by Kristi Cook
“I don’t want anything from you, Patrick. Look, can we talk later? I’ve got to go. I’m giving Francie a ride home.”
He pulls a face. “Why’re you doing that?”
“Because I like Francie, that’s why.”
“Since when?”
“Since always, and I don’t want her to drown out there.” I stop and turn to stare at him. “Are we done here?”
“Guess so,” he says with a shrug.
The crowd has thinned out now, everyone in a rush to get home before the weather gets any worse. “I’ll see you later, okay? Drive safely.”
“Yeah, you too,” he mutters.
I shake my head in annoyance as he stalks off. How is it that he’s mad at me?
With a sigh, I hurry over to the water fountain, where Francie is already waiting. “You ready?” I ask her.
“Yep. Thanks again, Jemma. I really appreciate this.” Her smile is genuine, and I’m glad that I offered. I’d really like to get to know her better, I decide.
“Hey, it’s no problem. God, it looks awful out there.” We approach the glass double doors and pause, staring in disbelief at the scene that greets us. Students are splashing through ankle-deep water in the parking lot, dodging cars sending up huge wakes of spray. The rain seems to be blowing directly sideways now.
“I’ve got an umbrella,” Francie offers, producing it. “Not sure how much it’ll help, though.”
“Probably not much. I say we make a run for it. I’m there on the front row. The blue Fiat.”
“I see it,” she says with a nod.
I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle. “On the count of three?”
And that’s when the first tornado siren goes off.
ACT II
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents.
—William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
ACT II
Scene 1
Oh, this is just great,” I say with a sigh as the red emergency lights begin to flash menacingly. “What now?”
Beside me, Francie shrugs. “Um, I guess we take cover?”
Again, the PA system crackles to life. “All students and staff, please proceed directly to the A corridor and remain there until further notice. I repeat, the A corridor. This is not a drill—this is a tornado warning.”
For a moment I just stand there, frozen in place. Francie reaches for my hand and drags me away from the door as everyone who hadn’t yet left the parking lot comes dashing back inside. We all make a run for corridor A, which is right smack in the center of the school, near the media center.
We’ve lived through enough tornado drills to know exactly what to do when we get there—even if we feel silly doing it. Our backs pressed against the wall, we sit on the scabbed tile floor and cover our heads. There’s about seventy-five of us, I’d say. Conversation is kept to a minimum, because let’s face it, it’s a pretty scary situation. I mean, you pretty much know you’ll be okay—but what if you’re not?
Luckily, it doesn’t last long. Maybe five minutes later, the voice on the PA system tells us that the warning has expired. They won’t let us leave yet, though, so we sit there for another ten or fifteen minutes before they tell us it’s safe to go.
“Well, that was intense,” Francie says as she rises and brushes off the back of her shorts.
“I know, right? I’m still shaking.” I hold out one trembling hand as evidence.
The drive home is a nightmare. I literally can’t see two feet in front of me, even with the wipers on their highest speed. It’s even worse after I drop off Francie—mostly because I’m all alone. It takes me nearly a half hour to make what should be a ten-minute trip, and by the time I pull up in front of my house, my hands are cramped from my death grip on the steering wheel.
It’s not until I step out of the car, my legs feeling like they’re made of Jell-O, that I notice Ryder’s Durango parked in front of me.
“Where the hell have you been?” he calls out from the front porch, just as I make a mad dash to join him there. His face is red, his brow furrowed over stormy eyes. “They let us out an hour ago!”
I am really not in the mood for his crap. “Yeah, so?”
“So I was worried sick. A tornado touched down over by the Roberts’ place.”
“I know! I mean, I didn’t know it touched down, but I was still at school when the sirens went off.” I drop my ridiculously heavy backpack and shake the rain from my hair. “Is everyone okay over there?”
He runs a visibly trembling hand through his hair. “Yeah, it just tore up their fence or something. Jesus, Jemma!”
“What is wrong with you? Why are you even here?”
“I’m supposed to stay over here, remember?”
“What . . . now?” I look past him and notice an army-green duffel bag by the front door. He’s got a key—he could’ve just let himself in.
“I figured now’s as good a time as any. We need to put sandbags in front of the back door before it gets any worse out, and then we’ve got to do something about the barn. It’s awful close to the creek, and the water’s rising fast.”
“Well, what do you propose we do?”
“Don’t you keep your guns out there? We should move them inside. And your dad has some expensive tools in his workshop—we should get those, too.”
I let out a sigh. He’s got a point. “Can I at least go inside first? Put my stuff away?”
“Sure.” He moves to the edge of the porch and gazes up at the sky. “It looks like we might get a break in a few minutes, once this band moves through. Might as well wait for it.”
I dig out my keys and unlock the door. I can hear the dogs howling their heads off the minute I step inside. “I’ve gotta let Beau and Sadie out,” I say over my shoulder as I head toward the kitchen. “Take your stuff to the guest room and get settled, why don’t you?”
That’s my attempt at reestablishing the fact that I’m in charge here, not him. This is my house. My stuff. My life.
