Boardwalk Summer

by Kimberly Fisk

  “What I have to ask is too important to say over the phone.”

  Apprehension tightened Nick’s neck. He wasn’t sure what Hope was going to say, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. “Hope, there’s something I need to say—”

  “No.” She cut him off, then softened. “Please. Time is running out.” Nick could see how much it cost her to say those words. “Joshua needs a transplant and the odds of finding a match through the marrow donor program are slim. Our best chance is with—”

  “Claire.”

  They said the name simultaneously, and in that moment Nick knew Hope had been up all night just like he had, wondering and worrying and planning and praying.

  “Yes.” Hope nodded. “Claire hasn’t bothered to get tested. I know. I’ve checked. I have to fly to Minnesota and force her to if she won’t do it on her own.”

  “Fine.”

  “I need to borrow money.”

  “Fine.”

  Shock or surprise or a combination of both widened her eyes. “Fine? Just like that, no questions asked?”

  “No questions asked.”

  “Don’t you want to know how much I need?”

  “No.”

  “It’s for airfare,” Hope explained. “And I want you to know, I’m not the kind of person who goes around asking for handouts. Needing financial help. I’m not irresponsible. It’s just . . . It’s just with Josh . . .” She shook her head, brushed the hair off her forehead. “Never mind. That’s nothing for you to worry about. But I want you to know, I’ll pay you back. Every cent. With interest.”

  “Christ, Hope. I’m not worried about getting paid back.”

  “Well, I am.”

  “I have enough money—”

  “Either you agree to let me pay you back or I’ll find a different way.” Resoluteness strengthened her spine and sparked a fire in her green eyes. Nick found the combination intoxicating.

  A car pulled into the driveway and they both turned. A yellow cab stopped behind Nick’s rental. The driver shifted into park and lowered his window. “You call for a cab?”

  “Yes,” Hope called out. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Okay.” The window went back up as the driver waited.

  Hope turned back to Nick. “I meant what I said. Every cent.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the money.”

  “I do,” she said quietly. “A lot.”

  It was clear that talking about money made Hope uncomfortable. For now, he let it go.

  She picked up her suitcase. “Do you want to follow me to a bank, or—?”

  “To the bank?”

  “Yes. To get the money. Then I’ll have the cab take me to the airport.”

  Suddenly, it hit him. She planned on making this trip without him.

  Like hell.

  “Wait a second,” he told her before walking over to the cab. The driver lowered the window once more. “Change of plans,” Nick said, reaching for his wallet. He pulled out a couple of bills and handed them through. “We won’t be needing you after all.”

  The overweight man folded the money and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “It’s your dime, Mac.” He was gone before Nick could blink.

  “Hey, wait.” Hope came running up beside him. “Wait. Stop,” she yelled at the disappearing taillights. She turned on Nick, anger in her voice. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing? I needed that cab.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Damn it, Nick.”

  He went back to where they were standing, grabbed Hope’s suitcase, and deposited it in the trunk of the SUV. Definitely a car that could seat more than two. “We are going to see Claire.”

  “We?”

  He opened the passenger door for her. “Yes, we.”

  * * *

  THEY were on a plane. Together.

  That fact alone should have been enough of a shock. But it wasn’t. They weren’t on just any plane, any flight to Minneapolis. They were on Nick’s plane. Nick’s jet.

  He. Owned. A. Plane.

  No wonder he didn’t care about the money she’d asked to borrow.

  She’d known he was wealthy, but this . . . She glanced around. This was like nothing Hope had seen before. Or imagined. Luxury, convenience, extravagance, and pure comfort were stylishly contained in the curved walls.

  Hope stood just inside the rounded doorway and all but gasped in amazement.

  Creamy white leather chairs were artfully positioned around the spacious interior. A dark wood—mahogany perhaps—created a sleek wainscot around the lower half. In its highly polished sheen, the dimmed overhead lights shimmered.

  Nick walked up beside her and gently took her elbow, guiding her farther in. He motioned to the dozen or so oversized chairs. “Make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything? Coffee, tea?”

  Or me popped into her head before she could stop it.

  “Or something to eat?” Nick finished.

  Pink stained her cheeks and Hope quickly reached down for her purse, pretending to search for something just so she could hide her heated face. “Um. No thanks.”

  “If you change your mind, the kitchenette is over there.”

  Hope peeked up and caught the general direction.

  “And there’s a phone on your left. Feel free to use it.”

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  “I need to talk to the pilot, so I’ll be up front. Give me a holler if you need anything.”

  It wasn’t until Nick disappeared toward the front of the plane that Hope drew her first easy breath.

  We are going to Claire’s.

  We.

  Never in a million years had Hope thought she’d be able to convince Nick to go with her. Not that she’d even entertained the idea of asking him. What would be the need? But to have Nick not only want to go with her, but insist upon it, left her shocked and speechless.

