Boardwalk Summer

by Kimberly Fisk

  “Monsieur. Monsieur Fortune.” A short, round man handsomely attired in a tuxedo hustled toward them from the interior of the restaurant, a huge smile creasing his plump face.

  The hostess glanced up sharply. Caught her first true glimpse of Nick and drew in a quick breath. It was clear she’d just now realized who he was.

  “Monsieur Fortune, this is a pleasure. A pleasure indeed.” The tuxedoed man held out his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Monsieur Deschanel and am honored you have come to my humble restaurant. Please, follow me.”

  Nick shook the man’s hand and then once more placed his hand on the small of Hope’s back, guiding her forward. As they followed the owner through the restaurant, it dawned on Hope that there would be no waiting, no cooling their heels outside. No pacing and wondering how much longer until their table was ready.

  Having a face and name people recognize can be a real pain in the ass but there are times it can be a benefit, too. You don’t need to worry; the doctor will see us whenever I call.

  A sense of surrealness stole over Hope—not only because of the preferential treatment they were receiving tonight but, more importantly, because of how it would help Joshua. But as the pressure and warmth from Nick’s hand continued to penetrate her dress’s thin material, his nearness claimed all of her attention.

  Whispers of conversation reached Hope.

  Isn’t that?

  No. It can’t be . . .

  It is!

  The racecar driver . . .

  Nick Fortune!

  Nick took it all in stride. The whispers, the stares, the VIP treatment.

  “Please forgive my niece,” Monsieur Deschanel was saying. “We are blessed with many friends tonight. But for so distinguished a guest, we do not make wait. Always, I have special table.”

  He continued on, leading them back into the restaurant, which seemed to go on forever. Hope would have never guessed it was so large. They passed a set of double doors where loud music and even louder voices could be heard. The owner must have seen her questioning gaze.

  “A wedding reception,” he explained. “So much joy. So much happiness, yes?”

  Hope’s glance lingered for a moment longer than was necessary on the closed doors. Then she forced a smile and a happy tone when she replied, “Yes.” But she must have failed on one or both accounts, as Nick shot her a look she couldn’t quite decipher.

  They came to a small alcove. Tucked into its own private nook, with curved stone walls and a large picture window providing a spectacular view of the water, the table was, in one word, perfect. A pressed white cloth, a shallow crystal vase with half a dozen perfect pink roses, and a chandelier nestled high in the rafters only added to its already alluring appeal. With its intimacy, the noise of the other patrons had all but vanished, and in its place was the soft strains of the classical music she had first heard when they’d arrived.

  “I hope this is to your liking.” The owner smiled at Hope as he pulled out her chair.

  “It’s perfect,” she said, taking her seat. “Thank you.”

  “Private, yes?” the owner said with a knowing smile as he shook out the elaborately folded napkin and placed it across her lap.

  A blush spread across her cheeks and she fussed with her napkin.

  In a matter of moments Nick was seated across from her, menus were produced, water poured, and a bottle of champagne (compliments of Monsieur Deschanel) appeared. When the owner went to pour the champagne, Nick politely motioned he’d do it himself.

  “Very good, monsieur. Enjoy your dinner.”

  “You can come out from behind your menu now,” Nick said after the waiter had gone.

  “I wasn’t hiding,” she fibbed.

  “I know you, remember?” he said, smiling, repeating the words he’d said earlier in the car. And just like before, those words found a hollow inside her that she hadn’t even realized she possessed and began to fill the void.

  Nick lifted the bottle from the chilled silver bucket. He filled the crystal flutes to a perfect three-quarters full, letting the bubbles bloom to the rim.

  “Something tells me you’ve done that a time or two.”

  Nick set the expensive-looking black bottle back in its holder. “Done what?”

  “Poured champagne. You do it with such . . . precision,” she said, shrugging, giving him a tentative smile.

  He picked up his glass and tilted it toward her. “Here’s to finally being able to take you to La Petite Grenouille.”

  Her glass arrested halfway toward his. “You wanted to come here?”

  “I wanted to be able to bring you here.” He clinked their flutes, took a drink.

  His words flustered her. “You did?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

  She stared at the bubbles fizzing up from the bottom of her glass, unsure of what to say. She wanted this evening to stay impersonal. She wanted to keep Nick at arm’s length while she reasoned with him about the children. She wanted not to be affected by how he looked, what he said, but she worried that a battle she was still preparing for had already been fought and lost.

  “I never realized. I mean”—she looked at him—“when all of us kids at school used to talk about this place, you never said a word.”

  He gave a halfhearted shrug. “What was I supposed to do? Let my best girl know I couldn’t afford to take her out to dinner?”

  “You did take me out to dinner. A lot of times.”

  He took another drink, then set his glass on the table. “I’d hardly call hamburgers or pizza dinner.”