Beau and Sadie do their business in record time and high-tail it back inside, dripping wet. I find a dish towel hanging by the sink and do my best to dry them off, making a mental note to leave some old towels in the front mudroom. Once we sandbag up the back door, the dogs’ll have to go in and out the front, and I can’t have them tracking mud all over the place.
“Hey, what happened to the vase that’s usually here on the hall table?” Ryder calls out.
I wince, remembering its fate. I’d saved the broken bits in a bag, but there’s no hope for it. It’s destroyed. It figures he’d notice. What is he, Colonel Mustard? In the conservatory, I want to say. With the candlestick.
“Patrick happened to it,” I answer instead, joining him there in the hall. “You know, the other night. On his way back from the bathroom.” I have no idea why I’m offering so many details. It’s not like it’s any of his business. I should have told him that we were having wild sex here in the hall and accidentally knocked it over. Would have served him right for being so nosy.
“You should make him pay for it,” Ryder offers.
“Yeah, maybe. You all moved in?”
“I was thinking . . . it’s safer downstairs, what with all the trees around here. You’re liable to lose some. You should probably sleep in your parents’ room, and I’ll just take the couch.”
“We’ve got five empty beds, not counting the sleeping porches, and you’re going to sleep on the couch?” I shake my head in disbelief.
“Isn’t the one in the family room a sofa bed?”
“Yeah, but it’s awful. You can’t sleep there—the springs are poking through the mattress.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says with a shrug.
“Whatever.” I glance over at the window, taking in the scary-looking sky. “You really think we need to sleep downstairs?”
He cocks a brow. “Have you been watching the Weather Channel?”
Have I been watching th
e Weather Channel? Ha! “I wonder if it’ll be as bad as they’re saying.”
“Could be the worst to hit the coast since Katrina.”
“Yeah, but we’re nowhere near the coast,” I argue. “It’s just hard to imagine. . . .” I trail off, feeling foolish. “Anyway, you ready to go do those sandbags?”
He nods. “I’m ready. Sounds like the rain has let up some. You got a poncho or something like that you can put on?”
“What’s the point? I’m already soaked.” I can’t wait to take a long, hot bath in my mom’s Jacuzzi tub. “Just let me get my rain boots.”
It takes us close to an hour to get the sandbags stacked properly against the back door. The rain comes and goes in bursts, the wind making an odd shrieking noise. The usually silent creek is rushing like rapids, and the grass is soaked and squishy beneath my boots. Everything beyond the lawn is mud now—great big puddles of mud.
“You think that’ll do it?” I ask, straightening with a groan. My back is already killing me, and we haven’t even tackled the barn yet.
“Looks good,” Ryder says with a satisfied nod. “You want to take a break and get some lunch?”
Great, now I’ve got to make him lunch.
“Lou sent over some sandwiches,” he adds.
Of course she did.
“Actually, she sent over a whole hamper of stuff. Potato salad, pickles—”
“Stop.” I hold up one hand. “You had me at potato salad.” Because Lou’s is the best in all of Lafayette County—no lie. It’s like she’s got crack in there or something. Mama’s tried to replicate it many times, to no avail. I’m salivating just thinking about it.
Of course, we’re sopping wet and dripping everywhere by the time we step into the dry mudroom to pull off our boots. “This is crazy,” I say, shaking my head like Sadie does when she’s wet. “We can’t walk through the house like this—we’ll make a mess.” Ryder’s jeans are soaked through and caked with mud. I’m wearing shorts, but my bare legs are spattered all over. “We’re going to have to strip here,” I say, shaking my head. “Just leave it all in a pile. I’ll toss it in the wash after lunch.”
He just stares at me, wide-eyed. “What? Now?”
“Yeah, you go first,” I say, amused by the blush that’s creeping up his neck. “Geez, Ryder. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in your underpants before.”
I have vague memories of Ryder running around Magnolia Landing’s lawn wearing nothing but superhero undies. And after all the years of shared beach houses and hotel suites, well . . . like I said, we were more like siblings when we were little.
“If it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll turn around,” I offer.
“Nah, it’s fine.” He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.
And then I remember why this was a bad idea. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his tanned, sculpted chest, his narrow waist, and jutting hip bones. Oh, man. What was I thinking?
I swallow hard as he unbuttons his jeans and slides down the zipper. Boxers or briefs? That’s all I’m thinking as he peels down the wet denim—slowly, as if he’s enjoying this little striptease. He steps out of them gracefully and tosses them into a heap beside his shirt before straightening to his full height, facing me.
Oh. My. God.
I exhale sharply. The answer is boxer briefs, heather-gray ones. And right now they’re clinging to him wetly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He looks like a god. A six-foot-four, football-playing god, and I am staring at him with my mouth hanging open like some kind of pathetic freak.
Snap out of it.
“Sorry,” I say, averting my gaze. My cheeks are burning now. I probably look like a clown. That’s what happens when a fair-skinned redhead like me blushes. “If you . . . um . . . want to shower. I mean, you know—”
“I’ll just go put on something dry for now. We really need to eat and then get that stuff out of the barn.”
I just nod, biting my lower lip. I can’t even look at him. This is crazy.
“Your turn to strip,” he says, and my gaze shoots up to meet his. He’s smiling now, his dimples in full effect.
