I’m alternating between feeling like a rotten, relationship-wrecker and a hopeful, crush-stricken adolescent.
I sit at a table near the front of the room with J.B., nursing a Coke while Holden and Thomas bring the crowd of people in the room to life. Just about every person there is listening with the kind of intensity you only get when people really like what you’re doing.
Without doubt, Thomas was born to be on stage. There’s a natural ease to the way he tells something funny or revealing about himself and then segues into a song Holden has written about that exact thing. I could listen to them all night. Not just Thomas’s voice but the way Holden plays the guitar as if it is the only thing he was ever meant to do. As if he feels every note. Every word. I find myself waiting for the moments when he comes in with a background vocal, his voice the perfect accompaniment to Thomas’s thick, country twang.
I try not to meet eyes with them throughout the performance, but it’s like there’s a magnet between us. Every time I feel him looking at me, I can’t help myself from letting my gaze bump his.
J.B. is apparently aware of this because every time it happens, he leans forward and says something in my ear. I get the impression that he’s doing it as much to rile Holden as he is to sweet talk me.
Thomas is talking to the crowd again. I pull my thoughts back to his voice, telling myself I’m not going to look at Holden again.
“This next number, folks,” Thomas says, “is a song Holden wrote one night when we both decided we didn’t really care what we had to do to support our love for this business, singing and writing songs. Short of armed robbery, of course.”
Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“Aside from that, anything we did, whether it’s building a house or waiting tables would just be the means to the freedom to do what we love. This here’s called A Hammer and a Song.”
I listen to the words, and I hear Holden in each and every one of them. He has a real gift, and it’s clear that this life means everything to him. I can only imagine how hard that must have been for Sarah to accept. If she has.
When the song is over, a few beats of silence follow the moment when Thomas lays down his microphone. The applause erupts all at once, punctuated by whistles and whoops. I glance at J.B. whose clapping is tentative to say the least, his voice a little clipped when he says, “That’s good stuff.”
“It is,” I say, and then before I know it, Thomas is taking my hand and pulling me up on the stage. My heart is beating a thousand miles an hour and my hands are suddenly clammy. Thomas tells the audience about my Uncle Dobie and the great songs he had written.
“We’re gonna do one of those for you, folks,” he says, nodding at me.
I close my eyes and wait for Holden’s intro, and then Thomas and I dip into the song together. For the next three minutes, I’m in that other place where all that matters is the music. It’s a place I sometimes wish I could stay in, that sweet spot where the notes and the words all come together to create something wonderful, magical.
When it’s over, the crowd gives us their approval with gratifying applause. My heart is no longer racing, and I just feel grateful to Thomas for his generosity. I hug him. He hugs me back while the audience claps harder, and I force myself not to look at Holden.
We’re about to leave the stage when a sudden noise rises above the clapping. Everyone goes silent, and the sudden wail of an alarm fills the room, the noise clogging our ears like smoke in the lungs.
A man in a white shirt and black pants runs over to the stage and takes the mircrophone from Thomas. “Folks, I’m the manager here. A tornado has just been spotted in the downtown area. We have been advised by public safety officials to immediately take cover in the downstairs part of the building. Let’s all keep our cool. Single file if you would, and follow me to the stairwell.”
His voice is even and reassuring as if this is something he does every night. He steps off the stage then and heads for the main entrance to the bar.
“Seriously?” Thomas says, looking at me and then Holden.
Holden glances at the back of the room and says, “I’ll get Sarah. Meet you two downstairs.”
He steps down from the stage and begins winding his way through the crowd to the back of the room where Sarah stands waiting, with a panicked look on her face.
I remember then that Hank Junior and Patsy are at the apartment alone.
“The dogs, Thomas,” I say, feeling a well of panic. “I need to get home.”
“CeCe, that siren means we need to do what they say. I’ll drive you myself as soon as we get the all clear.” Thomas takes my hand, and I follow him through the lobby to the stairwell where people are hurrying downstairs.
“They’ll be all right,” he says over his shoulder. “And look at it this way. This will probably give us something to write about.”
“Then I hope it’s a song with a happy ending,” I say, tears welling up.
The alarm is loud, and I’d like to cover my ears as we head down, but I’m afraid to let go of Thomas’s hand. My heart is throbbing in time with the siren’s wail, and I say a silent prayer that this will be over soon.
The room we’re filing into is large and dimly lit. The alarm has lost its knife edge blare, and I feel like I can again think a little more clearly. We find a spot in a far corner and sit on the floor against the wall.
I see Holden come through the door, Sarah holding onto his arm. I wish for a moment that they would sit at the opposite end of the room from us, but Thomas waves them over.
Holden looks at me and says, “Think the dogs will be all right?”
“I hope so,” I say, not quite able to meet his concerned gaze.
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sarah asks. “They’re inside, aren’t they?”
No one answers her. I’m certainly not going to since what I want to say isn’t likely to make us fast friends.
Holden takes the spot next to me, leaning back against the wall. Sarah studies him for a moment, then wilts onto the floor beside him, as if it is the last place on earth she wants to be.
