Forever by the Sea

by Traci Hall

  He didn’t smell lasagna which was his second clue that things had switched course in the Sharp-Monroe household since he and Sinead had talked. He brought the wine and laundry soap into the kitchen.

  He stopped at the counter, his breath caught in his throat. God, she was lovely.

  Her long auburn hair waved down her back, her pale green shirt with the frills on the edges added a delicacy to her petite figure. She was far from fragile, but as she ate cookie dough from the container with a silver spoon, shaking her hips to Taylor Swift. She seemed far younger than her twenty-eight years. He was reminded of her as a girl, first grade, third grade, fifth grade, when she had braces and she was worried that her tongue would get stuck in them.

  She rarely let this side of herself free to play and as he took in the bottle of tequila by the notebooks on the counter, he wondered what had happened to loose the inner child.

  “Can I have a bite?” he asked.

  She screeched, dropped the plastic tub into the sink, and whirled with a very guilty expression on her face.

  He burst out laughing.

  “Christian!” She put her hand to her chest. “I thought you were working late?”

  “I did.” He picked up the short glass of tequila over ice and sipped. “You started the party without me. I thought we were doing Italian.”

  “We won’t be able to eat ice cream naked once we have kids.”

  He choked on the tequila.

  “We don’t do that now.”

  “But we could.” She crossed her arms in front of her waist, her toes poised over her other foot, making her stand like a stork.

  “I’ll go buy some ice cream,” he said.

  “Christian, that’s not the point. I look okay naked now—I mean, not centerfold worthy or anything, but I don’t think I’d cause a traffic jam. After a baby?” She shook her head, her hair settling around her shoulders.

  Christian set the glass down and poured some more tequila over the melting ice, keeping the drink for himself.

  “Does this have anything to do with our wedding in two weeks?”

  “No.” She eyed him earnestly. “I was just thinking about how much our lives will change. With a kid. One kid.” She held up a finger.

  “And this has you eating cookie dough?” His belly knotted. He’d though that they both wanted the same thing.

  She nodded. “Want some?”

  “No, I’ll grab a sandwich. I’ll make you one too if you want.”

  Shrugging she retrieved the tub and put the lid on, then shoved it back in the freezer. “Cookie dough is pretty filling, actually. I’m good.”

  “We don’t have to do the kid thing right now.” He wanted it so badly it kept him up at night. Children in the house. Laughter and fun.

  “I’m not afraid of having kids,” she clarified, taking his arm. “But it will be a change, that’s all.”

  He knew she had a hard time with that. Things out of her control. Christian leaned down to kiss her and she pressed her mouth to his.

  “I like hearing you sing.”

  “Talk about stopping traffic.” She rolled her eyes and did a little hip-shake, and then took his free hand and dragged him to the living room. “I waited for you to open this thing. It might be another wedding gift.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “It’s just a postage label.”

  The cardboard box was four feet across and two feet wide. Very heavy.

  He walked back into the kitchen and opened the junk drawer for a pair of scissors then joined Sinead in studying the box for the best place to cut.

  “Careful,” she warned, her breath warm and chocolate chip scented. Her hand settled on his lower back.

  Her touch made him shiver. Ice cream, naked? He could care less what she looked like—the essence of Sinead would always be beautiful no matter what time might change.

  He sliced into the cardboard with the sharp edge of the blade. More cardboard was layered between the box and whatever was inside.

  By the time he got into the center box, he was curious as well.

  “There’s the packing slip,” Sinead said, reaching down to grab the white paper.

  “Who from?”

  “Someone in New York, I think. Hurry, Christian.”

  He cut the item free.

  Gorgeous mahogany wood pieces. “Nice,” he said, his imagination running wild. A table? Bookshelves?

  He pulled the diagram free and started to laugh. “A cradle.”

  “A cradle?” Sinead echoed. “Damn Cousin Misty!”

