by Webb, Peggy
"It's going to be bad," Wayne Dozzier said. He was chief of the Fairhope Fire Department as well as a Vietnam vet and helicopter pilot.
"How bad?"
"Best I can tell, at least half the folks between Ingleside Street and Mobile Bay got trapped."
"Windchime House?" He didn't know what made him ask the question. By now Annie was in New York and in the arms of another man.
"Best we can tell, that house is vacant."
Colt should have felt relief. Instead he felt as if a ghost had walked on his grave.
"I'll start working the area along scenic Route 98 as soon as I can."
"Don't do any heroic stuff, Colt. Wait till I give you the all-clear signal."
"You got it, pal."
Colt tumbled into his cot but his sleep was troubled by visions of Annie standing at a window calling his name.
o0o
Ann knew the waters would rise. She'd lost track of time since she bailed out of her car and half-walked, half-floated back to Windchime House. She'd immediately packed rations and emergency supplies and stowed them in the attic, and now she struggled with the family portraits.
Her grandmother's portrait was the first up the stairs. "I won't let the waters destroy you," she promised her ancestor. Her only answer was the winds howling around the eaves of her house.
Strange how the disaster had changed her thinking about Windchime House. The day before she'd been trying to decide whether to sell the house, and now she was thinking of it as her own.
It was midnight by the time Ann got all the portraits to the attic. She was making herself a pallet beside an old trunk when another thought struck her.
She raced downstairs and rescued the bouquet of roses Colt had brought to her. On the way to the staircase she passed the hall table where Rob's orchids sat.
"I'll have to come back for you. My hands are full."
Suddenly all the lights went out, and she stumbled up the stairs in the dark. While she'd been gone, the winds had ripped open the attic window, and the force of the winds knocked her off her feet. She fumbled for her flashlight, then struggled to get the windows closed and bolted.
Exhausted, she fell onto her pallet, and awakened shivering an hour later. The house was shivering, too, pitching and groaning in the hurricane that lashed the coast of south Alabama.
"I didn't bring enough covers. Isn't that just like an absentminded artist?"
Trying to keep her spirits up, Ann kept talking to herself as she turned on her flashlight and lifted the lid of the trunk.
"Everybody keeps quilts in a trunk, don't they . . . ? Eureka!"
There it was, right on top, a beautiful coverlet made of velvet and satin and yellowing lace, each patch painstakingly stitched with exquisite satin embroidery. Ann lifted out the quilt intent on covering herself and going back to sleep, then her eyes fell on the packet of letters.
The letter on top was addressed to "Miss Charlotte Ann Harris" and postmarked "October 7, 1942." Intrigued, Ann riffled through the stack. They were all addressed to her grandmother, all dated from World War II.
Outside the wind roared like a freight train, snapping trees as if they were twigs and slamming them into Windchime House. Holding the letters in a death grip, Ann wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
She was stranded, alone in the hurricane. But she wasn't going to let herself dwell on all the horrible possibilities. Bundled up in the quilt, she sat on her pallet and opened the first of her grandmother's letters.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Dearest Annie . . ."
Her grandfather had never called her grandmother anything except Charlotte Ann. Or so she'd been told. Ann knew nothing of his years in the war, either. She read on, eager to learn more about the ancestor whose name she bore.
"I'm sitting on the deck of the U.S.S. Montpelier, which will be my home for the next several months. There's a beautiful phosphorescence to the waters that makes it easier for the Japanese to spot our ship, but all I can think about is you, about the way you looked in the moonlight, your hair hanging down your back like a bolt of silk, your white dress blowing in the wind. I still taste your lips, my love. I still feel your soft skin against mine. I still smell the roses in your hair."
Ann blinked away sudden tears. The letter in her hand was one of the most romantic things she'd ever read. It thrilled her that her grandparents had had such a passionate relationship. She'd never known her grandmother, but judging by Richard Debeau's stern demeanor, she would never have guessed him capable of such deep feelings, let alone such romantic prose.
