Abby Road (5 page)

Before the words had completely escaped my mouth, I stubbed my toe halfway up to the landing and fell face first onto the plush carpeted stairs.

As I began my slow and helpless slide back down, Lindsey went from gasp to laugh to cackle. By the time I reached the bottom, she was bent in half, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Abigail Kelly, ladies and gentlemen. No pictures, please!”

It was exactly 9:02 in the morning when I caught myself watching the clock. Lindsey and her boys had been gone barely an hour, and I was already bored out of my skull.

After drifting from room to room, I slid open the glass door at the back of the living room and stepped out onto the deck.

The Gulf of Mexico was bright blue, like sun hitting stained glass in a church window. Florida always seemed so clean to me, probably because I spent my quality time—if and when there was any—in small, secluded places like Seagrove Beach and her sister city Seaside, instead of Miami’s South Beach or Tampa’s club strip.

Tipping my chin up and to the east, I closed my eyes, allowing the morning sun to hit my face straight on. Yellow and black sunspots danced inside my eyelids. I clutched the railing of the deck, swaying back and forth.

Something fluttered in my stomach, and I realized my palms were sweaty.

I know what this feeling is . . .

The desire to be out in the world—free at last!—if even for a little while, was suddenly overwhelming. The same desire had hit me yesterday and inspired my impromptu fieldtrip to Pensacola, which had turned into a big, fat fail. Before then, I hadn’t really been out in public since the day I went to see Dr. Robert in L.A. Another fail.

I pressed my hands against my stomach and opened my eyes, staring into the different levels of blue. When my tummy flipped again, I realized I’d concocted a plan.

Before I could change my mind, I spun on my heel and headed back inside the house in search of my sandals. While strapping them on, I spotted my cell being charged on the counter. I unplugged it and slipped it in my pocket. With shoes properly on feet, I hustled out back to the shed behind the house, hauling out my sister’s monstrous red beach cruiser—balloon tires, wire basket, the whole works—and the accepted and preferred mode of transportation in South Walton County. A Dodgers baseball cap hung on a nail next to the door. I plopped it on my head and yanked down the bill.

At a leisurely pace, I pedaled along the bike path that followed Scenic Highway 30A. Houses to my right, Gulf to my left. It was one of those perfect Florida days, the kind you read about in
The Best Places to Go
travel books and hear in those old Beach Boys songs about turquoise waves, white sand, and surfer babes.

A few other bikers, joggers, and dog walkers were out on the path, all of whom nodded to me as we passed each other. Across the street, two women were speed walking. One was in a purple T-shirt, and one in a red windbreaker, both in matching yellow visors and round sunglasses. I was enchanted by how typically Florida they seemed.

Lindsey and I used to be chummy like that
,
I thought as they speed-walked ahead of me. Sometimes when she came to visit me in L.A., we used to creep around shopping malls, me in deep disguise until an ultra-observant fan inevitably busted us. Then we’d run like mad, giggling until we cried.

I bit my lip and squinted up at the sun.
Lindsey and I didn’t laugh like that now. Like so many other things in the past year, I’d also learned to live without my sister.

Behind the walking pair strolled a man and a woman, hand in hand. When they stopped for a little cuddle, he patted her belly, rubbing the swelling baby bump. I didn’t bother to hide that I was drinking in their private moment.

As I got closer, I found that I was wondering if the daddy-to-be was cute. Then, for whatever reason, I thought about that idiot Miles. Even though the relationship was ancient history, there was something reassuring about knowing that once upon a time I’d been able to feel a romantic connection. I wondered if that would ever happen again.

What really interested me now was the lofty idea of meeting someone with whom I could have an interesting, non-celebrity-centered conversation.

Dream big, Abby!

I glanced at the happy couple again.

And now they’re kissing. Great. The one thing I actually miss about dating.

I knew I shouldn’t have been daydreaming about romance, because I was trying to get my head straight. Kissing should’ve been the last thing on my mind. So with a flex of my abdominal muscles, I mentally forced that yearny feeling down my legs and to the bottoms of my shoes. When I paused at a crosswalk, I stomped my feet, just to make sure I got it all out.

Back on the bike, I coasted in and out of little beachfront neighborhoods with names like Gulf Glades and Seashore Shades. Lush greenery lined the streets, along with flower patches and quaint cookie-cutter homes, reminding me of the candy house from
Hansel & Gretel.
I was grateful Lindsey lived in a place like Seagrove Beach. I could disappear here.

Skidding to a halt at a three-way stop, I had the monumental decision of which direction to take next. Left was sugary white sandy beaches, right was a string of T-shirt shops, and straight ahead was Seaside Town Square.

I smiled and adjusted my hat, setting my course dead ahead.

{chapter 3}

“DAY TRIPPER”

T
he big red cruiser rattled and jarred as I rode over bumpy cobblestones. While still in forward motion, I swung my leg over one side of the bike, landed on both feet at a little jog, then walked us both up the sidewalk. I leaned the bike against the front window of Modica Market; no chain, no lock—something you could still do in Seaside.

It was pretty early, and there weren’t many people out yet. Feeling at ease, I strolled up the sidewalk, peering in the different store windows as I passed, just like any other shopper might do. For a while, I lost myself in shark teeth on strings, paintings of tropical settings, homemade fudge, and hand-crocheted baby blankets.

When I heard the characteristic muffled and thumping bass line of pop music, my attention was drawn to a blue minivan pulling into a parking space a few yards away. The side door slid open, and out poured approximately twenty teenage girls. It was like one of those clown cars at the circus—they kept coming and coming and coming.

And I froze, except for the wind whooshing from my lungs like a deflating balloon.

I knew if I were spotted, my clandestine outing, and quite possibly my entire vacation, would be dashed beyond all human repair. I also suddenly remembered what I was wearing. Max would have a brain seizure if anyone published pictures of me in my sister’s off-the-rack jean cutoffs and a yellow tank top that read “I’m a Woo-hoo Girl” across the front. Also, I didn’t have my blue contacts in, and I was sure my hair was a windblown disaster.

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
.