Abby Road

by Ophelia London

  “Why wasn’t the front door locked?”

  “It was. You barged in. I heard the floor lock snap.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Sure, it’s a little rusty, but you must be stronger than you look.”

  “Oh, gosh.” I laughed in spite of myself. “Sorry. I was pretty desperate to take cover.” I turned toward the window, mortified.

  Todd opened and held the door ajar in front of me, displaying one of his beautifully sculpted biceps. “Be careful out there,” he offered as hot, sticky air rushed inside the cool room. “Because you know what Sinatra always said.”

  “Yeah? What did he say?” I asked as I took a quick glance out the door to investigate the population of the sidewalk. It appeared to be as empty as before. I exhaled, relieved, but when I moved my eyes back to Todd, I found him staring at me. His brows were knitted, like he was confused about what he was seeing. It was completely unsettling, yet somehow, my heart picked up speed in the way it does when it knows you’re about to get kissed.

  Wait. I suddenly panicked. Do I have something stuck between my teeth? Is that why he’s staring? I sealed my lips. Or maybe he actually expects me to know what Frank Sinatra said. Who the hell knows that?

  “Everything okay?” Todd asked in a smooth voice. When he took a step toward me, my heart beat even faster. “Here. Don’t forget your disguise.” He held out my Dodgers cap.

  “Oh.” My muscles unclenched. “Um, thanks.” After that, I didn’t know what else to say, and his staring was making me sweat again. “So, I . . .” I cleared my throat in a way I hoped was subtle. And then I managed to ramble off two or three sentences in a language I wasn’t even aware that I knew. My accent was probably worse than sub-par.

  When I finished, Todd blinked and kind of flinched. “What was that?”

  I lifted my shoulders. “It’s what’s written on the tag attached to the dolphin.”

  Todd looked over his shoulder toward the counter, then back at me. “You speak Danish?”

  I shrugged again. No, of course I didn’t speak Danish, but I could say “Good night, thank you for coming” in seven languages. The necessity of memorizing song lyrics on the fly had become second nature. Yes, my memory was pretty good.

  “You looked at that tag for five seconds and could repeat it verbatim fifteen minutes later?” he asked.

  I didn’t say anything, just tucked some hair behind one ear.

  He smiled, kind of dubiously, and folded his arms. “Do you know what it means?”

  “Of course,” I said, annoyed by the way he was grinning, like he thought I was lying—even though I was. Fact was, I had no clue what the stupid tag said; I’d only recited it phonetically.

  “So?” His grin widened, annoyingly, charmingly. “What does it mean, Abby?”

  I cleared my throat, stalling. Then I cleared it again.

  Come on. You’re Abigail Kelly. Act like it!

  Just as I was about to admit the truth, inspiration struck: What would Molly do?

  Quickly I did an instant recall of all the times I’d seen her flirting with pilots and shoe salesmen and record executives. If I could copy Danish, surely I could copy Molly. I lifted a gradual smile, showing my teeth. After that, I performed this little chin jerk thing that resulted in my blond hair curtaining half of my face. As I snatched my ball cap out of his hand, I made sure to lightly brush him with one finger.

  “Later, if you’re lucky, Todd’s Tackle, I’ll tell you exactly what it means.” I paused to pucker and then twist my lips to the side. “But you’re going to have to track me down . . .” I skimmed a finger across the front of my hair, flipping it over one shoulder. “And beg.”

  With that, I walked out the door.

  {chapter 5}

  “DO YOU WANT TO KNOW A SECRET?”

  “How ugly is he?”

  “Butt.” I laughed. “Totally, totally butt.”

  Molly moaned approvingly into the phone. “And you met him at a surf shop?”

  “His surf shop,” I corrected. “He owns the place.”

  “Blimey. When was this?”

  “Two minutes ago, right before you called. I swear, Molly, he’s . . . he’s so—”

  “You didn’t spaz out, did you?”

  “No,” I said, but of course I’d just told a big one.

  “Good, good. So now what?”

  I lifted my chin and twirled a little pirouette en dehors as I headed toward my bike. “I’ll go back tomorrow and buy the statue thingy.” I bit my lip. “Should maybe learn a little Danish, too. But what if he’s not at work in the morning? What then?”