  She chose a seat by the window and sank down into the soft leather. Fears and worries came at her at once, but she pushed them aside. She forced herself not to dwell on the negatives. On the fact that none of them—not her, Susan, Dana, or Nick—was a match.

  Hope remembered clearly the day she and Susan had gone in to get tested. From the moment they’d had their blood drawn, Hope’s emotions had run the gamut. For years, Hope had shied away from religion. From prayer. She’d seen the darker side of worship through her mother; it had soured Hope to believing in a higher power. But from the moment the doctor had told them Joshua was sick, Hope had done everything in her power to make him well. And that included prayer. Hours on her knees, pleading for her son’s health. So while they waited for their test results, Hope had prayed and begged like never before. She prayed for Joshua’s instant healing. Prayed she was a match. Prayed she could save her son. But her prayers about the results of Susan’s test were jumbled. While great advances had been made in the extraction of bone marrow, there were still risks involved with the procedure. How could a mother desire to put one of her children at risk to save her other child? But then, how could she not?

  Despair threatened to drown her. Hope fought to refocus on the positives. She was on a plane. She was on her way to Minnesota. She was going to see Claire today.

  But she was with Nick.

  Not a positive. No matter how hard Hope fought it and no matter how many years passed, the pain of his abandonment would not go away. She could still feel the cold rain soaking through her thin white dress, chilling her to the bone, as she’d stood on the courthouse steps, waiting, shivering, wishing, hoping, praying for a boy who never showed.

  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.

  Even now, she was surprised
how much pain the memory still caused. Not only because he’d never shown. But because she had been foolish enough to still believe he’d show even after he’d stopped calling her and disconnected his phone. How foolish could she have been? How blind and naïve. How stupid!

  She’d waited and waited and waited, huddled under an eave that offered no real protection, still believing Nick would come. It wasn’t until the thunder and lightning had started that she’d been forced home. It was as if she could hear that thunder all over again . . .

  Hope jumped, startled. It wasn’t her memory’s thunder but the plane’s engines preparing for takeoff.

  With a tight grip, she clutched the armrest and squeezed her eyes shut. Over and over she told herself there was nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing at all. People flew all the time. It was safer than driving a car—or so she’d heard.

  She took several deep breaths and began to repeat to herself, For Joshua. You can do anything for Joshua.

  The plane lurched forward. She dug her nails into the armrest, felt herself break out into a cold sweat.

  Images of downed planes from the evening news flashed before her eyes. All at once the impossibility of it hit her—how could this great big tub of tin barrel down a strip of ground and then propel itself into the sky?

  She sucked in several more breaths and struggled to concentrate on anything else. She made a list in her mind of things she needed to do. She’d call the hospital as soon as they got in the air and she could loosen her grip, and she’d try her mother again, too.

  The plane picked up speed. Jostled and bumped. Hope felt like a toy being tossed around in a child’s backpack.

  She kept her eyes closed, tried to relax her grip on the armrests but couldn’t. She would get through this, just like she would get through a day with Nick. Just because he had insisted on coming along didn’t mean that he would be burrowing his way any deeper into their family. For the here and now he wanted to be a part of Joshua and Susan’s lives, of that Hope had no doubt. But what she did doubt was his ability to stick around. In a month or two or six, he’d be gone. The only way to protect her heart and her children’s was to keep Nick at a distance.

  They would fly to Minnesota and talk with Claire and then, since they were using his plane and pilot and didn’t have to rely on a commercial flight and schedule, they could fly back tonight. Short and sweet.

  In less than twenty-four hours she’d be back home, back to her children and her life. And she would have made sure Claire had been tested. That was all that mattered. Not Nick, not their past. Saving Joshua was her number one priority.

  It took Hope a moment to realize that the plane had leveled out. Carefully, she opened one eye and then the other. A beautiful blue sky dotted with fluffy cotton-ball-like clouds stretched out before her as far as the eye could see. She made sure to keep her gaze up, knowing that looking down was a bad, bad idea. But just keeping her eyes open seemed to take a Herculean effort, and she realized that lack of sleep from the night before was catching up with her. She saw Nick make his way back toward her. She recognized the look on his face. He wanted to talk. And there was a lot they needed to iron out. But the thought of delving into those deep, murky waters right now, when she was already wrung out and exhausted and worried beyond belief, was more than she could handle. What energy she did still have she needed to focus toward getting her mother’s agreement to be tested. She let her heavy eyelids close. Pretending to sleep was better than having a conversation about things she didn’t want—or wasn’t ready—to discuss.

  Twelve

  NICK pulled into her mother’s driveway. In a rental car he had procured without the slightest hesitation or question. Just like the airplane, he made everything seem so seamless.

  He parked the car and cut the engine. Without the noise from the motor or the music from the stereo, the absolute silence in the vehicle became telling. But Hope didn’t feel like breaking it. Couldn’t, even if she wanted to. All she could do was stare straight ahead, straight out the windshield, and straight at a vision she’d thought she’d never have to endure again.