“How long do we have to stay here?” she asks, the words sounding like those of a petulant seven-year-old.
“Until the threat of a tornado passes, I would imagine,” Thomas says, and I can hear the disapproval in his voice.
The lights in the room, already dim, flicker and extinguish all together as if someone has just blown out a candle.
Voices rise up in protest, and then that of the manager calling out for everyone to please listen. “Sorry about that, folks. Looks like we’ve lost our power. I know none of you came out expecting this tonight. But for the moment, it is what it is. I doubt the lights will be out for long. Let’s sit tight, and give this cloud a chance to pass on over. Oh, and keep your hands to yourself, please.”
This actually pulls forth a chuckle from the crowd, although I notice Sarah doesn’t laugh.
From our basement haven, the wind is muffled, but its fury is still evident. I can hear something flapping at the top of the stairs.
“Sounds like a door,” Thomas says.
The sounds stops, and for a second, it’s silent. And then out of nowhere, another sound hits, like a train speeding through the darkness. The roar is so loud I put my hands to my ears and squeeze hard. I scream and realize I’m not the only one. An arm encircles me from either side, both Thomas and Holden are holding onto me. I feel Sarah’s arms bolt around Holden’s waist, the four of us linked together like a human chain of fear.
I press my face into Holden’s shoulder and bite back the terror that yanks me under like a sudden, unexpected riptide.
I want to melt into him, and here in the dark, I let myself imagine we are the only two here. I remember what it felt like to be in his arms, his mouth on mine, his hands—
But we’re not alone. Sarah is crying now, and Holden is soothing her with his voice, telling her it’ll be over soon, that everything is going to be all right.
; I pull myself out of the half circle of his arm, and Thomas hooks me up against him, comforting me with his big embrace.
I’m not sure how long we sit there. It really seems like hours, but it might just be minutes. Or even seconds.
As quickly as the roar descended, it is gone. Just like that. In the snap of a finger. And the room is terrifyingly quiet.
“Is everyone all right?” the manager speaks up, his voice by now familiar even though we can’t see him. He sounds shaken, as if he’s not sure what to do next.
A chorus of yes, yes, yes rises up, followed by sighs of relief. As if in unspoken agreement, everyone stays seated for a couple of minutes. No alarms. No wind. Just silence.
And then footsteps sound on the stairs, followed by an official-sounding voice. “Anyone need help down here?”
“I think we’re all okay,” the manager answers back. “Is it all right to come out?”
“Yes. Your building held up well. But it’s a mess outside. Y’all be careful now. I brought some flashlights for you.”
“Thanks,” the manager says. He turns one on and shines it across the room.
I squint at the light, my eyes already adjusting to the dark. Thomas stands and offers me a hand. I get to my feet and say, “Can we go home now?” And I’m praying the tornado didn’t hit our apartment building.
Thomas flicks on the flashlight someone just handed him and says, “Let’s go.”
Holden and Sarah follow us up the stairs. It’s slow going with all the people in front of us, but we finally reach the top and walk out into the night.
A few street lights are on, others hanging limply from their poles as if they’d just taken a left hook. But that’s the least of it. The four of us stand staring at the wreckage around us. Cars that had been parallel parked in front of the bar now sit on their sides, front end, and some are even rolled over on their tops.
It’s like a giant lumbered down the street and picked them each up the way a toddler picks up toy cars, dropping them where he pleases when they cease to interest him.
No one says anything for a full minute, and then Thomas utters, “Good day in the mornin’.”
“Let’s go see if the truck is in one piece,” Holden says.
We weave our way down the sidewalk to the side parking lot where Thomas had parked earlier. Amazingly enough, every car in the square lot is exactly as it had been left. The funnel cloud had made a line of carnage straight down the street, taking complete mercy on anything to either side of it.
“Thank goodness,” I say.
“The only question,” Holden says, “is will we be able to get out of here?”
Thomas glances around and nods once. “I didn’t get her in four wheel drive for nothing.”
“You can’t just roll over other cars,” Sarah says, sounding a little dazed.
“Y’all hop on in, and leave the driving to me,” Thomas advises. And since we don’t have any other choice, we do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Holden
CeCe and Sarah sit between Thomas and me, Sarah’s back ramrod straight. I can see CeCe’s trying her best not to touch shoulders with Sarah, but that’s pretty much impossible since we’re packed in here like books on a library shelf.
Sarah has her fingers entwined tightly with mine. I’m not sure if it’s because she needs the security of my touch or if she’s making a statement.
Not that CeCe appears to notice. She hasn’t looked at me once since we came out of the basement. Even so, there’s a cord of electricity between us that I feel and somehow know she does, too.
Thomas navigates the truck out of the parking lot and then rides with two tires on the sidewalk for a couple of blocks or so until we get around some of the vehicles that have been tossed along the street like toys.
A few people are standing outside shop doors looking shell-shocked. Thomas rolls down his window and throws out, “Y’all need any help?”
“We’re good,” a man answers back.