  Molly made theatrical gagging noises.

  “What?” I asked, recognizing her disapproving tone. “You think I should’ve pounced on him when I had the chance, don’t you?”

  “Abby, listen to me.” Even her accent sounded frustrated. “I want you to turn round, march back, and give that boy your phone number.”

  I slowed my pace, considering her suggestion. “But I don’t know my phone number.”

  After some more incoherent muttering, Molly shrieked. “I give up. You’re such a bloody conventional Yankee. Next thing I know, you’ll have run off with one of those creepy ponytail lads with a Darwin fish on his bumper, then move to a farm in Idaho to raise alpacas.”

  I lowered my cell and stared at it. “What?”

  “I think you know what I mean, missy.”

  I laughed again and hung up.

  The heat of the morning had kept most of the day-trippers off the cobblestone streets of the Seaside Town Square. Instead, they sought shelter in backyard swimming pools, air-conditioned restaurants, or bigger cities with malls. I passed by two long rows of brightly colored bicycles—cruisers, like mine, with big tires and a basket hanging between the handlebars. The man running the rental stand sat off to the side under the shade of a tree, his nose in a book, fanning himself with a magazine.

  I looked over my shoulder, thinking of Todd. So cute, so unHollywood. Tomorrow I’d go back for the dolphin, for sure. Then the next day, maybe I’d just sort of pop in for no reason, all breezy-like. Guys love that. My smile stretched, and I was suddenly in the mood to make out in the balcony of a theater.

  When I arrived back at Modica Market, my bike was unmoved, leaning against the outside of the store. I reached for the handlebars, about to pedal down the sandy sidewalk, retracing my path from an hour ago. Instead I stepped over it toward the front window. Cupping my hands around my eyes like a quintessential Peeping Tom, I peered through the glass. Behind the solitary, non-computerized, punch-in-the-keys cash register at the front, the little store was packed with fresh produce, local specialties, and 1950s-style wooden shelves stocked to the ceiling with cans, bottles, and jars of every color, shape, and size.

  I knew what my next adventurous mission was going to be: I would spend that machine-washed five-dollar bill on one jar of Modica homemade jam. Lindsey knew I died for the stuff, especially red currant. She used to send it to me wherever I was, in squatty jars with scalloped labels. I hadn’t had any in more than a year, not even a lick off the back of a spoon. Sugar equals fat, you know.

  Oh, screw it, I thought, I’m on vacation.

  After a long, preparatory exhale, I pulled the door open halfway and then froze when a little bell tinkled above my head. An older man with a bushy gray beard and a stiff red apron glanced my way, nodded, and returned to his work. He looked like Santa. I liked that. I leveled my chin and crossed the threshold, allowing that little bell to tinkle its heart out as the door closed behind me.

  The display of preserves was right by the entrance. Score! I knelt in front of it, scanning the shelves, but alas, no red currant. As I was about to turn and ask a clerk if there might be any in the back, I spied a jar behind a row of elderberry. Just as I was reaching, a small brown hand jetted out for it.

  “Hey,” I complained indignantly. “That’s mine.” Before I knew what I’d done, I snatched the jar back, right out of the hand.

  “Mummi
e, Mummie. She took my jelly.” I turned my eyes to find a little boy, his pouty lips quivering, empty hand still outstretched. “Ees mine!” he squealed through a colorful island accent. He backed away and wrapped his arm around someone’s leg. I looked up.

  Her black dreadlocks were swaddled in a purple and orange hair wrap that matched her bright floral dress. She was obviously his mother, all tall and exotic and striking, and she was glaring absolute daggers at me.

  The bell on the front door tinkled as someone new entered the store. Great. I kneaded my forehead, worrying for a quick second about the scene I was causing. Max would be irate.

  “Aw, of course it’s yours,” I said quickly, smoothly, smiling up at the glaring mom and then at her pouting kid. I balanced the jar on my open palm. The kid’s little hand grabbed it and snapped back faster than a striking cobra. The mother took a step forward, still staring me down.