She read on: "In the wild, dark beauty of the night with the crescent moon and the stars overhead, a million twinkling lights, you'd never guess at the ugliness of Tulagi. Shells have gutted the island, uprooted trees, and gouged huge holes which are filled with the awful remains of the dead. I carry your picture next to my heart, always, so that I have beauty at my fingertips, beauty of mind, body, and spirit, beauty of heart, beauty of soul."
Rob had never said such lovely things to her.
"Silly goose," she chided herself. He was an industrious, practical man, totally committed to her. What more did she want? Ann turned to the second page of the love letter to her grandmother.
"I love you deeply, madly, my darling Annie. I love you with the deepest yearnings of my being, and I will love you till the day I die. Yours forever, Anthony."
Anthony? Ann folded the letter, stuffed it back and studied the front of the envelope, searching for the truth. There it was in fine artistic script in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope, right over "The U.S.S. Montpelier." A. Chance.
Her grandmother's lover was none other than the artist who had painted her portrait: Anthony Chance.
That explained the flushed, dewy look the artist had captured. Anthony Chance had painted a woman in love.
Who was this man her grandmother had loved, and what had happened to him, to them? Why had Charlotte Ann Harris married Richard Debeau instead of Anthony Chance?
Ann opened the second letter, and a photograph slid to the floor. She felt around in the dark, then trained her flashlight around the area. There on the dusty attic floor was a small black-and-white snapshot, a young pilot standing beside his plane.
Ann bent closer, and suddenly she stopped breathing. Smiling back at her from the ancient photograph was a face she knew, the chiseled cheekbones, the square chin, the dark, untamed hair, the sensuous lips curved into a smile that made her heart ache. Anthony Chance smiled back at her with Colt Butler's face.
She expelled a slow breath as she traced the outline of the man in the yellowed photograph. It was all there, the tall frame, the wide shoulders, the large, capable hands. Even the way he stood, legs slightly apart, feet firmly planted as if he'd just laid claim to the patch of earth he stood on.
It was exactly the way Colt Butler had stood on the front porch of Windchime House. What was it he had said about the house? "It's beautiful and strangely haunting . . ."
Hands trembling, she began to read: "My darling Annie, in a few hours I'll take the Black Cat up for night maneuvers over the Solomons. The takeoff from the deck of the Montpelier will be a piece of cake, but landings are always tricky, particularly night landings.
"Best not to dwell on it. Pilots who do tend to freeze up. While I'm flying over the Pacific I'll think about you, my dearest love. I'll remember the last evening we had together before I left ... the waters of the bay shot through with moonlight, your skin flashing silver as you swam toward me, the way you rose up naked from the sea, a passionate mermaid, a gift from the gods. I can still feel the waters lapping at us as we came together, and the sand that coated us when I carried you to the beach and lay with you there."
"Do you ever swim naked in the bay?" Colt had said.
"In the moonlight?" she'd replied.
Ann could feel the water against her bare skin, could see the shining pathway the moonlight made across the bay, could see the smiling face of the man who held out his
arms as she began to swim. Anthony Chance. Colt Butler.
A large weight sat on her chest, and she stood up to keep from smothering. A flash from the troubled heavens briefly illuminated the ancient steamer trunk, the packet of letters, the single snapshot on the dusty attic floor.
She was not the one who had swum in the bay. Her grandmother had. And not with Colt Butler, but with Anthony Chance.
The letter hadn't named the bay. Perhaps it wasn't even Mobile Bay. She was reading a love story from another time, another place.
To keep her mind off the mayhem outside, to keep from thinking that she might die alone in the attic, Ann picked up the packet of letters and continued to read.
o0o
“You can't get the chopper in there, Butler. You'd be crazy to try."
"Then call me crazy."
"Butler, wait . . ."
Colt didn't wait to hear what Wayne Dozzier said. All he could think about was the floodwaters that engulfed two floors of Windchime House, and the distress signal, a white sheet that flapped from the attic window. All he could think about was the woman trapped inside.
