by Meg Cabot
“Uh,” I said, surprised to hear the restaurant was still going to be open even though a Category 5 hurricane was bearing down on it. “Sure. I mean, no, I’m not evacuating.” I said this more to convince myself than Mrs. Hartwell. The store seemed so deserted. How had this happened, and so quickly? “Aren’t you?”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Hartwell said with a laugh. “Ed would never hear of it. The last time we evacuated, looters from Miami broke into the café and stole the cash register.”
I gasped. “Really? That’s terrible!”
“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. There was nothing in it. But they took the meat slicer, too. Now, what would anyone want with an industrial meat slicer? I always wondered. Unless they had their own restaurant. But what are the chances of that? Well, I suppose they pawned it. But, in any case, Ed’s refused to evacuate ever since, so he could keep an eye on the place. So, we’re staying, and tonight we’re having a hurricane party. And you’re coming.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Um, I’d love to.” This wasn’t a lie. Although I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, part of me was dying to come. The Hartwells’ home was legendary, one of Little Bridge’s premier estates, and I’d never before been inside. “May I bring anything?”
“Nothing,” she said tartly, “except yourself. As you can see, I have plenty. Everyone still in town is going to be there.”
“Still in town?”
“Well, everyone with children is evacuating, of course,” she said. “And well they should—it would be irresponsible of them to take the chance of staying and then having this thing turn out to be worse than what they’re reporting.”
My eyes widened. Worse than a Category 5? According to the messages my mother had left me—all seven of them—there was nothing worse than that.
“And of course,” Mrs. Hartwell went on, “anyone who lives in a home that isn’t built to code—to withstand at least Category Three winds and a storm surge of up to ten feet—ought to be getting out or at least heading for one of the local shelters now. It’s simply unthinkable not to.”
Then what was I doing?
“But do you think it’s going to be okay?” I asked, because if Lucy Hartwell said something was going to be okay, it most definitely was.
“Not at all.” She threw her head back with a laugh. “Cuba will give us some protection, of course.” This was something all locals said, I was beginning to notice, like a mantra. The high mountaintops of Cuba often interfered with hurricanes churning for the Florida Keys, slowing their intensity by one or two categories. “But we’re definitely in for a devil of a ride.”
I must have looked even more alarmed, since she let out a cackle and said, “Don’t worry! Last time this happened was Wilhelmina, and that was ages ago. We only lost power for a week or so.”
“I . . . remember,” I said, though of course all I remembered about Wilhelmina was that the gourmet pizzas at our hotel in Miami had been amazing.
“Where do you live again?” Mrs. Hartwell asked. I noticed that her mobile phone, attached to her belt like a workman’s tool, had begun to buzz, but she ignored it.
“Oh. In the Havana Plaza apartments, over on Washington.”
She nodded, clearly knowing the place. “Good, solid construction . . . will definitely hold up to hurricane-force winds. But that area is only at eight feet above sea level, so it floods. If things get bad, you’d better come to my place, sooner rather than later. I’m right up the hill from you, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Again, it was a statement, not a question.
“Oh, no.” I felt slightly horrified. Who went to their boss’s house in a hurricane? Especially when their boss was Ed Hartwell, who’d probably throw you out for using a cell phone. “Thanks, Mrs. H, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“What imposition?” She looked genuinely baffled. “We have a generator, we’re at twenty feet above sea level, and the house has already stood up to over two hundred years’ worth of hurricanes. Ed’s great-great-grandfather, a ship captain, built it. Now, those fellows knew how to build a house. They built them of Dade County pine. It’s extinct now, because every single one of those trees was chopped up to build houses around here and up and down the Florida Keys—some of the strongest wood known to man. You can hardly get a nail through it, so it stands up to high winds. You’ll stay with us. It will be fine.”
I couldn’t help feeling touched. I’d only worked for this woman for a few months. She hardly knew me!
And yet her generosity—and that of her otherwise sour-tempered husband—was legendary around the café. Angela had already told me that if I stayed at the job for six months, I’d be offered health benefits—with vision and dental.
