tried cleaning to keep busy, but her house was already spotless from too many restless hours. Plus, the silence was unbearable. Even cranking up music hadn’t helped. So she’d escaped to the garden. But as with everything she’d tried, it was an effort in futility.

  Last night she’d lain awake, remembering a past she’d tried so hard to forget. Now, all these hours later, she still couldn’t outrun the memories.

  She stared at the rose bushes in front of her. A slight breeze brushed against their petals, which had begun to turn brown and curl from lack of water.

  The last time she’d been home the roses had been in full bloom and she was seventeen, scared, and standing in her mother’s yard.

  You can’t stay here, Hope Marie . . . what would people say . . . you have to go . . . you have to go. . . .

  Hope felt an ache in her heart and wondered how after all these years her mother’s rejection could still hurt. But that pain paled in comparison to the heartache caused by Nick’s abandonment.

  Hope shivered, suddenly cold. It was almost as if she were seventeen again and in her mother’s living room, racing for the phone every time it rang, praying it would be Nick.

  In three months, Hopeful, I’ll be back. I promise. Three months to the date. Wait for me at the courthouse. I’ll be the guy wearing the smile and holding the rings.

  For a year after Joshua and Susan’s birth, Hope hadn’t been able to think about Nick without falling apart. But as the years passed, she understood it was easier to walk away from a small-town girl when you were someone like Nick—a man with big ambitions.

  Men left. Her mother had told her that for years, only Hope hadn’t wanted to believe it. But when Nick never returned her calls, she had to face two truths: Her mother had been right, and she was pregnant and on her own.

  She’d learned from her parents you couldn’t force someone to love you. She’d seen it in her own life and in Nick’s. Their parents had let them down. She refused to make the same mistake her mother had made by coercing a man who didn’t want her into marrying her.

  So when her mother threw her out, Hope had boarded a bus and left Minnesota for Tranquility, Washington, a tiny speck on the map located in the Pacific Northwest and the home of an aunt she’d never met. Her scared seventeen-year-old mind had created one horrid scenario after another. She’d been convinced her mother’s half sister would never welcome a pregnant teenager, especially one she didn’t know.

  But that was exactly what Margaret Watkins had done. She’d opened not only her arms but her home and her heart as well.

  Not for the first time, Hope wished her aunt were still alive. Even when she was young and pregnant, she hadn’t needed Aunt Peg as much as she needed her now.

  A soft wind blew through the yard. Hope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Fresh-cut grass and the scent of summer flowers filled her senses. She had learned to accept her mother’s and Nick’s betrayal, but she wasn’t going to let them ignore Joshua. If she couldn’t reach them by phone, she’d find the money somewhere and fly to see them. Locating her mother would be a piece of cake. Locating Nick would be easy; getting in to see him might be another story.

  With renewed determination she reached for her shovel, but the sound of tires crunching on her gravel driveway drew her attention. She shielded her eyes, glancing toward the front of the house. The long hedge blocked her view. It was probably her best friend, Dana, who spent as much time at Hope’s house as she did at her own.

  Hope gathered her gardening supplies. A visit and a glass of iced tea sounded pretty close to heaven about now.

  A shadow fell over her, bringing with it a cool relief from the sun and the faint smell of leather.

  “Hello, Hopeful.”

  Two

  HOPEFUL.

  The familiar nickname wrapped itself around her like a long-forgotten caress. Briefly, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then another. It couldn’t be.

  Very slowly, she tugged off her worn gardening gloves and stood. “Nick.” His name came out on a whisper. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard it or if it had just floated through her mind like it had so many other times.

  He took a step forward, then stopped; the soft worn leather of his bomber jacket slid open, revealing a white T-shirt beneath. He removed the dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. Blue—deep, startling blue—just like she remembered. And yet . . . different.

  Gone was the young boy who had held her hand under a canopy of stars and vowed, “I’m going to make it, Hopeful. One day I’m going to
make it so big everyone will know my name.” In front of her today stood the man she’d always known he’d become.

  Nick ran his hand through his thick black hair. The gesture was as familiar to her as her own reflection.

  “Oh God, it is you . . . it’s really you,” she said before she could stop herself.

  Her Nick. The boy who had made her teenage years bearable; who’d taught her how to fish and drive; how to swim and then skinny-dip. Who had dried her tears time after time when living with Claire had become too hard.

  He closed the small gap that still separated them and pulled her into his arms, and she was as powerless to stop herself now as she had been at sixteen.

  It was as if the years of separation had never been. The anger she should have felt failed to materialize, and it was the most natural thing in the world to rest her cheek against his soft shirt. Her eyes drifted shut, and she felt herself melt into him. For weeks, months . . . years, she’d waited for this moment.

  The rhythmic beating of his heart became the only sound she heard. For just a moment, she let herself ignore reality—ignore the fact that Nick was a man who had left her pregnant and alone.

  Hope stiffened and backed out of his arms.

  He wasn’t her Nick any longer, and she didn’t want him to be. There was only one thing she wanted from him now.

  She wrapped her arms around her stomach, angry for falling back into his arms the moment she saw him again.

  “How did you find me?” The question came out sharper than she’d intended.

  Nick shoved his hand in the front pocket of his Levi’s and sent her a quizzical glance. “Addresses aren’t hard to come by with a landline.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t just call.”

  He studied her for a moment, his broad shoulders blocking the sun’s rays. “Your message said urgent.” He gave a slight shrug. “It’s been a while.”

  Four words that encompassed so much. Images of Susan and Joshua flashed into Hope’s mind, and she knew what she had to say. But standing out in her front yard, where anyone could walk by, wasn’t exactly an ideal spot for this conversation. She dropped her hands to her sides. “Yes, it has been a while. And I’m glad you decided to . . . stop by.” Stop by sounded so casual, like he was in the neighborhood. Like they were friends. People who had stayed in touch for all these years.