First Crush

by Ashley Ludwig

  Natalie waved him off. “Just need to make a call.”

  She angled straight to the lobby courtesy phone and dialed the eight hundred number, hooking a pesky camisole strap back into place. While she waited through the cheery hold music, she saw Nick wander through the lobby, looking casual in cargo shorts and a breezy tropical shirt. Seeing her, he changed direction, carrying two coffees and a tray of muffins.

  “What’re you doing down here?”

  “Was gonna leave early.” She shrugged. “Decided to go back to San Diego.”

  “Skipping out on the family detail after all?”

  “Not entirely. Just delaying it a bit.” She scowled at the elevator rendition of a Bon Jovi tune playing from the tiny phone speaker. “Calling a tow truck,” she said, waving the phone at him.

  He handed her a coffee and then two creams at her request. She took a long, healing sip and remembered to thank him.

  “What’s up?” The confident twist of his mouth showed he could fix it—all she had to do was ask. “Battery?”

  “It’s the tires. They’re flat.”

  “I can change your spare, if you want.” He offered her a muffin and then set the tray down.

  “Unless you can conjure up three more tires, I’m still stuck.”

  All humor drained away. “Show me.”

  In the lot, Nick examined the damage while she leaned down to check on her still-throbbing toe.

  “Weird, huh?”

  “Hmm.” Nick stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Did you call the cops yet?”

  “Cops?”

  “Your tires are slashed.” He knelt back down and showed her the deep cuts in-between the treads. “Someone killed your car.”

  “Who would want to—” Her thoughts flashed to the creepy guy in the hospital parking garage.

  “What?” His eyes narrowed as he stood.

  “Just something that happened yesterday.” Shards of worry clogged her throat. “Probably nothing.”

  “Yeah. Probably.” Nick’s hooded gaze was skeptical. Dragging his cell phone from his back pocket, he speed-dialed someone. When he got them on the line, his tone was low, serious.

  He thought someone attacked her car? She remembered the way the man in the parking garage had said her name, as if he’d claimed a prize. But how would he have followed her here? And why?

  Minutes later, an unmarked cruiser pulled to a stop in the lot.

  The door swung wide to reveal the driver. He stood and strode over in jeans and a white oxford, Aviators, and worn boots. The cop looked like Nick—similar physique, the same nose. His brother, she guessed, and from the way they sized each other up, they weren’t on the best of terms.

  The cop hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “When’d you get back?”

  Nick rolled his shoulders. “Yesterday.”

  The officer removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them in his shirt pocket. “Call Mom yet?”

  “Spare the inquisition, Dalton. This isn’t about me.” He made introductions and got his brother up to speed.

  Together, they knelt beside her yellow Bug and reviewed the murdered tires. Dalton tilted his head at the wear marks in the rubber.

  “When’s the last time you put tires on this?”

  “Um, couple of years ago, I think.” Or never. Natalie stood back, arms crossed. “What do you think?”

  Nick stood, brushed tire dust from his hands. “Tell him about the guy from the parking garage.”

  “Nothing. Just a creep who saw I was having trouble and took advantage. Wanted to give me a ride.”

  The brothers exchanged a look. Dalton lowered his notepad. “You said no, right?”

  “Of course I said no.” Natalie forced a laugh. “I don’t run off with strangers.”

  “You’re hanging out with my little brother, here.” Dalton shifted his glance to Nick.

  “We met at the hospital.” Natalie’s gaze flicked to Nick’s and she saw the wash of sadness return to his face.

  The officer stood and turned to his brother, his expression changing. “Philip?”

  Nick nodded. His jaw ticked.

  “Philip has some pretty off-color friends.”

  “This has nothing to do with him, man.” Feet shoulder-width apart, Nick looked ready to square off.

  Ignoring him, Dalton dragged out a notepad and pen and focused on Natalie. “Tell me everything. Start with leaving the hospital.”

  “My car wouldn’t start, like usual. It’s old. I don’t take good enough care of it,” she admitted before launching into the rest of her story.

  “And you didn’t see anyone follow you.”