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon of the Main Event, Sinead waited at Saint Peter’s Church with a glass of champagne in hand. She nervously checked the clock on the wall. Ten minutes until four. She was supposed to say I do in ten freaking minutes, but there was no sign of Christian anywhere.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  Collette lifted her cellphone. “I’ve been calling and texting.” She paced the room with a worried frown. “Nothing.”

  “When was the last time we heard from him?” Madge asked. Her mom looked to Fianna, who looked at Collette and they all stared at Sinead.

  She and Christian had decided to lighten up on the rules, since luck had been noticeably absent at the last ceremony, and she’d stayed the night in their bed, with him, having amazing sex. With her off the pill there was an exciting element of danger. Tonight they’d be condom-free.

  “We had lunch at two, then I came here to get ready,” she pointed to the vanity and the make-up bags, her dress and hair. “He was going to arrive at 3:00.”

  “And he didn’t text you to say he was leaving?” Fianna asked.

  “Nope.” Normally they did send ETA texts but he probably thought she’d be too busy.

  “I’m sure he’s just stuck in traffic.” Fianna stroked Sinead’s shoulder. “You look beautiful. Again.” The photographer had taken some pictures of them getting ready. It had been fun, light-hearted and the polar opposite of before.

  She was ready to marry her man.

  “He should be dressed in his tux.” Sinead stared at the clock and then paced across the room to peek out at the guests sitting in the church. “He’s taking it down to the wire.”

  Cousin Misty had sent her regrets along with the baby cradle, so a woman from the church was doing the wedding march honors. Much more proficiently. Not that it mattered if there was no fiancé waiting for her at the other end of the aisle.

  “He might have forgotten his phone at home in the rush,” Madge offered.

  “Maybe he’s giving you a little bit of payback?” Fianna suggested.

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Collette and Sinead said in unison.

  “I’m worried,” Sinead said, finishing her champagne. The gardenias in her bouquet offered a soothing fragrance and she inhaled deeply. Things are fine, things are fine. Five more minutes went by.

  Five minutes until the ceremony was scheduled to begin.

  An itchy feeling started at her nape and tickled down her spine. Something was wrong. She set the bouquet on the vanity.

  “I feel like I should go look for him.” She walked to the door leading to the seated congregation. His groomsman and best man waited next to the priest. Would Xavier know where Christian was at? Or Paul?

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” her mother said.

  “But-”

  “What if you left and he showed?” Fianna looked over Sinead’s shoulder to the murmuring guests.

  “I think you should stay here.” Collette called Christian’s phone again. “Just answer already!”

  “If he’s in trouble, then none of this matters.” Sinead scanned the church. Friends and family waited in the air conditioned building, checking their phones, fidgeting. Waiting.

  Four o’clock on the dot.

  The priest looked up at her and she felt his question. She shrugged in response. Paul whispered something to Xavier.

  Suddenly there were murmurs from the mi
ddle section of the pews and then her friend Landon from work stood up, excusing himself as he exited and walked toward her, a very worried look on his face.

  She met him at the door. “What?”

  “You have to see this. Live streaming news.” Landon handed her his phone and urged her back into the room to sit on the velvet stool.

  “What?” She studied the police chasing a car along the interstate—a black, late-model BMW. Shiny with silver rims. Like Christian drove. Oh no, what was he doing? It couldn’t be him. “Why are you showing me this?”

  “Christian’s car has been hijacked.”

  Her stomach rolled. “Where is he?”

  “Driving the car.”

  “Oh my God.”

  Collette, her mom, Fianna and Landon crowded behind her to watch as Christian raced down the interstate with four cops and a police helicopter chasing him.

  “What happened?” Sinead’s voice was a squeak.

  “The guy is on the phone with the cops. Says he was wrongly accused of something and he wants justice.”

  “By kidnapping Christian?”

  “He says he’ll stop the car as soon as the police agree to drop the wrongful charges.”

  “What an idiot!” Collette said.

  Landon patted Sinead awkwardly on the shoulder.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head, helpless to help the man that she loved.