  “And ice cream. Don’t forget that,” she teased, but then felt the smile ebb from her lips when she realized Nick was completely serious. “I definitely wasn’t a best girl if you thought I expected this.” Her voice was low and completely honest as she made a small, sweeping gesture with her hand to indicate the restaurant. And then, for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she felt compelled to explain further. “It was never about where we went. Surely you must have known that. It was about who I went with.”

  “I wanted to give you . . .”

  “La Petite Grenouille?”

  “The world,” he said simply.

  Hope’s breath caught. She tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. Couldn’t form a word or a thought.

  Thankfully, the waiter arrived and saved her from having to respond.

  “I’d be honored to share tonight’s specials,” the waiter was saying. But Hope wasn’t listening.

  I wanted to give you the world.

  She stared down at the menu—which thankfully was not only in French but English as well. She tried to concentrate but the words blurred together and instead of being able to decide what to eat, all she could think about was what Nick had said.

  She forced herself to focus. As she read down the list of entrées she realized two things at once: Each of them was mouthwateringly tempting, and they each sounded like they cost more than she made in a week. She looked for the prices, determined to order the least expensive item. But no matter how hard she looked, there wasn’t a price to be found anywhere on the menu.

  After a few moments Hope realized it had grown quiet. She peeked up and saw that both Nick and the waiter were looking at her expectedly.

  “Has the mademoiselle decided?”

  No! She racked her brain, trying to figure out a way to tactfully ask how much something cost, only to realize that there wasn’t one. She looked to the menu once more and the first thing she saw was the word chicken.

  Chicken. Perfect. She bought chicken every week at the grocery store. And usually it was on sale. She was just about to say she’d have the chicken when she noticed that there were five different chicken entrées on the menu.

  The special. She’d heard Nick and the waiter talking about the
special. And a special meant they got a good buy on something, right? So the price would be less. She closed her menu and turned to the waiter, a relieved smile on her face. “I’ll have the special.”

  “Ah, excellent choice, mademoiselle. And may I recommend the steamed asparagus and—”

  “Hope?”

  She looked to Nick. “Yes?”

  “Have you ever wondered what the English translation of La Petite Grenouille is?”

  What a weird question to be asking her now. “No.”

  A wry grin settled on Nick’s face. “Maybe you should ask our waiter.”

  Obviously Nick knew what it meant, but for some reason he wasn’t saying. She turned to the waiter and before she could ask, he informed her. “Ah, La Petite Grenouille. The little frog.”

  “How charming.”

  “Not so charming when that’s their special,” Nick said. “And they’re not so little.”

  “You mean?”

  “Yep. Frog legs.”

  Hope’s gaze shot back to the waiter. “Cancel that special order.”

  Nick laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” she said, looking at her menu once more. “Now I’m going to have to find something else, and I’m really sorry but I just can’t seem to make up my mind.”

  “Allow me?” Nick said.

  She looked at him. He sat so relaxed, so confident in these posh surroundings that undid her. It made her realize once again what different paths their lives had taken. “Please.”

  For the next several minutes—more time than she allotted to planning her weekly food menu—Nick and the waiter perfected their dinner order. She listened as Nick ordered with a skill and sophistication she found mind-boggling because it was so foreign from the Nick she remembered and sexy as all get-out. Where had he learned to pronounce French words? Or what side dishes best accompanied the lamb he ordered for two? Or how to choose a wine?

  “I just realized something,” she said as the waiter walked away.

  “What?” Nick asked.

  “You’ve said a couple of times that you know me.”

  “I do.”

  “While that may be true, I don’t know you. Not anymore. You live your life in the fast lane; I’d be uncomfortable if I weren’t in carpool. You travel more in one week than I have in my whole life. You’ve experienced things, gone places, met people, I can’t even begin to imagine. Just who are you, Nick Fortune?” she asked in a light tone, but he took her question to heart. Pondered it for a few moments and then replied.

  “I’m the same guy you knew, only in a faster car.”

  She wanted to toss back a witty rejoinder, try to keep the conversation in the present, stop it from traveling down a path that led to their past. But then she realized that wasn’t what she wanted after all. For so long, longer than was prudent or wise, she’d wondered about Nick’s life. Now was her chance to appease that curiosity. “What was it like?”

  “What was what like?”

  “Your life in NASCAR.” She smoothed the napkin on her lap, tried to hide how much she wanted to know. It shouldn’t matter—not with all the years between then and now. But it did. It did to her. “For over a year, we dreamed about it. Talked about it. Planned how it would all work out.” She smiled softly. “Obviously it worked out exactly as you thought it would.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Her hand stilled on her lap. “How so?”

  Nick slid his silverware to the side, rested his forearms on the table. “I thought I was so good.”

  “You were. You are.”