  “I’m sorry . . . about that.” I dabbed my forehead with the back of my wrist. No one spoke or moved. “I’m sure there’s another jar in back, so I’ll just . . .” The kid kind of smirked at me, so I reached out to give him a high five, a seemingly friendly gesture.

  “No! No!” he yelped, brown eyes wide, backing away like I was some freako child snatcher. “She try to take my jelly. Mummie!”

  “Tom-Tom,” the woman said gently, patting his head. But wee Tom-Tom would not be shushed.

  The bearded man in the red apron appeared, probably wondering what all the yelping was about.

  “Don’t let her take it! Don’t let her, pleeeeease!” Excellent. The precious little nipper was now pointing a chubby finger at me—no more than three inches from my nose—as he wailed.

  The man in the apron scanned me up and down with a scowl. I was now thinking of him as “Evil Santa,” and this thought was cracking me up, which made his scowl deepen.

  “No-no-no,” I implored, biting back another laugh. “I’m not trying to take it. I just wanted some . . . uhh . . .” I chuckled nervously. “Some red currant . . . jam stuff.”

  The mother and Evil Santa stared at me like I was speaking Martian.

  “Okay, then, how about I get dibs on the next jar? Or, you know, we can thumb wrestle for it.” I looked at the kid and laughed. “Ha ha, I’m sure you’ll win!”

  Evil Santa shifted his weight defensively when I turned to him.

  “So, I . . . The jam, if you see any more sitting around, right? Na-ha-ha.” Okay, I had no idea what I was saying, and I suspected that my sounding like a mustache-twirling villain wasn’t helping the situation. I sat back on my heels, completely out of ideas, with an overwhelming desire to go lie down in the middle of a busy freeway.

  “Trouble, Bob?” someone asked from behind me.

  I flinched in surprise, immediately recognizing the distinctive vocal timbre of the new speaker. It was burned on my brain, as was the scent of its owner’s similarly distinctive aftershave. And for about the tenth time in an hour, I felt myself flushing from head to toe and becoming positively speechless—this time because I was trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Abigail Kelly was (heh-heh) squatting in the middle of the floor trying to scam a five-year-old out of a ten-ounce jar of high fructose corn syrup.

  “No trouble,” stated Evil Santa. “This young lady was just leaving.”

  Yeah, I got the hint.

  Slowly, I turned my head toward the new voice, displaying my best doe-eyed look of innocence.

  Todd didn’t so much as blink as he stepped between Evil Santa and me. For a second I thought maybe he hadn’t recognized me, or if he had, maybe he was positioning himself to cause a crafty diversion for me to escape. At the very least, he was sure to challenge Evil Santa to a duel to save my honor.

  Todd did none of the above. He stood and stared, just like the others. After what felt like an eternity, he sighed and said to Evil Santa, “May I remove her for you?”

  “Please,” Evil Santa answered and then escorted his malicious minions away from the scene of the crime.

  Todd frowned at me like a disappointed father before extending his hand to help me up.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, winding a strand of my hair around one finger. “I don’t know what just happened. I swear, I was—”

  “Stealing candy from a baby?” he whispered. “Abby, how cliché.”

  “I wasn’t stealing,” I hissed, wishing for that busy freeway again. I dipped my chin self-consciously and glanced around. “Just please get me out of here.”

  Todd nodded to the door sporting the tinkling bell.

  With long, stiff steps, we filed down the sidewalk shoulder to shoulder, practically at a run. I didn’t care where we were going, as long as it was away from there. After about a minute, Todd shot me a glance. I lifted one shoulder in reply. He suddenly stopped walking, doubled over, and commenced to howl a laugh so loud it was like he’d been suppressing it for hours.

  I stood beside him, arms folded. “Some nerve,” I observed.

  This made him laugh harder.

  My own lips started twitching, fighting back a building smile, as I watched him losing it in the middle of the footpath. “I’m so glad my public humiliation made your day.” My attempt at a sarcastic sulk was pitiful; I was about to lose it myself.

  “That might’ve been the funniest thing . . . I have ever seen.” He panted. “Looked like Bob was about to blow a gasket. That bawling kid, his mom glaring curses at you, and you crouched there . . . that panicked expression on . . .” He cackled again.