  Christian, angry as well as scared for his life as “Just call me Bob” pointed a gun at him and told him to drive, cursed himself for stopping at the mini mart for gas.

  He’d had plenty of gas, half a tank, but he’d had some extra time to kill so he thought he’d make efficient use of it.

  Nothing could go wrong this time, he’d thought. No need to rush.

  Paid for the gas at the pump, so he hadn’t had to go inside, but at the last minute he’d decided to get some breath mints so that when he kissed his bride he’d taste minty fresh.

  And as he’d gone back to the car and slid behind the steering wheel, a gun had been pressed to his temple.

  “Nice car. Unlock the doors,” a gruff voice demanded.

  Christian had immediately complied, thinking that the man sounded hopped up on something and it was not worth his life to argue. Already thinking ahead on how to wiggle out of the situation: call a cab, get married, and file a claim that his car was stolen.

  This could not be happening.

  “Take the car,” he said, his phone in hand.

  “Shut up and follow directions.” The man opened the back door, his gun never leaving Christian’s line of sight. “Toss your phone out the window.”

  Oh no.

  “Haul ass to I-95. Any wrong move and I’ll shoot ya in the arm. Then the leg. Then the head.”

  A laundry list of body parts, as if the man had done this before and knew how to keep his victims on task.

  “Listen, man, I’m getting married today.” Christian swallowed. “I can’t do this. You have to find somebody else. Please, take the car.” He pulled his hands back from the steering wheel.

  He smacked his free hand against the back of Christian’s seat. “Hands back on the wheel.” About thirty with a scraggly beard and dirty fingernails, the man checked out Christian’s suit. “You can thank me later for saving yer ass from a life of misery.” He pressed the black tip of the weapon to Christian’s jugular. “Move it.”

  Christian, mind turning with how the hell to get out of this situation alive, let alone on time for the ceremony, drove out of the mini mart and toward the highway.

  “Take the car,” he said again. “I’ll give it to you.”

  “Dude, I can’t drive.” He huffed. “I got a phone call to make.”

  “What?” Christian slowed for a yellow light. Could he throw the car in park and roll out to the street? Traffic was so heavy he’d probably get hit by another car before the crazy man shot him. First in the arm then the leg, and finally the head. He wiped sweat from his brow.

  “Step on it.” The cold weapon pressed hard. “No stopping!”

  “Mister,”

  “Just call me Bob.”

  “Bob. I need to be alive and well and at Saint Peter’s Church in thirty minutes. Can you drop me off?”

  “Ain’t gonna happen, unless the cops give me what I want right away. But that’s not how they operate, ya know? Damn shame.”

  Christian prayed that he’d get nothing but green lights. Sweat trickled down his back and he snuck a glance at his hijacker. Wild red-rimmed eyes, red splotches across his skin that indicated heroin use. Black teeth—meth usage. Steady hand meant that Bob was serious or that he’d just had a hit.

  Christian considered swerving and crashing the car into a pole or something to stop the man from getting on the freeway, but he didn’t want to die.

  He wanted to marry Sinead.

  Bob was a menace.

  He checked traffic to be sure the sidewalk was clear and jerked the car to the right. Bob shot a bullet through the passenger side window of his BMW. “I can see whatchyer thinking,” Bob said, his warm fetid breath against Christian’s cheek. “Next time it will be your arm, like I tol’ ya.”

  Belly tight, Christian got onto the interstate. Bob put his black disposable mobile phone on speaker and dialed. Air rushed through the hole in the window and spider cracks splintered across the lower section.

  “Officer Tinner please.” Bob’s words were fake polite. “No, I won’t freaking hold! You tell him it’s Bob. Shouldn’t a messed with Bob.” He poked the gun into Christian’s neck. “The balls on these folks, officers of the law my ass. I didn’t deserve a DUI, I’ll tell you that. I lost my job. Good one, ‘cause of Officer Tinner.”

