by T. I. Lowe
“How do y’all know so much about him?” Opal pulled a rag out of her back pocket and began wiping down the antique counter she had scored from an old café that went out of business.
“Google,” Bertie supplied. “There was plenty of news coverage when Lincoln made it back to his home in Beaufort after surviving a bombing. He’s considered a war hero. The report said he ushered several of his team members to safety and was going back to direct more just before the bombing.” The older ladies’ eyes softened, even prickly Ethel Matthews.
After their little moment passed, with Opal feeling the effects of the information as well, Bertie continued, “The poor dear was making quite a name for himself in the Marines. He was already a first lieutenant and was close to making captain.”
“Then why are you asking me about him? Y’all know a lot more than I do.” Opal put the rag away and began shutting off the lamps around the showroom, wishing the ladies would get her subliminal message: You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
“We want to know why he ain’t here helping you,” Ethel demanded like she had a right.
Opal knew if she didn’t give them something, the ladies wouldn’t ever leave. “After talking it over in length, Lincoln decided he was more suited for a career as a stand-up comedian. I sent him away with my best wishes.”
Ethel rolled her eyes, Bertie clucked her tongue, and Dalma giggled. After swiping the nearly empty cookie bag once again, Ethel led the women out the back and out of Opal’s hair.
Finally left with some peace and quiet, Opal made one more pass around the storefront, double-checking that everything that could be done was done. She gave in to the notion of opening and closing the front door just to hear the bell chime one last time. After whispering a prayer, she got into the van and headed inland.
Later in the evening, darkness fell and took the electricity with it as the wind and rain became more aggressive. Growing tired of playing board games with her mother and snacking herself into a bellyache, Opal flopped into one of the wingback chairs in the den, where she and her parents were camped out. She watched as her mother read a book with the aid of a flashlight.
“Reading will help the time to pass if you’re not going to saw logs through it,” her mother said. She tapped the cover of the book in her hand just as Opal’s dad released a snorting snore.
Both women snickered as they observed the sleeping man stretched out on one of the two large sofas. His motto was to sleep storms away, but the two Gilbert women had never taken to that idea. Both tended to be restless during hurricanes.
“Honey.”
Opal moved her gaze from her peacefully sleeping father to her mother. She was holding out another book for Opal to consider.
“I won’t be able to focus on it. Thanks, though.”
“Suit yourself.”
Opal sat for a while longer with one foot bouncing up and down, debating whether to munch on some licorice as a distraction or try out the book. She leaned toward the coffee table and picked up the bag, but her stomach protested, so she dropped it and sighed. “What time is it?”
“Ten minutes since the last time you asked,” her mother retorted.
“Ugh.” Needing to at least try to work off some of her anxiety and sugar binge, Opal grabbed a flashlight and roamed around the house like a ghost herself. With the windows boarded up and no air circulating, she was starting to feel claustrophobic. When sprinting up and down the stairs only produced the need to puke, Opal gave in and slipped out the front door for some fresh air.
She stepped onto the deep front porch, bracing her feet wide to combat the wind, and regarded the madness once her eyes adjusted to the thick darkness. The outline of trees morphed continuously as the wind orchestrated them to bend and jerk and sway in a staccato tempo. As the wind whipped her hair around and caught the opened front of her jacket so it could push against her torso, Opal became part of the performance. She understood storms such as this hurricane were nothing to take lightly, but she couldn’t help but see the force of nature as the eerie beauty it was. So powerful and mystifying.
Off in the distance, the jarring sound of something crashing snapped Opal out of the storm’s spell. In the blink of an eye, another band of rain appeared out of nowhere and rushed the house, reminding her of those car wash nozzles that spray sideways. She was soaked within seconds, but before she could retreat back inside, the rain was gone and the wind grew still to the point she could feel the atmosphere’s shift. Goose bumps broke out along her neck as her ears popped. Mesmerized, she eased to the edge of the porch, wrapped her arm around one of the thick columns, and peered up at the dark sky.
The barely visible clouds continued to rotate above, and their ferocious roar could be heard, reminiscent of an out-of-control freight train, but Opal could feel nothing more than a faint breeze. The eye of the storm.
Gaze fastened to the undulating sky, she whispered, “He rebuked the wind and raging waves, and they ceased, and there was a calm.” Even though Opal had seen countless storms come and go, it never stopped amazing her how God could create a calm smack-dab in the middle of chaos.
She had no idea that come morning, she would be seeking a calm in the midst of another storm neither the Weather Channel nor the Gray Man had the decency to warn her about.
Most days, Opal was a pro at brushing off unpleasant things as easily as shooing a wayward curl out of her eyes, but the dreary morning found her resolve weaker than water. She stared at the store that felt more like home than her beach house up the street, trying to figure out which direction she should take to get things back right.
As Lincoln and her friends continued to comment on the situation, Opal kept quiet and regarded her pride and joy. She tilted her head to the left and then to the right, but not even looking at the damage sideways gave any hint as to how to get started. There were chairs and small tables that had been pried off the ceiling and now lay scattered around the tiny yard and street. Who knew what the interior held? Her dad had given strict orders not to place a foot inside until he had the place inspected for safety, so there was no telling yet what could be salvaged.
