I don't own the Hardys.
Frank threw his backpack into the back of the Sleuth. He glanced over at Callie and smiled broadly. It was hard not to smile. This was the first date they had been able to go on in weeks, which was why they were going as far away from Bayport as possible. Hopefully, no mysteries would pop up.
Frank drove while Callie leaned against him, marveling at how good it felt o be sitting next to her. How right it felt to have her breath tickling his ear.
They talked about everything. Movies and classes and football and mysteries. I was almost impossible to run out of conversation.
Callie told him to turn, pointing to an outcropping of rocks. On the top of a short, steep climb, was a ledge just asking for a picnic basket.
So they left the boat and climbed. This didn't bother either of them in the least, and they even started laughing when Frank tripped and landed face-first in dirt.
The view was spectacular. The sun was just starting to go down, but since it was the middle of the summer, Frank didn't even think about trying to get the boat back in the dark. They watched until the last of the pink disappeared before starting back.
The journey home was much the same. They still had a conversation, but it was a sleepy one with frequent lapses where they'd just stare ahead, holding hands. Perfectly content.
Frank docked the boat and helped Callie out, quickly securing it to the dock with a knot that wouldn't come undone. They walked towards the Hardys' old van.
After Frank wished Callie good-night, he stole a kiss, smiling at her blush. "See ya tomorrow, girl. There's a big party at the beach and you're the only girl worth going with."
She smiled at him, walking into the house. She waved once before closing the door.
Frank got back in the car and drove the couple of blocks to his house. He was surprised to find a cop car just departing it, and was more then a little worried when he walked through the door.
"Mom?" he called, putting his keys on the small table in the front hall. "Dad?"
A snuffling sound came from the kitchen. He found his mother leaning against a counter crying. His father had his arms around her. Across from them was Iola Morton, trying desperately not to cry herself.
Frank knew instantly that one of two things had happened, neither of them good. "Mom, what wrong?" he walked forward and rubbed his mother's shoulder, looking at her tear-stained face. "Where's Joe?"
Iola answered, her voice wavering. Every now and then she let out a small hiccup. "Frank, Joe's gone. We were on a date and he...he got taken."
Frank swayed. There had been news like this before, but he could never get used to it. He gripped onto the counter so hard his knuckles whitened.
"Frank, I think Joe's been kidnapped."
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