Abby Road

by Ophelia London

  Not taking the time to weigh my options, I lowered my chin and ducked toward the first shop I came to. I pushed, but the stupid glass door wouldn’t give, as if it were swollen from humidity. Desperate and frantic, I gave it a few more mighty shoves with my shoulder and then stumbled in.

  A Chinese gong clanged overhead as the door closed behind me.

  “I’ll be right with you,” a voice called out.

  I raised the bill of my ball cap, stealing a quick glance around. The store appeared to be devoid of any customers. My first stroke of good luck.

  “That’s okay,” I answered into the air. “Just looking.” Seemingly out of harm’s way, I took off my hat, ran my fingers through my tangled hair, and observed my surroundings.

  The store was one big square. Merchandise was sparse but organized and aesthetic. Save the Manatee, We Take You Fishing! and Calcutta Bait posters plastered all walls and windows, along with numerous colorful, attention-catching flyers advertising everything from dog walkers to worm diggers. Lavishly painted surfboards, black wetsuits, instruction manuals, and maps filled in the rest of the perimeter. Clothes—shorts, T-shirts, and bathing suits—hung from neat, round silver racks in the middle of the floor.

  From a shelf displaying other similar sea-life statues, I picked up a three-inch blue crystal figurine of a dolphin. A fancy white tag was attached to it with a gold string. The description on the tag was in one of those Scandinavian languages, Danish, maybe. Still not 100 percent used to a seven-figure salary, I turned it upside-down to check the price.

  “Six hundred dollars?” I said aloud, incredulous. “For this piece of—”

  “That’s an original.”

  I gasped and whipped around.

  He was tall—I noticed this first because I felt myself looking up.

  “It’s a Hans Schoster. Just arrived from . . .”

  He was talking, but I was concentrating on something else because, after his height, what automatically registered next in my brain was the angular bone structure of his face and the early June surfer-boy suntan that covered his athletic body.

  “I take it you’ve heard of him?”

  “Well . . .” I did try to answer, but I was preoccupied by his hair now, dark and wavy, cut conservatively but rumpled enough to give the impression of a vacation on the Riviera or having just rolled out of bed.

  He was saying something else while gesturing to the display over my shoulder.

  Tall and built, he reminded me of a much younger version of the hunky Australian actor who played Wolverine, minus, of course, the shredded wife-beater, sadistic glares, and clear need of a manicure.

  “Obviously,” Wolverine continued, “six hundred is a steal. And if you’ll notice . . .” He was off again, pointing at the dolphin in my hand. Something in his diction made him seem older than he looked.

  When he stopped talking, I blinked. He blinked, too, drawing me into the color of his eyes. They were bright green, the prettiest this side of Ireland.

  “Are you a collector?” he asked.

  Yes, I knew he’d been speaking the whole time, and when I realized I hadn’t uttered anything coherent, my face felt much too hot and my pulse banged in my chest like a kettledrum. I wondered if I was about to have a heart attack, right there beside the bikini rack.

  The guy dipped his chin and chuckled.

  That’s when it hit me. It was the guy from the bookstore yesterday.

  Oh my. He’s completely gorgeous up close.

  To join my other pulmonary embolism symptoms, I broke out in a sweat. As I was about to clutch my chest and beg him to call 9-1-1, I realized I wasn’t about to stroke out. The simple fact was: I was standing in very close proximity to an incredibly hot man and having a normal human female response.

  I relaxed and exhaled.

  “If you like dolphins,” he said, “I can show you something in a different price range.”

  I stared at his hand, which was outstretched and held open, presumably waiting for me to hand over the statue. “I like this one,” I finally said, “but thanks.” Although my mouth had moved, the rest of my body seemed to be stuck in place. Wolverine’s green eyes widened. I tried to offer a breezy little laugh, but it came out as a hiccup.