  Christian’s eye ticked. “Sounds like a real jerk.” Keep Bob calm, he thought, watching the window crack some more. He slowed to sixty.

  “Speed up, James Bond. What’s yer name? Don’t lie to me.”

  “Christian Sharp.”

  “Officer Tinner! It’s me, Bob Galleon. I want you to know I got me a prisoner of war.” Bob’s chuckle made Christian feel nauseas. “Unless you drop them charges and get me my job back, I’m gonna make my prisoner drive right into your stationhouse. Kaboom! Got it?”

  Christian kept his opinion on that awful idea to himself. His slick palms slid across the leather of the steering wheel.

  “Go faster, damn it, man. We got places ta go.”

  Bob watched Christian until the speedometer hit a satisfactory 85 miles per hour.

  Sirens flashed behind him.

  “Keep goin’.” Bob laughed heartily. “You hear that Tinner? We got company. You wanna save this guy then you better get me my job back.”

  Bob ended the call with a satisfied huff.

  “You really think this will work?” Christian asked.

  Two cop cars were now behind him and sweat pooled at the small of Christian’s back.

  “Faster, damn it,” Bob said, his eyes wide as he grinned from the police chasing him, to his ringing phone, to Christian and the speedometer and the cracked glass bowing inward. “Keep driving.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t matter really.” Bob looked at the front panel of the BMW. “We got a full tank. Maybe all the way ta Georgia.”

  No way would the police allow them to drive all that way without setting up a road block.

  Bob called Officer Tinner, who answered right away.

  “Respects me now,” Bob told Christian with a knowing nod. “You keep these cops outta the way, got it, Tinner? I got no problem making my guy drive right into traffic.”

  Christian had a problem with that, but nobody was asking his opinion. So far traffic had gotten out of his way and he stayed in the fast lane. The cops, who had been trying to box him in, dropped back as if they’d gotten direction.

  By the time they hit Delray Beach, about twenty minutes in, Christian noticed rivulets of sweat streaming down the sides of Bob’s face. “I need somethin’ to dr
ink.”

  Great. “I don’t have anything.”

  “Need a beer, or somethin’.”

  A helicopter flew overhead.

  I don’t want to die. Not like this.

  “Should I get off I-95?” Christian wasn’t sure if that was a good move or not—maybe it would give the cops the opportunity to nab Bob without causing the BMW to crash in the process.

  “Don’t bug me, man. I’m thinkin’.”

  Bob pounded the gun against the back of the driver’s side seat, and Christian’s head jerked forward.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I gotta get somethin’. First gas station, got it? You wait with the car runnin’.”

  Yeah right. “Sure.”

  Christian carefully used his signal to get into the middle lane.

  The cops did the same.

  He signaled again, and was in the slow lane.

  Drivers in other cars were staring into his vehicle as if he was an asshole. They obviously didn’t see Bob and the gun.

  The police officers stayed back, tailing him but not crowding him. They turned the noise off of their sirens but kept the flashing lights on.

  Christian exited the interstate and went right, to a Mobile station.

  This was it.

  He dried one palm at a time on his suit pants. Swallowed. “This okay?”

  “Yeah.” Bob’s face was pale. Doughy. Damp. He smelled sour. “You want anythin’?

  “Nope.” Christian slowly pulled up to the front door. Was Bob this much of an idiot?

  “Ah, shit.” Bob kept his gun trained on Christian. “I don’t got any cash. You got some money?”

  Christian nodded, and lifted his hip to get into his back pocket.

  “Slow now, no funny bizness.”

  “Right.” The gun pressed so deep into the side of his neck that it pierced his skin. He took the wallet out and opened it. “Twenty okay?”

  Bob nodded. “You got forty?”

  Christian handed over two twenty dollar bills.

  “Be right back.” Bob took the cash and looked at the cops waiting for him outside the car. “Well, hell.”

  Christian could see Bob weigh his need for alcohol, to keep the buzz going, with getting caught.