“Ugh, just go and change.” I cover my eyes with one hand and flap the other toward the hall.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five,” he says.
“Great.” I let my hand drop only when I hear his footsteps move away. Then yeah, I’ll admit it—I allow myself a nice long look at his backside as he walks away from me.
And let me tell you, it was well worth the look.
ACT II
Scene 2
God bless Lou. When I open the refrigerator, I find it stocked with premade sandwiches—chicken salad with apples and pecans, ham and cheese, and my favorite, roast beef with horseradish sauce. Two Tupperware tubs contain potato and macaroni salad, and she’s thoughtfully included an assortment of pickles in mason jars. There’s even a caramel cake—Ryder’s favorite—covered in Saran Wrap, sitting on the counter. She must have dropped it all off this morning while I was at school.
“You want chips?” I offer as I set everything out on the kitchen table along with cups and a pitcher of sweet tea.
“Nah, this is good,” Ryder answers. He goes into the pantry for napkins and paper plates, as at home in my kitchen as I am.
We’re mostly silent as we eat, with only the occasional burst of quick conversation.
“When’s Nan’s surgery?” Ryder asks as he reaches for one of the jars of pickles. He’s already eaten two sandwiches and is working on a third.
“Tomorrow,” I answer around a mouthful of potato salad. “First thing in the morning.”
Ryder just nods and continues to attack his food.
Nan’s checking into the hospital tonight after dinner. She promised to call me once she’s settled. I’m trying not to think about it too much, because whenever I do, my stomach starts feeling all weird. Like it is right now, actually.
“Your dad’s staying in Jackson?” I ask him a few minutes later, even though I know the answer.
“Yeah, he’s got a big case. Says he’ll probably be gone a couple weeks, at least.”
I can’t help but frown. I mean, Jackson’s just a three-hour drive from here. You’d think he could come home for a couple days—long enough to ride out the storm with his only child.
Then again, this is pretty typical of Ryder’s dad. Rob Marsden is all work, work, work. He and my dad are so different that it’s sometimes hard to understand why they’re such good friends. Sure, Daddy loves his job, and he’s good at it too. But work isn’t everything to him.
Then again, they did grow up together, next-door neighbors and childhood playmates. They’d gone to college together, pledged the same fraternity. Their friendship is deeply rooted, steeped in tradition. Still, I wonder if they’d be such good friends now if they hadn’t married BFFs who were invested in keeping the Cafferty-Marsden attachment alive and strong.
“What about Lou?” I ask. “Is she staying over at Magnolia Landing tonight?”
“Nah. She went over to stay with Jason and Evelyn.” Her son and daughter-in-law. I’m glad she’s not over at the Marsdens’ house all by herself.
I chew slowly, listening to the sound of the rain hitting the windows around us. There’s something else—a noise I didn’t notice before, a low roar in the background that’s hard to ignore. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what? The rain?”
“Shh.” I cock my head to one side, listening intently now.
Ryder’s gaze meets mine, and I see my own concern mirrored in his eyes. He hears it too.
“What is it?” I ask, but then the answer hits me like a ton of bricks. “Oh my God, is that the creek?”
He nods, looking grave. “Think so. We better get this stuff put away and see what’s going on out there.”
We clean up the kitchen in record time and hurry to the mudroom to pull back on our rain boots.
“T
his is bad,” Ryder says the second we step outside. The roar is louder now and definitely coming from the direction of the creek.
We make our way around the house and down the slippery path toward the water’s edge but stop long before we reach the sandy clearing. My mouth falls open at the sight that greets us, and I stand there gaping in disbelief. The picnic tables are almost completely submerged, the water from the creek pouring over the banks at an alarming rate.
“The barn!” I shout, struggling to be heard over the howl of rushing water. “We better get over there now.”
“Let me get my truck.”
We backtrack to the driveway, where Ryder heads for the Durango. “I’ll meet you over there. If the water’s rising, wait for me to go in, okay? I just want to go check on the main road.”
I nod and jog over to the barn. The second I step inside, my heart sinks. The water is ankle deep. I splash over to the gun safe and spin the lock before dialing the combination and pulling open the door. I lift Delilah from her case, along with a ten-round magazine. Once she’s loaded and safely locked, I holster her in the waistband of my shorts. All that’s left are Daddy’s two pistols and the shotgun. I find a canvas duffel bag on a shelf beside the radio and carefully stash the weapons inside.
Just as I lift the bag up on my shoulder, Ryder jogs in. “The road is out,” he calls to me breathlessly. “Completely washed out just above where your driveway intersects it.”
“Are you sure?” Because if what he says is true, it means we’re totally cut off. There’s no way out and no way in—not to my house or to the Marsdens’.
“I’m sure.” There’s a flicker of fear in his eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
My heart does a little somersault in my chest. “You think it’s storm surge from whatever body of water’s feeding the creek?” The Mississippi River, maybe. I have no idea.
“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug, then glances around, taking in our current situation. “We better get moving here. Looks like the water’s rising pretty fast.”
“Here. Can you take this?” I hand off the duffel bag. “Careful. It’s the guns.”