“The insurance company will probably write it off as a complete loss,” Mr. Negativity spoke up, offering his two cents when Opal had no desire to give even a penny for his thoughts.
Before she could say so, Sophia shocked the entire lot of them by reaching over and pinching the fire out of Lincoln’s arm. From the grimace on his face and the sudden flinch he did to get out of her reach, Opal figured her feisty friend was going for blood.
“Sophia Grace!” Josie reprimanded, eyes wide in shock.
“I warned him to keep it shut.” Sophia pointed in the direction of his frowning lips as her phone started ringing in her other hand. With one last glare at Lincoln, she swiped the screen and walked off to answer the call.
Opal closed her eyes, not having the energy to figure out how to put a halt to Sophia growing more and more sour by the day. Too many negative vibes bounced around her to think clearly. After dragging in a deep breath and slowly releasing it, she opened her eyes to find Lincoln watching her with sad puppy-dog eyes. It was a new expression for the ornery man, and one that really didn’t suit him. Clearly he was there out of pity, but she asked anyway, “What are you doing here?”
Lincoln shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he cast his eyes to his shoes. “I just wanted to . . . check on you?” he muttered hesitantly enough to make him sound as unsure about his answer as Opal was.
The brooding man with his hair falling into his eyes, along with the cooler temperatures, had Opal right uncomfortable. She pulled the thick sweater tighter around herself with hopes of combating both. She watched him as he brushed his hair behind his ear and looked toward the building like he actually cared. Lincoln was a puzzle that had her racking her brain over the last week on how to solve, but with the damage to her business there was no room for puzzles—or the complicated feeli
ngs he stirred inside her.
Josie knelt in front of Opal’s chair and took her icy hands into her much-warmer ones. “What can we do?”
Space was what Opal needed, but she was too kind to ask for it. With some effort, she pulled on a smile. “Your daddy got the ovens up and running yet?”
Josie smiled back and nodded. “Yep. He’s already sent out a few rounds of biscuits to the utility workers and city crews.”
“Great. I’m starving. You wanna go fetch us some breakfast?”
Josie stood. “Now that’s one thing I can definitely do for us.” She walked over to Lincoln by the side of the road where he was collecting the scattered chairs. “Will you stick around? I’ll bring you some breakfast too.”
Lincoln hefted a chair in his bulky arms and peered at Opal over his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Great. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Josie waved as she opened the door of her little white truck and climbed in.
Sophia came around the corner as the truck drove away, worry puckering her face. “I’m sorry, Opal, but Collin is having a meltdown and Momma said he’s crying for me.”
“It’s okay. You go take care of your son.” Opal reached out and patted her friend’s hand.
“But—”
“I’ll be fine.” Opal gave it another squeeze before dropping her hand back to her lap. “Now go.”
“I just don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. He’s never acted this way.” Sophia looked close to tears as her phone went off again. Looking at the screen with a slight cringe, she answered, “I’m on my way.” She hurried over to her SUV and was gone in a flash.
Lincoln was piling up the broken chairs, and after testing the legs of two others, he brought them over and lined them up beside Opal’s lawn chair. “She acts like that and doesn’t know why her kid does. Really?” He shook his head while settling on the chair beside her and let out a stifled grunt.
“You don’t know Sophia’s situation, nor what she and her son have been going through, so don’t go making assumptions.” Opal angled her body away from him, wondering why, on such a devastating day, she had to be stuck with the likes of Lincoln Cole.
They sat in silence as a few seagulls flew overhead. Even the birds appeared to be at a loss for words after the storm. Lincoln kept shifting beside her like he couldn’t find a comfortable spot, and it took all her good upbringing to keep the suggestion that maybe he’d be more comfortable down the road clamped behind her lips.
Finally, not being able to take the tension any longer, she pivoted and asked once again, “Seriously, why are you here? After your two tirades—” she gestured toward the store where they both happened—“it was pretty clear you wouldn’t be back.”
He looked her square in the eyes, solemn yet stern, and asked, “Is this where I apologize for acting like an overgrown brat?”
His dry, humorous question caught Opal by surprise, but she managed to keep it off her face. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Then I apologize.”
She scoffed. “That was lousy, but I accept.” She had a feeling it wasn’t in Lincoln’s nature to make apologies for anything, no more than it was in her nature not to have a forgiving heart. Apparently, he was who he was, and one could take it or leave it. For some reason, she chose to accept him and his lackluster apology.
He nodded once and slowly rose to his feet, barely covering the wince that flashed across his face, and hobbled over to the door, which sat slightly ajar. She could tell he was in more pain than he had been during their previous encounters.
“It’s not safe to be inside there,” she called out. “My dad has people lined up to check things out before we’re permitted to go in.” She remained glued to her chair. At the small distance, she couldn’t see inside the windows, so it made it easier to pretend all was right behind the door.
Lincoln stood, peeking around for a while, before reaching one of his long arms inside. He yanked something loose and came back with a chunky desk she’d fashioned out of two sewing machine table bases. The patina treatment used on the cast iron looked fine, but the barn door top was saturated. Lincoln easily tipped the heavy table above his head, carried it over, and placed it before her like an offering.