“Not the best plan.” Angela, recently divorced, had moved back home with her mother and was working her way toward a business administration degree at the local community college. “But the best plan around here that anyone is offering, and that includes jobs with the city. I may keep working at the café even after I get my degree.”
Now Mrs. Hartwell was offering me a bed in her own house in the event of catastrophic flooding.
I wondered how this kind trait had entirely skipped her nephew, who—except for his generous tipping—wasn’t known for his friendliness. Then again, his uncle wasn’t exactly the pleasantest man in the world, either.
“Please,” I said, holding up a palm to stop Mrs. Hartwell. “I really couldn’t. I have a rescue cat, and he just had oral surgery—”
Lucy Hartwell made another face.
“Oh, never mind about that. We love animals. Do you have any idea how many strays Nevaeh has volunteered to foster from the shelter? A parrot, a pair of rabbits, and a tortoise. And don’t even get me started on those three mangy mutts of Drew’s. Your cat will be fine. We’ll find a nice private room for you, and the two of you will be snug as bugs.”
So her nephew would be riding out the hurricane at his uncle’s house, too? Interesting.
Well, it made sense. On the news they’d emphasized that those living on or near the shore would be given first priority in hurricane shelters, as they’d be most at risk of Marilyn’s dangerous tidal surge and wind. Drew Hartwell, with his half-finished beach house, would fall into that category.
But of course he wouldn’t go to a shelter when he could stay in his ancestral mansion.
“I really couldn’t,” I said firmly. “I already have a place. A . . . a hotel room, in Coral Gables, with my roommate. She’s a nurse and got evacuated there by the city.”
Mrs. Hartwell raised her eyebrows. “And when are you going there?”
“As soon as the café closes for the storm,” I said. “I didn’t want to leave you short staffed. My roommate left me her car to drive up.” This last part, at least, wasn’t exactly a lie.
Mrs. Hartwell continued to look skeptical, but said, lifting her buzzing phone, “Well, all right. Stop by tonight around eight for the party. You know where I live, right?”
Everyone knew where the Hartwells lived, but Mrs. Hartwell went on as if she didn’t know this. “Top of Flagler Hill, white house with the blue shutters. You can’t miss it.”
Of course not. Mrs. Hartwell’s home was a gorgeous and stately mansion on the top of the highest point of the island, a hill referred to as “Flagler Hill,” after the builder of South Florida’s first (and only) railroad, Henry Flagler. The railroad had been destroyed in 1935 by one of the fiercest (though unnamed) hurricanes in American history and had never been reconstructed. Hundreds of lives were lost.
But that had been in the days before Doppler radar, advanced warning, and hurricane shelters.
“I’ll be there, Mrs. H,” I promised.
“Lucy,” she corrected me as she finally answered her buzzing phone.
“Lucy.” But it didn’t sound right in my mouth. She was as much Mrs. Hartwell as her husband was Ed. I simply couldn’t think of her any other way.
“Oh, hi, J
oanne,” Mrs. Hartwell said, pushing her cart along. I was forgotten, for the time being. “Yes, eight tonight. What can you bring? Nothing except yourself.”
Even though Mrs. Hartwell—Lucy—had said not to bring anything to her party, I shopped with it in mind, selecting even more food than I’d planned to from what few selections remained on the shelves. Who knew? Maybe I’d be invited to a lot of hurricane parties over the next few days. I wanted to contribute my fair share.
That’s how I ended up back home with an odd assortment of the suggested canned goods from Daniella’s list in addition to Sonny’s orange soda and Sour Patch Kids (he was embarrassingly grateful), plus a vast array of charcuterie (apparently not many hurricane shoppers were looking for chianti-flavored salami), plus gourmet crackers, cheeses, and spreads. I might die during Hurricane Marilyn, but I’d definitely go out in style.