  He smiled. “You always did have more faith in me than anyone else.”

  She tried to ignore the feeling his words stirred in her.

  “I was a cocky kid with guts and raw talent, but that and a buck will get you a bag of popcorn. Took me two months to even get a job anywhere near a track. You know what that job was?” He didn’t pause. “I sold hot dogs from a cart.” He shook his head, grimaced. “To this day the smell of them still makes me nauseous. But they kept me fed and working near the tracks. Eventually I talked my way into a different job.”

  “Driving,” she said with certainty.

  “No. Like I said, things didn’t play out like we thought they would.” He intertwined his fingers, pressed his thumbs together. “My next job was running errands for a driver. It took me another year and a half after that to convince anyone to let me behind a wheel.” He chuckled, gave his head a soft shake. “Actually, I never did convince anyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I stole a car. Well, not exactly stole. Borrowed. I was so mad and frustrated by then. Thought I knew everything there was to know about racing but no one would give me a chance. So when Tony—that was the driver I was working for—got out of his car one day, I hopped in. I knew one of two things was going to happen. Either I was going to get my ass thrown in jail or I was going to impress the hell out of them. Thankfully it was the latter. But it still took me several more months to get backing. An owner who believed in me enough to let me behind the wheel of one of his racecars.” Nick’s gaze refocused, intensified. “It was over two years after I left Banning that I got my first race.”

  She was stunned. “Two years?”

  “Closer to two and a half.” He was quiet for several moments. “And then life still wasn’t as I’d thought it would be. The hours were grueling, harder than anything I could have imagined. Weeks went by where I couldn’t remember my own name let alone if I’d slept in the last three days or eaten. But I kept my head down, busted my butt, and absorbed every bit of knowledge I could. Eventually, I found a better car, better sponsors. Won some races. My overnight success only took years.” He looked down to his hands. “Years. So many so that—”

  She didn’t know why, but she had to stop him. Couldn’t hear what he was about to say. “Your success is beyond impressive, Nick.”

  He was looking at her hard, as if trying to reason something out in his mind. As if coming to a conclusion, he leaned back in his chair. “Now that I’ve bored you with my life, I want to hear about you. Your life.”

  “Now that would be a boring conversation.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  She reached for her champagne, took a sip and then another. “My life has been ordinary, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. So now let’s talk about something else. Anything else.”

  “Anything?”

  His suggestive tone electrified her nerves, and suddenly she wasn’t thinking about the past but the very real present. Slips from drainpipes. Bodies pressed tightly together. And a hotel room with a connecting door. “It’s a lovely evening. What a beautiful view of the sunset—”

  “Nice try. No dice. If you won’t tell me about you, tell me about Joshua and Susan.”

  Her relief was so great that he’d turned his attention away from her, she said, “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “That could take quite a while.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Nick’s voice was strong and sure, and Hope couldn’t help but think that his words went deeper than face value.

  Fourteen

  DURING the next two hours Nick listened as Hope talked. At first she’d started slow and hesitant, almost as if she were carefully guarding her words. But sometime between their salads and main course, she had begun to relax. Maybe it was the questions he asked one right after the other about Joshua and Susan, maybe it was the candlelight and music, or maybe it was the three glasses of wine he’d poured for her when her glass was close to empty. Glasses he knew she didn’t even realize she was drinking. But whatever it was, he didn’t question it. Instead he relished the sound of her voice and the insight she provided about his children.

  He heard about their school days and pas
sions. How Joshua excelled in math and music and sports. How Susan was a science whiz and loved soccer and drawing. He learned that Joshua’s first Little League hit was a home run and how Susan fell off the stage during a ballet recital when she was seven, but she’d handled it with such style that the audience ended up clapping and cheering. He learned about their grades and their friends. Some of the trips they’d taken and the pets they’d had and Fonz, Joshua’s pet turtle. He learned more about Hope’s Aunt Peg and the more he learned, the deeper his gratitude went to the woman who had treated Hope like her own daughter and his children like her own grandchildren. And while he enjoyed listening to it all, he couldn’t help but feel regret for the years he’d missed.

  “You mean Susan likes snakes but is deathly afraid of flies?”

  “Yes,” Hope said with a smile as she cut a small piece of lamb. “But I have a sneaking suspicion Dana is to blame for that.”

  “How so?”

  She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Remember that old cult classic The Fly?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “The twins certainly do,” she said with a smile in her voice. “When they were little and Dana was babysitting while I worked late, the little munchkins snuck out of bed and watched without her knowing. We found them huddled behind the couch later that evening and ever since then, Susan hasn’t seen a housefly quite the same way.”

  Nick laughed. “Poor thing. But what about Josh? How does he feel about flies?”

  “Loves to catch them and torment his sister.” She shook her head and smiled. “Those two and their antics have given me more than one gray hair.”