  Directly in front of her, looking as unapproachable as she remembered, stood the three-story domain that had been her home—no, she shook her head. Not her home. It had been her . . . she searched her mind, trying to find the right word to describe what role this house had played in her life, but no matter how hard or how long she thought, the only thing that came to mind was place of residence. It was a cold description. Nearly as cold and unfeeling as the woman who lived in it.

  Little had changed about her mother’s house during the sixteen years Hope had been gone. The house was still painted a sterile white and the trim was still blue, but now, on closer inspection, the trim color was a lighter shade than the harsh, overpowering cobalt it had been all those years ago. The short driveway had been paved and white window boxes had been added, but her mother’s pride and joy—her rose garden—was exactly the same. Row upon row of meticulously tended blooms filled the perimeter of Claire Montgomery’s front yard.

  A shuffling sound came from the driver’s seat.

  Nick. She been so caught up in her memories that she’d all but forgotten he was in the car next to her. That fact alone—that she could forget he was right next to her—told her just how much her upcoming reunion with her mother affected her.

  Sunlight glinted through the window and cast his profile into sharp relief. Sometime during the drive from the airport to Claire’s house, he’d shed his coat. His arms were tanned from the sun and toned from hard work. His body filled the interior of the rental car, but instead of feeling intimidated by his size, Hope found herself gathering strength from it. He looked so strong, so solid sitting next to her. For the first time since they’d left her house she realized how thankful she was that he was here with her. She had no problem facing her mother alone, but knowing Nick would be next to her brought her no small sense of relief.

  Briefly, she wondered what he was thinking. What he was feeling. He was back in a town he hadn’t been able to leave fast enough. Back to face a woman who’d told him every chance she got that he’d never be anything more than the son of the town drunk.

  Nick angled in his seat. “Ready?”

  She was here. She was at her mother’s house. And she was ready. More than ready to do whatever it took to help her son. “Absolutely,” she said, and opened the car door.

  The porch boards squeaked as they made their way to the front door. With detached observance Hope noted there was no welcome mat positioned in front of the door, no pot of cheerful flowers to beckon visitors, no sign of greeting at all. Obviously Claire was as anxious for visitors now as she had been when Hope still lived here.

  She rang the doorbell.

  A dozen different greetings flitted through her mind as she waited. Part of her wanted to yell Surprise! the moment her mother opened the door and watch as the shocked expression took hold of her face. Another part of her didn’t want to say anything until Claire made the first move. But the largest part of her wanted to just say, Hello. Get your coat, I’m taking you to the doctor’s.

  A moment passed, and then another. Hope waited a few more seconds and then pressed the doorbell again, harder. Knowing her mother, she’d be fixated in front of the television totally immersed by whatever religious program was being broadcast and wouldn’t hear the bell.

  Hope tipped her head and strained to hear inside the house, to hear the television, to hear those telltale footsteps come toward the door. But only silence greeted her. She laid on the doorbell again.

  Nick took a step back and peered into the large front window. But Hope knew he wouldn’t be able to see a thing; her mother always kept the curtains closed tight, just like she kept her heart.

  “I’m going to check the garage and see if her car’s gone,” he said, straightening.

  “You don’t need to. It’ll b
e here,” Hope said, more to herself than anything else. She watched as Nick headed back down the pathway toward the garage. Her mother’s car would be there, of that Hope had no doubt. It was Friday. After her father had walked out on them, Claire left the house only twice a week. On Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings. Wednesday was the weekly church luncheon and Sunday . . . Sunday was for church.

  Her mother’s routine had never wavered in the years Hope had lived at home. Every Sunday, at precisely 9:45 a.m., decked out in hat and gloves with daughter in tow, Claire got behind the wheel of her blue Lincoln and drove straight to the Lutheran church on Fourth and Main. She parked in the same spot, sat in the same row, in the same pew, in the same spot, with precisely five minutes to spare before the ten a.m. service. After church she’d retrace her exact route home (unless there was a committee meeting organized by the good women of the church and they needed to stay an extra hour or two) and only deviate long enough to stop at the Piggly Wiggly, where she bought exactly one week’s worth of groceries. No more, no less. Wednesdays held to almost an identical schedule, except no daughter and instead of sitting in the sanctuary, the women met in the church hall. There were no spontaneous trips or shopping sprees or a night at the movies. No part-time job (an inheritance from her parents had seen to that) or volunteer work. Claire Montgomery refused to deviate from her self-imposed schedule, even if it meant not seeing her only child perform in the high school production of Romeo and Juliet. Claire Montgomery was a woman you could set your watch by. And a woman who still wanted nothing to do with her only child.

  This time Hope ignored the doorbell and pounded on the door. “Open up, Claire. I know you’re in there.” She pounded once again, just to make sure her mother heard, and just because it felt damn good. “Open up,” she shouted again.

  “Her car’s gone.” Nick was back beside her.

  “Someone probably borrowed it.” Hope pounded on the door again.

  “You know as well as I do that she’d be the last person to let someone borrow her car.”