  Natalie shook her head and looked from one brother to the other. Nick, who was obviously older, was taller, but they shared similar jawlines and were both covered in lean muscle. And right now they were both deadly serious.

  “We’ll process the car for prints, get it fixed for you.” Dalton stood to his full height and swept his attention to Nick. “In the meantime?”

  “I’ll take care of her.” Nick stepped to her side.

  “I don’t need taking care of. What I need is to be on my way to work.” A glance at her watch showed a quarter to ten. She’d never make it to work now. “But since I’m so late … Guess I’ll go to that meeting with the attorney after all.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  Hand on her locket, Natalie worried it over the chain. No point in arguing with Nick. One look at his face and she was sure he wouldn’t be letting her out of his sight anytime soon.

  Nick stared at the swaying Old Town office sign. Fife and Fife, Attorneys at Law. The old firm sat in one of the original storefronts, just off the main drag. The peaked roof, complete with a weather vane, was dated in comparison to the newer row of houses and buildings on the side streets. It wasn’t the Old Town he remembered from his childhood. Not by a long shot.

  The boardwalk bustled this summer morning with shoppers. Hidden speakers piped country music while cars ambled north and south.

  “This is it.” Natalie gazed at the sign. “Clinton Fife, Jr., Esquire.”

  “Delivered, as promised.” Nick kicked at a splinter in the boardwalk with his toe until it released. So Junior was back too, and by the shiny black Benz parked in the owner’s space, he’d returned to run Daddy’s business in style.

  Natalie said something as she started climbing the stairs, but her voice sounded distant as his thoughts tunneled back in time.

  His hands stung from the crack of the bat against ball. The crowd exploded in cheers at the sight of the long, high ball. He didn’t look to see if the fielder caught it, just pumped arms and legs, running the race of his life around the bases. As he dove headfirst into the dirt, home plate was so close his outstretched fingers could almost touch it. The crowd roared. Only the catcher, Clint Fife—Nick’s longtime rival—stood in his way, his cleat blocking Nick from scoring the run. Nick’s baseball scholarship shattered along with his left patella.

  “You okay?” Natalie’s voice dragged him from the memory.

  Nick nodded, looped his thumbs through his belt. “I’ll come get you in an hour. Sound good?”

  “Yeah. Thanks again for the ride.” She met his gaze until a blush dusted her light makeup. The first to look away, she shot a nervous-sounding laugh. “I have no idea what Mr. Fife wants from me … or how long it’ll take. Sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Her little tank sleeve was slipping again, and she gave it an idle shove back into place. Nick dragged his gaze away from her suntanned shoulder and the swish of her full-length skirt as she walked up the stairs in her sandals. Who knew turquoise toenail polish could be sexy?

  “Natalie?” He swallowed, throat dry, his voice bringing her to pause at the door. “Just don’t …”

  “Don’t what?” Half in, half out of the law office, Natalie quirked an odd smile.

  She thought he was nuts now. He scanned the street for any out of t
he ordinary characters. Seeing none, he back-stepped to the curb.

  “Never mind. I’ll come pick you up in an hour.” With a wave, he watched her go inside.

  Crossing the walk, Nick hoofed it over to a new café that his mother had told him about. Inside, he ordered a raspberry brownie and a tall, black coffee. Besides the bakery, Mom’s letters had been full of praise for the new park and fountain the city had built in an old dirt lot. Brownie gone in three bites, the coffee chased chocolate as he made his way to the town square.

  The tiered fountain came into view over the hill. Mom was right. With the sunlight playing on the water, and with clouds arcing against the backdrop of the mountain, it looked like a little bit of heaven up here.

  He tried to focus on the beauty rather than Dalton’s digging question. What if one of Philip’s charity cases had focused on Natalie? Would they hurt her?

  Nick shook his head and thought of all the letters his mom had written over the years. He’d kept every handwritten page, read and reread them over the long weeks in anger management rehab years ago. She still wrote to him every week. When he remembered, he wrote back. If he were still a betting man, he’d wager all his postcards were tacked up on her fridge.

