Crazy Little Thing Called Love

by Beth K. Vogt

  Vanessa was about to argue, but Mrs. Wright interrupted her when the doorbell rang. “Oh, that must be Christina, back for the second home health care shift. Would you take these to Mr. Wright while I go get the door?”

  Mr. Wright had dozed off. After introducing Vanessa, Mrs. Wright got caught up talking about the day with the home health care representative. Vanessa made her exit once Mrs. Wright returned, her lemonade untouched, promising to come back again before she left for Denver.

  “You better. Mr. Wright won’t remember you’ve been here to miss seeing you—but I will!”

  SIX

  You can’t base your life on other people’s expectations.

  —STEVIE WONDER (1950– ), MUSICIAN

  “You can’t go home again.”

  How many times had Logan proven that statement true?

  While they’d lived in Niceville all his life, his parents seemed to make a habit of moving to a newer, bigger house every few years. Or renovating a room or two in the home they were living in. Changing the landscape so the yard looked completely different.

  This time, the landscape remained the same, but his sister warned him that they’d expanded and retiled the sunroom, adding space for his mother’s plants.

  More than a casual dinner waited for him behind the large wooden door with smoky glass panels on either side guarding the front of the house.

  “Let’s go this way.” Logan motioned for Brady, Max, and Julie to follow, knowing Max would be able to navigate the well-manicured lawn even on his crutches. He sidetracked to the back, where an in-ground pool covered half the yard, screened in and surrounded by an assortment of low-growing bushes. The gate was unlocked, and from the pool area he entered the updated sunroom, decorated with an assortment of new white wicker furniture. How did his mother manage all of the foliage?

  No family in sight, but the faint hum of voices and the rich aroma of his mother’s beef brisket led them to the kitchen—and his mother and sister, Caron. She stood in front of Alex, who towered over her, his arm around her waist. Visual proof to back up his mother’s report that Caron and Alex were dating. Had they caved to parental pressure—decades’ worth of not-so-subtle hints from both sets of parents that they were perfect for each other—or was there real potential for a long-term relationship between them?

  “Logan!” Caron slipped away from Alex and dashed, barefoot, across the kitchen, pulling him into a tight embrace. “How are you, big brother?”

  He squeezed her in return, enjoying her laughing protest. “Good to see you again, Caro.” Over her shoulder, he nodded at Alex. “Nice to see you, too.”

  “Logan.”

  His mother added onions and shiitake mushrooms into the Crock-Pot on the kitchen counter and replaced the glass lid. “Now I’m a happy mother. Both of you are home.”

  Logan opened his arms and pulled her in next to his sister, both of whom barely came up to his shoulder, completing the tradition they’d repeated hundreds of times through the years. Would he ever outgrow these double hugs? The jasmine scent of his mother’s perfume, the soft chime of his sister’s giggle—this was coming home for Logan. He’d ignore how his mother’s hair was more gray than blond now, how a few more fine wrinkles bracketed her wide smile. Yes, his mother was getting older—but she never aged.

  “Mom and Caron, you both remember the team, but I’ll do introductions for Alex. So, Max is the one on crutches, Brady’s our resident bald guy—” Logan talked over Brady’s groan. “And Jules brings class to our motley crew.”

  As he talked, his mom hugged each team member, and then insisted they all get comfortable in the family room while she finished with dinner.

  “Caron made a baked crab dip, so why don’t you relax a little bit longer and enjoy that?” His mother pointed to the room just off the kitchen. “Logan, help them get settled, will you? And find out what they want to drink.”

  “Sure thing, Mom.”

  Once the trio was settled with dip and veggies and tall glasses of iced tea, he excused himself and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Oh, you know how he always has just a few more things left over from work.” His mother patted his back, standing on tiptoe to place another kiss on his cheek, and then moving to retrieve a spinach salad from the side-by-side fridge. “Even with Caron working there now, he hasn’t slowed down a bit.”

  “Enjoying being a Realtor, sis?”

  “Absolutely.” Caron rejoined Alex, who seemed more than happy to stay by her side. “You know it’s been my plan since I was in high school.”

  “I know. And thanks to you, I don’t have to go near that corporate ladder to success.”

  “No—you always wanted to go drag real ladders from the garage and use them to climb up on the roof. And then jump off. I’m happy to rescue you from the life of planning open houses and negotiating contracts.” His sister leaned back into Alex’s embrace. She’d cut her hair shoulder-length and dyed it a soft blond. His father must have requested she have a normal hair color if she was going to be a part of Hollister Realty. “So, we’re still trying to convince Dad to finally take that cruise down the Danube he and Mom have always talked about—‘we’ being Mom, me, Alex, and his parents. Who knows, maybe next year he’ll relax enough and book it.”

  Leaning down from his height of six-foot-six, Alex pressed a kiss on her lips. “You’re doing a marvelous job, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Caron stood on her tiptoes and returned his kiss, brushing his brown hair back off his forehead. “It’s nice to know someone believes in me.”

  “I always have.” Alex stole another kiss. “You’re beautiful and talented.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just see if you can talk up the Danube over dinner.”