  For whatever reason, my attempt at composure was failing. In fact, I felt myself going redder in the face and sweatier down the back. In a last-ditch effort, I sealed my lips, spun around, and walked away, almost running headfirst into a clothing rack. The prickle under my hair informed me that the guy was watching my retreat. All casual-like, I started twirling a strand of hair around one finger while pretending to examine a purple beach towel draped through a wooden hanger.

  “Would you like me to hold the Schoster at the register while you look around?”

  When I turned back, the expression on Wolverine’s face was readable. He was skeptical, probably wondering how a twenty-something woman wearing cutoff jeans, a campy graphic tank, and a Dodgers cap could afford a six-hundred-dollar “original.”

  “I’m not going to steal it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Nice. Well done, Abby.

  The guy with the green eyes said nothing.

  Stalling for time, hoping the coast would soon be clear outside, I meandered to an adjacent wall with a variety of hats hanging from hooks. Being a closeted hat aficionada, I put down my baseball cap and dolphin statue and pulled a floppy forest green fishing number off a hook. Hmm, not quite right. Next I tried on a leathery Indiana Jones–type fedora, but it swam on me. After experimenting with something that resembled an English cricket cap, I maneuvered closer to the exit and took a peek through the glass door. The blue van was still parked outside.

  I twisted my lips and sighed.

  “Try this one,” Wolverine said, coming up behind me. He was holding out a pretty straw hat with pale blue and yellow flowers dotting the wide, floppy brim. “I think it might go with your eyes.”

  I cocked my head. “Is that some kind of line?” I said, automatically going on the defense.

  “Um, no.” He seemed puzzled at first but then he lifted a slow smile.

  He looked like he belonged in a men’s magazine selling razors or aftershave—the kind of face you’re just dying to slap with both hands to see if the skin’s as tight as it looks. After the slap you’re supposed to grab the face and kiss it, right?

  He waved the straw hat in front of me.

  I took it and moved to a mirror. “I don’t think it looks right,” I said after putting it on.

  “Because you’ve got it sideways.” He stepped directly in front of me, reached out, and made the necessary adjustments.

  I had nowhere to stare except at his chest. He smelled great, freshly soaped and shaven. After living months at a time on a tour bus with a bunch of musicians of questionable hygiene, I forgot that guys could actually smell nice. And this guy smelled more than nice.

  “Now what do you think?” he asked, stepping back and putting his hands in his pockets.

  “Yeah, better,” I replied without bothering to consult the mirror.

  He was wearing gray flip-flops, khaki cargo shorts, and a blue T-shirt—all items looking suspiciously like the new Resort line from Emporio Armani gracing the pages of Vogue. I silently compared his Italian beachcomber garb with my string of binding haute couture that I was usually forced to parade around in. And I envied him.

  Suddenly, he took another step back and folded his arms.

  I swallowed hard, knowing what was probably coming next.

  “Do you live around here?” he asked.

  Here we go . . .

  “Just visiting,” I offered nonchalantly. Like that ever worked.

  “But you’ve been here before,” he stated, rather than asked. He’d seen my face somewhere. Of course he’d seen my face somewhere. “I recognize you.”

  “Yesterday.” I dropped my chin, preoccupied by my fingernails. “I saw you . . . at the Pensacola Barnes and Noble.”

  “Oh, is t
hat it?” When I looked up, he was tapping his chin. “No, no. Somewhere else.”

  I shrugged, briefly intoxicated by his accent now. It was foreign, very subtle, not exactly British or French, but he certainly didn’t have that Floridian twang.

  “I’ve got one of those faces!” I exclaimed. This was followed by an overexcited chuckle. Knowing that I was probably going mildly hysterical, I figured I should start backing toward the exit.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He held up the blue dolphin between his thumb and index finger. But then he lowered it and scratched his chin, looking frustrated. “You’re sure we haven’t met formally? I could swear—”

  “Yes—quite,” I cut in smoothly, copying his proper dialect. “I’m positive.” After another manic chuckle, I reached out and unbuttoned a red-and-white Hawaiian shirt on a mannequin with no arms or head.