Plus I’d snagged the alcohol that Daniella had suggested (vodka, not tequila, since I’d never had a head for tequila), as well as a few bottles of champagne and a great many cans of cat food for Gary—as many as could fit into my bike basket, plus dangle in canvas totes over my handlebars. I didn’t want Gary to go hungry, and who knew how long the grocery store would remain open? Even as I was leaving, I saw the owner’s sons stacking plywood outside, getting ready to board it up.
What did remain open, however, were most of Little Bridge’s many bars. My friend and fellow Mermaid coworker Angela waved to me from the beachside seating area of one as I rode by.
“Girlfriend! See you at the Hartwells’ tonight!” she shouted excitedly, a cocktail in her hand.
“Yes, you will!” I shouted back at her.
This hurricane thing, I thought as I motored home, just might be fun.
It’s almost laughable how wrong I turned out to be.
Chapter Six
Listen to local radio, read local papers, and tune in to social media from official sources before, during, and after the storm for important information.
Nearly the entirety of the news coverage that night was devoted to the approaching storm. Marilyn had grown so large that the width of its cone of uncertainty encompassed the entire state of Florida, which meant that people wishing to evacuate its path had to leave the state completely. Sonny and his mother were not going to be much safer in Orlando than they’d have been in Little Bridge.
But with fuel growing scarcer, and freeways already jammed, escape was mostly an impossibility. Images were shown of long lines of cars at the few still open gas stations, and of grocery store shelves emptied of food and bottled water.
A few ubiquitous shots were thrown in of homes and businesses with their windows boarded up (Go Away Marilyn was spray-painted on a few of the plywood barriers), and of course of the now emptied beaches from Key West to Miami. News journalists interviewed Florida residents (none from Little Bridge) who confessed to being a little nervous because there was nowhere they could go “to escape the wrath of this fierce storm” (the reporter’s words, not theirs).
I’ll admit it was hard to take any of this very seriously when just outside my door it was such a beautiful, balmy evening, the sky streaked with tie-dye washes of pink and blue and lavender as the sun slid beneath the sea. A mockingbird had recently taken up residency in the top branches of our building’s frangipani, and he periodically burst into enthusiastic song, hoping to lure a mate, while somewhere nearby someone who’d yet to evacuate was barbecuing. I could smell the tantalizing scent of grilled meat every time I opened my front door.
But the constant pings of text messages from my phone kept me grounded, reminding me of the oncoming threat:
From Caleb:
They’re closing the Little Bridge airport to commercial air traffic tomorrow morning at 8AM. I can still arrange for a plane to be there anytime before that if you change your mind. I know you think I don’t care, Sabrina, but I do. We can still be friends, at least. Call me.
From my best friend and college roommate, Mira, who was spending the year abroad in Paris:
What is this I hear about you not evacuating Hurricane Marilyn and riding out the hurricane by yourself??? Have you lost your mind? I love you, but you’re insane. You know my aunt lives in Tampa if you need a place to hunker down in an emergency. And she loves cats. Call me. Luv u.
From Dani:
You need to get here ASAP. My room is huge, with a full minibar AND almost all the guys from the firehouse in Islamorada are staying at the SAME HOTEL. One of them is buying me shots at the bar at this very moment. In fact, I think there’s a fire right now. In my pants. Get in my car and get here SOON!!!
From my mother:
They’re evacuating the dolphins from the Dolphinarium on Cayo Guillermo in Cuba. This same hurricane is headed straight toward you, and yet you’re not leaving. You think it’s safer for you than it is for the dolphins? Please, please, I’m begging you, let Caleb come get you.
I’ll admit that this last message gave me pause. I wasn’t sure what a dolphinarium was, but I was glad the sea life in it was going to be safe. What precautions was the Cuban government taking to make sure that the people who lived near the dolphinarium were safe as well?
I was looking this up—after having changed into the third of the outfits I was considering wearing to the party—when there was a knock on my front door. I could see through the iron grillwork that covered the Spanish-style door viewer that it was my next-door neighbors Patrick and Bill. I opened the door to find them standing on my front step with a tray of vodka Jell-O shots.
“Hurricane Preparedness Response Team,” Bill cried. “Blueberry or cherry?”