  Just how serious was this thing between his sister and Alex? So long as the guy treated her right, then Logan was good with this. It was nice to see his sister laughing. Content. An air of wounded uncertainty had lingered after her last breakup—but that was gone now.

  “So what’s the latest on the hurricane?” Logan noticed the small TV mounted under one of the rows of kitchen cabinets. A new addition—convenient for his mom while she cooked.

  “Alex and I checked the news about ten minutes ago. It’s still only a hurricane watch.”

  “Okay, then. Are you and Dad still planning on throwing a block party and riding it out here if it actually turns into the real thing?”

  “Logan—we do not throw a block party.” Even as she reprimanded him, his mother laughed. “We just let the neighbors know they’re welcome to stay here if they want.”

  “Well, Dad built this house like a fortress.”

  “And that’s why we won’t have to evacuate—ever. You know you and the team can come here if the hurricane shows up, right?”

  “Yes—but I’m not worried about it. And really, I wouldn’t want to interrupt the party.”

  “Enough.” His mother pulled a bottle of her homemade creamy bacon salad dressing from the fridge. “Go tell your dad dinner is ready in five, will you?”

  “Sure thing, Mom.” He nodded toward the family room. “Caro, will you and Alex check on Julie and the guys?”

  He grabbed a bottle of water for his father and a Coke for himself, noting his mother had a small dish of sliced lemons waiting on the shelf. “Thanks for remembering.”

  “How could I forget? You’ve been guzzling that stuff since middle school. I don’t understand it, but I’m your mother and I like to spoil you when I can.”

  “I’m not spoiled.”

  “Shoo!” She snapped the towel at his backside, reminding him of all the times she’d sent him scurrying from the kitchen in the same way. His mother knew how to wield a kitchen towel like a guy in a high school locker room.

  He paused in the kitchen doorway before heading to his father’s office at the back of the house. “Dad still on the health kick like last year?”

  “It’s no
‘kick.’ ” His mother shrugged and held up her hands. “He’s lost twenty-five pounds. And he has me juicing every morning and going to the gym three times a week.”

  Amazing.

  Being told his father had lost weight and then seeing the new and improved thinner version of his father were two very different things. As his father paced his office talking on the phone about a new property for sale, Logan set the bottle of water on his desk and waited. Gone was the paunch that used to rest above his father’s belt, the bit of jowl that had added a Godfather look to his face.

  Phone call done, his father settled back behind his dark wood desk, motioning Logan to sit down in the black leather club chair set off to one side. A wall of inset bookshelves lined with the classic books he’d collected through the years provided a perfect backdrop to his father’s office.

  “How are you, son?” His father nodded a brief thanks for the water.

  “Good. Enjoying the beach.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t stay at the house. We have plenty of room here.”

  Logan gulped back the soda, cold, and with the zing of lemon he relished. They had this same discussion every time Logan came back to Florida. Maybe one year his father would understand he needed space. That staying at the hotel in Destin was a personal preference, not a snub. He liked waking up and having the Gulf just outside his door—well, just outside the hotel’s door. “I come to Destin for the beach. And the team is with me—”

  “Yes.” His father opened the desk’s top drawer and tossed several magazines onto his desk. “How did it feel, having your team make the national news?”

  With only a brief scan of the covers, Logan knew what each magazine article detailed. The first two highlighted the killer tornado that had ripped through Kansas last July. The third lasered in on the Stormmeisters, the all-too-familiar photograph of his battered chase car overturned in a ditch. Mud-splattered. The windshield shattered. If he stared at the image long enough, he could hear Max’s screams . . .

  “Back up . . . back up . . . Logan, the tornado’s right in front of us!”

  They said a picture was worth a thousand words. Sometimes those words hung suspended in one long scream . . . and silence so loud a man couldn’t sleep at night for fear of what he’d see again when he closed his eyes.

  His father waved his hand over the magazines. “Is this why you called me a few months back?”

  Logan stood and bridged the gap between them, turning the magazines facedown. “Yes.”

  “You’re finally ready to give up storm chasing?”

  “I think it’s time.”

  “Well, it’s probably best to do it now before someone does get killed.”

  Exactly. Or before the team lost all its funding. Logan swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. Even if—when—he walked away from the team, how long would it take to forget that day? To forgive himself?

  He cleared his throat. “Max is recovering well. I thank God for that.”

  “I don’t know if it’s right to thank God because your—what did that one news anchor say?—‘error in judgment’ only put your teammate in the hospital with a broken arm and a broken leg and didn’t kill him.”

  Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with his father. Not to blink. Back down. Leave the room. It was as if he’d been called into his father’s office to explain he’d flunked out of high school. Not that he’d ever dared to do that. No, his father could never complain about his grades.

  Logan had failed at his dream—one his father had never understood. Was he making another mistake? “I didn’t come here to talk about what happened this summer, Dad. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Well, if you’re finally ready to grow up and quit storm chasing, I’m ready to offer you a real job.”

  And of course his father would bring it all back to that.