  He loved her way with words. Mom wrote of new buildings kissing the old, how they looked like a little San Francisco popping up in the wild west of Old Town. His throat filled with all he wanted to share with her. Mama’s boy or not, the fact that Philip’s time on earth was ending gave him courage to come back, to try to make things right.

  He should get her a gift—just a trinket—from Old Town. Glancing down the street from the olive oil shop to the paperback bookstore, nothing seemed right. Then, he spied the little flower shop on Main and Third.

  Annie’s store handled his standing order for Mother’s Day, birthdays, and anniversaries. He walked in the front doors and was greeted with a blast of cool air and the aroma of spicy potpourri.

  “Welcome, friend!” a cheerful voice called from the back. “Be right with you.”

  “Take your time.” Nick’s phone showed he had forty minutes to kill. “Absolutely no hurry.”

  Hands in his back pockets, he frowned at a braid-trunked ficus and a clump of blooming, purple hydrangea. Mom liked fresh-cut flowers, not live plants.

  Deeper in the store, a blue-shirted worker tinkered with the refrigeration unit.

  Gia strolled out of the back, wiping her hands on her apron. “What can I—Nick!” She wrapped one arm around his neck in a hug. “When did you get back?”

  “Just yesterday.”

  Little Gia DiMarco. Her ropy braid and clean, fresh makeup still made her look a teenybopper, but her braces were gone now. “Look at you, all grown up.”

  “Annie’s at the farmer’s market booth. You should go say ‘hi.’ She’s not mad at you anymore … much.” She wiggled her eyebrows in wicked humor. Pretty face going serious, she added, “She’s expecting again. That makes three.”

  “Oh.” Nick nodded, not knowing about the first two.

  His heart ached at the thought of the apology he needed to give before he could move on. For now, he’d just support Annie’s flower business.

  He brushed a hand over some stunning purple petals. “Three kids. Wow. That’s great.”

  Gia stifled a laugh as she stuffed sunflowers into a milk can, singing under her breath. “How many kids do you have, Mr. Hardaway?”

  “Uh, none. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Hmmm.” Her eyes stayed bright, focused on stripping stems while he found words.

  “Just came in for a quick bouquet. Maybe peonies?”

  “Your mom’s fave.” Gia’s face lit up as she abandoned the dark-centered blooms. She headed to the back and then hesitated. “You going straight home?”

  “Nah. Maybe to lunch first?”

  “I’ll put stay-fresh holders on the stems. Wait here. I’ve got some soft pinks just about to open. She’ll love them.”

  Standing at the counter, he remembered Annie as she’d looked senior year—right about the time a cheerleader had stolen his attention.

  On their last date, stargazing at a meteor shower from the back of his truck, she twirled his promise ring around her finger and talked about their future as she watched the sky’s performance. He’d seen her sleek black hair framing her vibrant blue eyes, heard her gasp in delight at each streak of white, but his mind was full of another girl: Julie McLanahan and her step-kick.

  He’d laughed when Annie shared her dreams of owning a flower shop. She’d shown him one better. Walked home and left him there. Never looked back.

  He’d never misjudged a girl that way again.

  “Peonies, huh?” The A/C worker wiped his greasy hands on a rag as he spoke. “Mothers usually like roses. White ones. At least, my mom did.”

  “Everyone’s different.” Nick turned from the man and flipped through greeting cards.

  “All done here, Miss Gia.” The chatty worker packed wrenches back into a felt case, rolling it up tight as he spoke. “Some people say there’s a language hidden in flowers.” He gave his clean-shaven jaw a thoughtful scratch. “Wonder what peonies mean. You could look it up, I guess.”

  Nick considered what his non-superstitious mother would think of hidden messages in flowers and bit back a laugh. “My mom wouldn’t care. She likes big flowers, lots of petals, perfume.”

  “Just a thought,” the worker said as he stood.

  “Thanks.” Nick watched the man trade a bill for a check and then leave. “Odd guy.”

  “We’re limping our compressor along until we can expand. Unfortunately, he’s here far too often.” Gia shrugged as she wrapped the peonies in floral paper. Hand hovering above the rainbow of ribbons, she raised her brows. “Pink?”