  It sucked. No, it really sucked, but I knew the drill, and it was only a matter of time before my cover was blown and I was forced to hole up in Lindsey’s house, dodging cameras and reporters until I was driven out of hiding and shipped to L.A. I wasn’t ready to go back yet.

  “Can’t I just buy the thing,” I mumbled, “without the twenty questions?”

  He opened his mouth but then closed it, his green eyes holding on me with even more frustration. After a few seconds, he let out the breath he’d been holding, and something on his face changed. Apparently he’d given up on uncovering my identity.

  “You got it,” he said, strolling to the counter. “That’s six plus tax.” He punched buttons on the register. “Paying with paper or plastic?”

  I couldn’t help noticing a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he talked. This was rather distracting. He lifted his eyes to me like he was expecting something, but I had no idea what he’d been saying. I’d been wondering what his neck smelled like. Was that where the aftershave was? Was he shirtless when he’d splashed it on that morning?

  The sound of his tapping a finger on top of the register shook me awake. “Oh! My wallet.” I touched my hands to the front of my hips. “I left home in such a hurry.” I dug a hand into the front pocket of my shorts, pulling out a thin, flat five-dollar bill that Lindsey probably forgot was in there before she washed them. “Do you have a layaway plan?”

  His mouth was still fighting that smile.

  “No, really. I have the money for it. I just need to come back later.” I gestured to the wall with hooks. “I’ll take the hat, too.”

  “I thought you didn’t like it.”

  With a skip, I returned to where I’d left the pretty straw hat. “It’s what everyone in Paris is wearing this summer.” Properly positioning the hat on my head, I turned up the side brim and struck a pose. “Regardez-moi.”

  It’s funny how everything can change.

  Just like that.

  Behind me, reflected in the mirror, his big green eyes—and his mouth—were wide open.

  {chapter 4}

  “ACT NATURALLY”

  “Wait a minute.” The green-eyed guy was pointing a finger at me. “Aren’t you—”

  “No, I’m not,” I interrupted, backing away, bumping into a rack. Plastic hangers clattered. “Seriously, I’m not her. Okay?”

  After a few seconds lapsed, he tilted his head to the side. “You sure?”

  I nodded in confirmation and peeled off the straw hat. Turning to the clothes rack, I started straightening the hanging T-shirts. “I’m really not, though.” I waved a hand dismissively. “I swear.”

  “You look just like her.”

  “Oh, I know.” I pulled a turquoise T-shirt off a hanger and pretended to examine it thoughtfully. “I get that all the time. Such a drag.”

  When I sneaked a glance at him, he was grinning. “Right . . .” He drew out the word.

  It was a game. I knew it and he knew it, but he didn’t seem to mind joining in.

  “I’m not surprised in the least,” he continued. His arms were crossed in front of him, one finger tapping his chin. “The resemblance is extraordinary. Maybe you should get a job as an impersonator.”

  This made me cackle out loud. The irony. I knew the gig was up, but instead of my normal desire to flee the area, shrieking in hysterical panic, I felt okay, more relieved than terrified. After all, the guy seemed friendly enough—not the type to call the local tabloid and claim the two hundred big ones for ratting me out.

  “How about this,” I said and stepped toward him. Standing on my toes, I plunked the straw hat on top of his head. The wide brim hung over his eyebrows. When I was through, I rubbed my palms together, examining my work. “Hmm.” I squinted at him. “Perfect. Now you look more like her than I do!”

  He chuckled and extended his hand. “I’m Todd.”

  “Abby,” I said with a laugh—a genuine one this time—as we shook hands.

  “I know.” From under the shadow of the hat brim, he winked.

  I dropped his hand and looked down, feeling hot blood rush up to my cheeks. You’re blushing in front of a cute guy, Abby. It’s totally normal behavior. Relax, enjoy it!