  He gripped the can of soda with both hands. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Dad. I have a real job, with stellar credentials. I’m a meteorologist, and I’ve led the Stormmeisters—successfully—since I was in college.”

  “You know I’ve never supported your decision to be a storm chaser. You’ve had ten years to pursue this. Fine. Now you’re quitting—and that’s a decision I can support.” His father tossed the magazines into the trash can. “I’m offering you the chance to come work for me at Hollister Realty.”

  “Dad, you’ve already got Caron working for you. From what I hear, she’s doing a great job—”

  “Of course she is. I wouldn’t hire her if she weren’t capable. But there’s room for both of my children in the company.” Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, his father dusted his hands off and then steepled his fingers against one another. “She’s dating Alex now. Couldn’t make your mother and me—and Alex’s parents—happier. If this relationship goes the way I think it will, her priorities will be changing.”

  “Dad, selling real estate—providing homes for families—that’s always been your passion. And I respect that. But real estate—that’s not for me. I’ve seen how storms destroy people’s homes. Don’t you remember what happened to Pop Pop and Mom Mom?”

  “Of course I remember! I grew up in that house—”

  “Exactly!” Logan paced in front of his father’s desk. “And all it took was the hand swipe of one tornado to destroy everything—photographs, heirlooms, even Mom Mom’s wedding dress. And to . . . to . . .”

  “To kill your grandmother.”

  Even all these years later, Logan’s vision blurred with tears as he remembered how the tornado took his grandmother’s life. How could his father sit there and show no emotion?

  “I saw how heartbroken Pop Pop was when he realized Mom Mom had gotten caught in the tornado coming back from town. I walked their property with him . . . sifted through the rubble days later. Looking for remnants of their life together. That’s why I’m a storm chaser. If I can help figure out a way to predict tornadoes . . . maybe help save lives that way . . .”

  “But you said you’re done with that.” His father leaned forward. “I’m offering you a good job.”

  “I have other opportunities I’m investigating—jobs that will keep me connected with the storm-chasing community.”

  “So you’re still refusing to grow up and see what I’m offering you?”

  “No, Dad.” Logan closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. They always came to this point. “You’re still refusing to accept that we can have different dreams.”

  An invisible barrier seemed to separate him from his father. Would they ever be able to find any kind of common ground between them?

  His dad shoved his chair back from his desk, the squeaking of the wheels causing Logan to look up. “Does your team know yet?”

  “No. I wanted a relaxing vacation for all of us. I’m going to talk to them when we get back to Oklahoma. That’s soon enough.”

  “I was hoping we could tell the family tonight at dinner that you’ve come to your senses.”

  Logan shrugged off the insult. “No, not tonight. Brady and Max and Julie are here, too, remember? They deserve to hear my decision from me first—not announced during dessert. Once they know, then we can tell the family.”

  “But your mind’s made up? At least you’re finished with this foolishness of chasing tornadoes?”

  Logan nodded, swallowing back the words burning on his tongue. What was that proverb he’d read this morning? Something about harsh words stirring up anger. He wanted to have a pleasant dinner with his family and his friends—not destroy what his mother had worked so hard to prepare. No more arguing.

  All too soon he’d walk away from everything he’d pursued since he was sixteen.

  But he couldn’t lead the Stormmeisters like this—second-guessing himself, dreading the thought of getting back behind the wheel of a chase car . . .

  He crushed the soda can, tossing it into the met
al trash can, where it landed on top of the magazines with a dull thud, liquid splashing across the pages. It was time to walk away. All he had to do was replace a car and help cover Max’s medical bills—although he would have to fight his friend to do that. Keep lobbying for grants for next summer.

  “I’m proud of you, son. I have to admit, it was hard seeing the family’s name displayed in the national news like that.” His father stood, giving Logan a swift pat on the shoulder as he walked past. “Let’s go have dinner, shall we?”

  The sound of his father’s whistle drifted down the hallway as Logan sat back down in the chair facing his father’s desk. Now his father was proud of him—when Logan abandoned everything he’d worked so hard for? Where were the words of comfort or encouragement? Why couldn’t his father tell him that he could overcome this? That he believed in him?

  Logan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, head down. Ridiculous thought. When had his father ever said that?

  A strangled prayer fought for release, caught in the tangles of self-accusation. What right did someone as reckless as he was have to ask God for help?

  A little help here, God. I know I don’t deserve it. But for Brady and Max and Julie . . . help me do the right thing. To walk away.

  “Dinner’s ready, brother-mine.”

  His sister’s announcement yanked him upright.

  “Alex, perfect man that he is, is helping Mom get the food on the table. She knows how you love her brisket.” Caron infused a lighthearted tone into her announcement, standing in the doorway of their father’s office.

  Logan pushed himself up from the chair, pasting a smile on his face, as he joined his sister in the hall, draping an arm around her shoulders. “Thanks, Caro.”

  “It’s great to see you and your team. Jules knows how to keep those guys in line. I can understand why you love working with them.”

  Her words seared a bit, as if she’d spilled a bit of acid on his skin. “Yeah, they’re the best.”