“You guys are crazy.” I laughed and helped myself to one of the little plastic cups containing a blue vodka Jell-O shot. “Want to come in?”
“Oh, well, we would,” Patrick said, “but someone looks like she’s got somewhere fancy to go.” The owner of Little Bridge’s Seam and Fabric Shoppe, Patrick, eyed the black sundress sprigged with tiny yellow flowers that I’d only just finished lacing myself into.
Since Patrick also performed on weekends as the island’s most popular drag queen, Lady Patricia, at one of the local bars, I put a lot of value on his fashion tips, so I looked down as I fingered the edge of my admittedly very short skirt.
“Do you think so?” I asked, uncertainly. “I’m only going to a hurricane party. I’ve never been to one before, so I didn’t know what people wear to those. You don’t think this is too much?”
“Not if your plan is to make every straight man there fall in love with you.” Bill, Patrick’s romantic partner of twenty years and the loan officer at Little Bridge State Bank, had leaned down and was trying to pry Gary off his foot. “Why is your cat so obsessed with me?”
“He does that to everyone. So do you think I should change?” I asked Patrick nervously. “Maybe shorts and a T-shirt would be more appropriate.”
“Don’t you change a thing.” Patrick leaned over to smooth one of my pink curls from my forehead. “Those yellow flowers bring out the brown in your eyes. And no one on this island bothers to dress up anymore unless they’re going to court. I’ve always considered that a crying shame. It’s refreshing to see someone actually looking like a lady. Now tell us why you’re still even here. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your lights on behind the shutters. I’d have thought you’d have evacuated hours ago.”
“I could say the same thing to you guys.” Why wasn’t I evacuating? What was wrong with me?
But the very idea of fleeing from this storm struck me as horribly wrong. Which was ridiculous, because only a few months ago, I’d run from my problems in New York without a second thought, barely considering where I was going, how long I was going to stay, or what I was going to do when I got there.
But then I’d arrived in Little Bridge, and suddenly I hadn’t felt the urge to run anymore. I wasn’t exactly sure where in the world I belonged, but at least I was done running . . . for now.
And despite what my mother said, I
wasn’t being stubborn—or maybe I was being stubborn, for what felt like the first time in my life. I was standing up for myself, which meant running toward something. I didn’t know what, exactly . . . but maybe that’s why I was still here.
And maybe that’s why I couldn’t go anywhere else . . . for now.
“Where are we going to go?” Bill helped himself to one of his own shots, expertly running a pinkie around the edge of the Jell-O to loosen it before gulping it down. “We’d have to drive to Georgia to get out of the path of this thing. And even then, who knows? That might not be far enough.”
“Last time we evacked to a hotel in Tampa,” Patrick explained. “We took the babies”—Patrick and Bill had three pugs they called their “babies”—“and all of my couture and stayed in a La Quinta and it cost us three thousand dollars in travel expenses, and in the end the damn storm came there, too.”
“Oh dear,” I said, sympathetically, trying to imagine Patrick, Bill, all of Pat’s drag ensembles, plus the three pugs crammed into one room at a Tampa La Quinta. “But you can’t exactly stay here, either, because I hear this place floods—”
“Oh, honey,” Patrick said. “Don’t you worry about that. We booked a suite at the Cascabel.”
“The Cascabel?” I raised my eyebrows.
The Cascabel was one of Little Bridge’s most expensive hotels . . . and also one of its only buildings that had been allowed to waive the two-story height restriction because it had been constructed way back in the 1920s, before such restrictions became standard. A gracious five-story hotel built in the Spanish tradition, it had since been upgraded to withstand Category 5 winds while also offering luxury amenities such as a rooftop spa and wine bar.
“We’ve got a suite on the fourth floor,” Patrick went on. “We check in tomorrow morning. We’ve got it through the weekend. We’re going to ride this thing out like true queens.”
“We’re taking our George Foreman grill,” Bill, who loved to cook, informed me. “Because my uncle Rick just sent us a batch of Omaha steaks, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to let them sit here and spoil when the power goes out.”