Most of the street lights are out, and it feels like a scene from one of those apocolyptic movies. The sky is still a heavy, gunmetal grey. We make decent headway until we’re a couple of miles or so from the apartment. A Range Rover sits at an odd angle in the middle of the street, the driver’s side door open. There’s no one else anywhere in sight.
Thomas brakes the truck to a stop, and we both jump out and run to the car. There’s a woman in the driver’s seat. She’s slumped to one side, unconscious. I realize then that it’s Lauren, my boss at the restaurant.
Sarah and CeCe run over to the car. “What happened?” CeCe asks.
Before I can answer, CeCe spots Lauren and says, “Oh, no.”
“Who is she?” Sarah asks.
“She owns the restaurant where we work,” I answer. I lean in to feel for a pulse in her neck, my own heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
The beat is there, and I feel a quick jab of relief.
“Should we try to get her out?” Thomas asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, pulling my phone from my back pocket and dialing 911. An operator answers immediately and asks what my emergency is. I tell her, and she tells me the wait may be fifteen minutes or more because of the tornado and the number of emergency calls it has generated. She asks if we can get Lauren to the hopsital.
“Yes,” I say. “Or at least I think so.”
“Call back if you can’t,” she says, and she’s gone.
I look at Thomas and CeCe. “We need to get her to the emergency room.”
“Can you take her vehicle, and I’ll head for the apartment to check on the dogs?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Let’s put her in the back,” Thomas says. He leans in and lifts Lauren out like she’s nothing more than a cotton ball and places her gently on the leather seat.
“CeCe, can you ride with her?” I ask. “At least if she wakes up, she’ll know you.”
“I’m going with Thomas,” Sarah says, folding her arms and walking stiff-backed to the truck.
I start to go after her, tell her to come with us, but I honestly don’t feel like arguing right now. And I’m also afraid of what might happen if we don’t get Lauren to the hospital asap.
“Y’all get going. I’ll take care of her,” Thomas says, giving me a sympathetic look.
I get in the driver’s seat, glance over my shoulder at CeCe who is looking a little too pale, then throw the Rover into gear. I gun it for the hospital, reminding myself how to get there.
An iPhone is lying on the passenger seat. I pick it up and check the recent calls. There’s Case Phillips’s name and number.
I hold it up and flash the screen at CeCe. “Think we ought to call him?”
“Can’t hurt. Maybe he’ll know what might be wrong.”
I hit send, and put it on speaker, unable to believe I’m actually calling Case Phillips.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey, baby. Are you okay? I’ve been trying to call you.”
I clear my throat and say, “Mr. Phillips. This is Holden Ashford. I work for Lauren at the restaurant. We found her in her car, unconscious. My friend and I are driving her to the hospital, but we thought you might have an idea what could be wrong.”
“She’s diabetic,” he says with quick urgency. “She’s passed out before. There should be a kit in her purse.”
“I already looked for her purse,” CeCe says from the back seat. “There isn’t one in the car.”
“She never goes anywhere without it,” Case says, disbelieving. “Could she have been mugged?”
“It’s possible,” I say. “The door was open when we pulled up.”
Case lets out a string of curses and then says, “Keep me on the phone until you reach the hospital.”
“Okay,” I agree, and then put my attention on getting us there without wrecking.
I drive well over the speed limit, deciding I’ll take my chances with an explanation if I get pulled over. Right now, all I car
e about is getting Lauren to the ER where someone will know how to help her.
We’re there in minutes, and I pull up to the main door, hopping out and running inside. I’m still holding Lauren’s phone, and I let Case know we made it.
“I’m driving now. I’ll meet you there,” he says. “Oh, and thank you. Thank you so much.”
I click off the phone, realizing that he really loves her, the fear in his voice proof of it.
I flag down a nurse and tell her what’s happened and that Lauren is diabetic.
She grabs a gurney and follows me back outside where I lift Lauren out of the seat and place her carefully on it.
“Are you family?” the nurse asks me.
“No,” I say. “We found her like this in her car.”
“Is there someone who can give us a history?”
“Her—Case Phillips,” I say. “He’s on his way.”
The woman’s eyes widen a little before professionalism slips back into place. “Please direct him to the registration desk when he gets here,” she says, and then she’s wheeling Lauren toward the ER doors marked Restricted.
I let myself look at CeCe then. She’s still looking a little panicky.
“Will she be all right?” she asks, clearly needing me to say yes.
“I hope so,” I say and realize that’s the best I can do.
We find a parking place for the Rover and then walk back inside the hospital where we wait by a vending machine. In less than five minutes, Case Phillips runs through the main doors. I wave at him, and he walks over, his face drawn with worry.
“We’re the ones who brought Lauren in,” I say.
“Oh. Thank you. Thank you so much. Where is she?”
I point to the restricted door. “They took her in there. The nurse asked me to tell you they’ll need whatever information you can give them.”
“Of course.” He glances at CeCe and then back at me again. “You both look familiar. Have we met?”
“Sort of,” I say, not wanting to elaborate.
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