  “I’m sorry I was rude before.” I pointed my chin outside. “I was waiting for some kids to walk by.”

  Todd’s gaze held on me for a second before it moved to the front window.

  “People, you know? The public? It can get crazy.” I exhaled a tense laugh, my nervous panic returning, and commenced tugging the ends of my hair.

  He took off the hat and gave me a concerned look. “Are you okay?” He ran a hand through the top of his hair, mussing it up, which made him look tremendously cute.

  “Umm . . .” Why couldn’t I manage to construct more than two real sentences in front of this guy? “It’s just crowds. Crowds make me jumpy, and I kind of freak out.”

  Well, that’s obvious.

  I was painfully aware that I was on the brink of babbling on about my potential panic attacks to a total stranger. After a nod, Todd started folding a pile of tank tops on the table beside him.

  After giving myself a few moments to breathe, I went on. “So, I don’t remember this store from when I was here last. Do you work . . . I mean . . . is it yours?” The question seemed weird. I knew he couldn’t be more than twenty-eight, but for some reason he seemed older.

  Leaving an impeccably folded stack of tanks, Todd moved to another part of the store. As he walked, he straightened oars of different lengths and colors hanging off wires from the ceiling. Below them was a small square table stacked with brochures and flyers about fishing, camping, and boating expeditions.

  I followed behind, taking the opportunity to check him out from behind. Abby like.

  “I’ve slowly been adding my own merchandise,” he offered after what I took for a nod of concurrence at my question.

  “You grew up here?”

  Todd shook his head, leaning against the front counter. That’s when I noticed the long, wooden sign above his head. Todd’s Tackle. “But I’ve lived just about everywhere else.”

  “Army brat?”

  He laughed, mostly to himself. “You could say that. My father was in the military, but I’ve been around the block as well.”

  I stood next to him, resting an elbow on the counter. “And these worldly travels of yours have somehow made you an expert on women’s casual beach headwear?”

  He grinned, but then his expression turned mock serious. “As I was watching you pacing around and around”—he pointed his chin toward the center of the store—“my mind was searching for a failsafe opener, something that wouldn’t sound horribly corny, yet would express something less common than ‘Nice weather we’re having.’” He shrugged, running one hand through the side of his hair. “The best I could come up with was, ‘Hey, you, put on this hat. Now.’”

  “Very smooth,” I congratulated.

  “Oh, sure.” He chuckled. “I was confident I’d eventually win your attention with my irresistible combination of wit and hats.” He moved to the other side of the counter,
pulling out a bookkeeping notebook held together with rubber bands. “The previous owner was severely behind the times,” he said as he dropped the notebook on the counter, “so it’s not exactly the way I want it yet.” He glanced around his store, reminiscently, as if flipping through old family photos. “But it will be someday. I have a list of things I want to do in my life. Some are here.” He glanced around again. “Some are far away. I add to my list every day.” He looked at me now. “I’ve got all the time in the world. And I’m very patient.”

  With that, he walked to another part of the store, leaving me with my elbows on the counter and my head full of questions.

  All the time in the world, my brain repeated. What must that be like? Even there in small-town Florida, I was unmistakably reminded of how different I was from everybody else.

  While fingering a keychain in the shape of a shark fin, I tried not to eavesdrop as Todd excused himself to take a few phone calls, booking two fishing tours for later in the week. His cell on the back counter was also buzzing with incoming messages and calls, during which I saw the minivan full of its tweener passengers load up and drive away.

  “I guess I should be going,” I said, as it appeared I had no further excuse to be lingering. Todd was busy, and I should probably get out of his way. “But,” I added quickly, “I’ll be back for the dolphin.” I raised my right hand. “I promise.” And I meant it.

  With that, we walked toward the exit.

  “Come any time,” Todd said when he reached the door. “I’m here most days. But you might want to wait until I’m open next time.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “Your store’s not open yet?”

  “Not until ten. It’s early in the season, but I sometimes do have paying customers, you know.”