  “You choose.”

  “Your mom likes gingham. Any color. That was a test.” She cut a long strip and wrapped it into a signature bow before ringing him up.

  With fifteen minutes to kill before Natalie’s appointment ended, he leaned against a post out on the porch. A winery bar stood to the left side, root beer shop to the right.

  He hesitated before choosing the store on the right. The familiar shop was a page from his childhood memory book, a soundtrack of humming coolers and clomping steps over wood floors.

  Shelves gleamed with colorful soda bottles and glass jars full of striped stick candy. The store still had his go-to green peppermint, Dalt’s rainbow tutti-frutti, and Becky’s pink-and-blue swirled cotton candy. Their favorite flavors stood by the door, taunting, just under the sign: “Lead me not into temptation.”

  The rustic tasting bar was still fronted by a scratched, long, and narrow Plexiglas container, a lifetime of bottle caps collected inside. It was even fuller now, and it reminded him of an archaeological experiment with all its layers and colors. He remembered reaching up to put caps in the container when Dad brought them here. He knelt and added his palm print to the glass front.

  “Be right with you,” a familiar voice boomed from the back. The voice of judgment, Dad used to say about his friend who owned the store.

  Back in the day, he, Becky, and Dalton would dare each other to steal stick candy on their way out. Just to see if they could. The last time had been right before Becky turned sixteen when he was helping teach her how to drive. She was gone, forever, a week later.

  Nick stood and headed to the register. Ghosts still haunted him, but he would put them to rest one by one.

  Still, it was harder than he imagined to face this one. He stared at the spot above the leave-a-penny dish where he’d pasted Becky’s missing person flyer so long ago. Nick closed his eyes after a moment, the tightness in his chest signaling anxiety he’d never fully be rid of.

  “Well, if it isn’t Nicky Hardaway.”

  He opened his eyes to see Mr. Dillon, still white-haired and bearded, but a tad thicker in the midsection, standing behind the counter.

  “Hey, Mr. Dillon.” They shook hands, and Nick accepted a s
ample of Dillon’s private brew.

  “It’s on me,” he said. “Just like the candies those boys are about to pocket.”

  Sticky, sweet molasses flavors fizzled on his taste buds as he watched the pre-teen boys Dillon pointed out. One tall, one short, they dragged their hands over the colorful wrappers. They each stuffed a few in their pockets before racing out the door.

  “You knew they were going to do that?”

  “I always know.” Outside, the boys ran down the street and out of sight. “My stick candy’s only one cent a piece. Amazing how little someone will sell their soul for.”

  Nick scraped his shoe on the wood floor, watching Mr. Dillon’s hands as he set out tasting cups.

  “About that …”

  “Never you mind, Son. It’s a kind of tradition around here, I guess. Just like the three of you Hardaway kids.” The humor washed from Mr. Dillon’s face as he unsnapped a bottle cap, then another. “We think about Rebecca every year, Nick.”

  He poured two shots of foaming, brown root beer. They toasted his sister with the malty, sweet beverage. “Becky was a sweetheart. Voice like an angel.”

  “We sure thought so.” Nick accepted the next taste with thanks, this time savoring the blast of flavors as he’d been taught. He noted a hint of licorice over the long finish, but the strongest flavor was cinnamon—Becky’s favorite. He said so, drawing back Mr. Dillon’s smile.

  Nothing would drown the image of his baby sister, but some things heightened her loss.

  Becky would have been twenty-seven this year. The thought of all her missed birthdays punched deep in his gut.

  He was eighteen when she was taken. Twenty-one when she was found. The years between nearly shattered his family, his entire world.

  Nick bought a couple of ice-cold drinks and laid a twenty on the bar. As the register chinged with the sale, he headed for the door. “See you around, Mr. D.”

  “Wait! Your change!”

  Nick nodded his head at the display of stick candy. “Consider it payback.”

  “It’s just a penny a stick.” The register sang as he counted out change and wagged it in Nick’s direction. “Really, it’s too much, even for your past shenanigans.”