  “Well, I . . .” But it was only a matter of seconds before I grabbed my stomach and squatted in the middle of the sidewalk, letting loose my own hysteria. We remained there, laughing and trying to speak for what felt like hours, until, through my tearing eyes, I saw Todd finally straighten.

  “As your liberator,” he said, slightly calmer, “I insist you tell me exactly what just happened.”

  I pushed my hair back and opened my mouth.

  “And . . .” he added before I got the chance to dodge the question, “don’t even think of leaving out a single gruesome detail, or . . .” When he laid one hand on my shoulder, I forgot about pretending to be aloof. “Or I’ll throw you back to the sharks without a thought.” He grinned, showing straight, white teeth.

  That’s when I noticed the dimple on his left cheek. It was all I could think about while I begrudgingly conveyed the last ten minutes of my life as we started down the sidewalk. “So,” I said when I’d finished, attempting to talk about something besides his dimple, “were you at Modica to save the day or to pick up some red currant jam? Let me save you a trip back—they’re out.”

  “I caught that much.” He extended his arm in front of me, forcing us to stop at a crosswalk. “Actually, Chandler’s on duty the rest of the day. I stopped in because I promised him lunch.” He shot a quick glance in my direction. “But I think that can wait for now.” He lifted one hand to shade his eyes from the sun as he scanned both ways for traffic.

  “Who’s Chandler?”

  “One of the local kids who helps out at the store.” He touched my elbow, leading us into the crosswalk. “Fearless kayaker. Since he turned eighteen last month, I let him lead all the tours.”

  “You kayak, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered in a phony southern drawl, “but he’s not hitting the water today. I’m forcing him to stay indoors, while also making sure he works extra shifts to earn college tuition.” There was that dimple again. “He’s a great kid. I really should grab him lunch.” He gave me a look. “Think you could sneak back and snag a pastrami on rye?”

  “I only steal jam from children. I thought that was clear.”

  Todd turned his head to laugh.

  Not until the bottoms of my sandals were filled with sand did I notice how far we’d walked. “Where are we?” I stopped in my tracks. “My sister’s bike. I left it in front of the market.” I made an automatic about-face to retrace our steps, but Todd didn’t follow.

&nb
sp; When I turned back, he was still standing in place, his hands on his hips. His blue T-shirt sleeves were taut around his well-defined arms, and I could tell, even through his shirt, that his chest and abs were just as toned. I wondered if he was one of those guys who obsessively pumped iron, or if he was naturally built lean and mean like a professional soccer player.

  “If you’re heading back to the Square,” he finally said conversationally, “I’ll go with you and grab Chandler a sandwich for later.” He took a step toward me. “You’ve eaten at Modica?”

  “Not for ages, and never under threat of being scowled to death.”

  He chuckled. “You’re funny.” But he said it like he was surprised by the fact. “You should try their tuna,” he continued. “I don’t eat it, but some call it ambrosia.”

  “Why don’t you eat it, then?”

  “No fish unless I catch it myself. A rule I have.”

  “Tough guy,” I said, picturing him all macho on the bow of a boat, rough waves, pole clutched in his hands.

  “So?” he said, wrenching me to the present. “Want some lunch?”

  “Food?”

  He laughed. “That’s usually how it works.”

  I pushed out my bottom lip, taking a quick consensus of my inner condition. No signs of barfiness. No bile. All systems go. My hand patted my empty and suddenly ravenous stomach. “I haven’t had tuna in a long time. Ambrosia, you say?”

  He nodded. “It’s my treat. I insist,” he tacked on, not actually giving me an opportunity to object. “It’s the least I can do for our town’s inexcusably shoddy treatment of a . . . visitor.”

  I smiled. It felt good to be treated like a lady for a change.

  “Lunch sounds great, actually. Thanks.” As we smiled at each other, I felt a weird kind of sizzle up the back of my neck. Well, not that weird. I knew exactly what it meant. “So, where to?” I asked, forcing myself to speak and not just pin him against the wall.

  “Modica’s, of course.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” I screeched. “I am not going back in there. Evil Santa will call the cops.”