“The breeze should dry it out by the time Josie gets back with breakfast,” he explained, moving over to another jumbled-up pile of chairs.
Opal remained planted in her spot and watched as he removed the cables from a few that were salvageable and tucked them into the other side of the table. Seemed he was one of those doers who always had to be moving. Or maybe it was his nerves keeping him in action. Or maybe it was his way of trying to get away from the ache in his leg. Regardless, Opal remained attached to the chair, not wanting to get any closer to facing her new reality.
Another hour slid by with her watching Lincoln limp around the yard and building as if he were on a treasure quest. A total of eleven chairs had been lined up in front of the store and a pile off to the side had grown into a mountain of broken furniture parts by the time Josie’s truck pulled into the parking lot.
“Sorry!” Josie hurried over with several Styrofoam containers. Lincoln followed behind her, a drink carrier holding to-go cups in one hand and a few greasy white bags in the other. “Dad was slammed and I ended up helping him feed about half the town. You know how it is.”
Opal did know how it was. She’d been behind the counter at Driftwood Diner more times than she could count during and after various storms. If people didn’t have electricity, they always meandered there, knowing Jasper Slater would have his generators up and the food rolling out the kitchen.
As Josie divvied out the food, Opal picked up a cup and took in a deep inhale, letting out an appreciative moan before taking a small sip of the coffee. “Thank you.”
Josie offered her a kind smile in response.
Lincoln surprised Opal by claiming the chair beside her, but perhaps that was his way of keeping her away from his line of vision. She didn’t have the energy to care at the moment, so she said grace and then signaled everyone to dig in. It was a hearty breakfast of sausage biscuits, golden hash browns, and heated-up pastries Josie admitted to having left over from her hurricane snack stash. The warm meal with its heavily laden carbs was like a much-needed embrace. From all the contented sighs and moans, her table companions felt the same way.
Opal gazed around the small yard her mother had helped landscape a few years back. Even though debris was strewn all over, it still reminded her of a whimsical fairy garden, complete with thick rosebushes and garden gnomes. “This is kinda nice. It’s the first alfresco meal I’ve ever had here.” She shook her head while slicing into another piece of toast with her plastic fork. “Such a shame I’ve not enjoyed it until now.”
The other two stopped eating and stared at her like her teeth had just fallen out and into her plate.
Chewing the bite, she garbled out, “What?”
Josie shook her head. “Only you, Opal Gilbert, would see past the flaws of a picture to find the beauty hidden among it.”
Opal snickered for the first time that day. “And only you, Josie Slater, would comment on it so artistically.” It felt good to laugh, so she tried it out again with the others joining in—well, one of them anyway. The reprieve was short-lived. The next inhale she took wiggled loose some dam and before she could collect it, a sob pushed free from deep within her belly.
Through her watery view, she noticed Josie begin to rise while Lincoln looked downright disturbed by her outburst. With a shaky palm raised, she beckoned her friend to sit back down and turned her attention to the formidable man sitting beside her. “Linc . . . May I call you Linc?” she asked, voice coming out all squeaky.
Lincoln cleared his throat. “Suppose I can’t stop you no more than I can stop anyone else who does it.”
Another sob slipped past her trembling lips and drew another line of tears down her cheeks. “Linc, you gonna eat the rest of your hash
browns?”
He stared at her like she’d lost her mind, and maybe she had dropped her basket, but considering the circumstances, Opal couldn’t quite pick it back up just yet. First, she needed those cheesy, greasy hash browns and . . . Her gaze moved to Josie’s coffee as Lincoln handed over the container of hash browns.
“And, honey, may I have the rest of your coffee?” Another hiccup, followed by another sob falling from her trembling lips. Not only did Josie’s cup slide her way but so did Lincoln’s half-empty coffee cup.
Opal sniffled and blathered, feeling like a stranger in her own skin. She’d always prided herself on being a free spirit. No kind of challenge was allowed to weigh her down. As the tears fell and the blubbering sounds continued to wobble from her lips, Opal realized just how wrong she’d been in her thinking.
The remainder of the late breakfast went as follows: Opal bellowed like a wounded animal and the other two kept tossing her food to hush her up. By the time she’d scarfed down anything she could shove into the gaping hole the storm had torn in her stomach, her tears had ceased and the bellowing tapered down to just a slight whimper.
“You want the rest of my apple fritter?” Josie asked with a good bit of caution as she held up the half-eaten donut.
Opal stifled an unladylike belch and shook her head. She was dizzy and bloated as it was, and no way could one more bite of food be consumed.
All eyes kept up a sweeping dance in her direction, just shy of full-on staring. She was a natural redhead, so Opal knew the cry didn’t paint her face kindly. She had to be blotchy with a nose as bright as a maraschino cherry.
Later, when there was nothing left to do, Lincoln headed to his Jeep in what Opal could only describe as the fastest limping gait she’d ever witnessed. Surely he couldn’t get away from her craziness fast enough. She was also fairly certain it would be the final time she’d see him run away from her. No way would he be coming back after that meltdown.