Annie. He had to get to Annie.
The chopper lifted, and he was on his way. Below him a tight knot of rescue workers watched from the slick tarmac, fatigue written in every line of their faces and bodies. They'd been working for two days and nights without rest, basing their rescue operations from Pensacola. Dozens of people had been placed in temporary shelter, awaiting the time when they could return to flood-ravaged homes and begin the long, slow process of making them habitable once more.
But there were still people trapped, among them, Annie. From the moment Wayne had reported seeing the white sheet flying from her window, Colt had been a man obsessed. Nothing could stop him from going to her, neither floodwaters nor crosswinds nor exposed power lines.
He could see her rooftop now, a tiny dark blot in the distance. Flying closer, he saw the tops of the huge magnolia trees that had stood sentinel on the lawn for hundreds of years, saw the flag of white blowing in the winds that gusted over the bay. His helicopter bucked like a wild stallion. He banked left and scanned the window for a glimpse of life.
There. At the window. A shadow.
"Annie! ANNIE!"
The chopper shuddered and threatened to plunge. Colt fought for control, wrestling the heavy machine back into the sky. The sheet receded until it was merely a white dot.
"Dammit, I'm not going to give up."
His teeth clenched, the skin at his jaw pulled so tight his face hurt, Colt went in for another attempt at rescue. This time Annie saw him. She stood at the window, waving frantically.
"I'm coming, Annie. I'm coming."
He eased the big bird lower, talking it down. "Come on, baby. You can do it now. Come on. I'm counting on you."
Annie was leaning out the window, screaming something, but the wind caught her voice and carried it away.
"Hang on, Annie," he yelled, knowing she couldn't hear.
The roof grew bigger and bigger.
"I'm going to make it this time. I've got to make it."
He could feel the power of the winds against his frail aircraft. He could feel the rage of the hurricane's aftermath. Suddenly he was snatched up and tossed about like a sponge football. Treetops came toward him at a dizzying speed.
Colt wrestled for control. "You're not going to do this to me," he shouted. "You're not going to claim another victim," he yelled. "Not yet. Not till I get Annie.”
But he knew that it was useless to try once more to reach her by helicopter. Unless he wanted to die. And dying was the last thing on his mind.
Finally he got the bird under control. "I'll be back for you," he yelled, then set an easterly course toward Pensacola.
o0o
Ann watched the helicopter disappear into a sky the color of old pewter.
"I'm not going to cry," she said, but she did anyhow, huge tears that scalded her cheeks and clogged her throat.
"What am I going to do now?"
Fatigue overcame her as she slumped against the dusty floor, and she dozed. When she woke up she was ravenous, and she opened a tin of Vienna sausage, plucked out two fat sticks, and ate them along with three saltines.
"A meal fit for a king." She set the rest of the sausages aside. She didn't know how long she would be trapped in the attic, and she had no intention of starving to death because she didn't have the discipline to ration her meager stockpile of food.
From a dusty corner, Felix the Cat winked at her. All of a sudden she felt better.
"Who are you flirting with, you sassy thing? I must look like something the cats dragged up and the dogs wouldn't have. Pardon my expression."
What to do now? She went to the attic window and surveyed her situation. Water as far as she could see. Even if she tried to swim to safety, where would she go?
She'd done all she could. The bedsheet, her distress signal, flapped in the wind. She checked to see if it was securely fastened, then cracked the attic door to check the level of floodwater. It lapped at the third step below the attic.
All she could do was wait and hope the flood waters didn't rise any farther. She settled onto her pallet, picked up the packet of letters, and continued to read: "My darling, not much sleep, not much time. Heavy bombing all around. Landed my torpedo bomber-fighter last night with the landing gear shot away. Thought my goose was cooked. Almost ran out of fuel circling. The two crewmen kept praying, and all I could think about was you. 'Can't let Annie down. I promised to return for her.' The red running lights on the Montpelier's masthead looked like Christmas candles. 'Get the milk and cookies ready,' I yelled,' 'Cause here comes Santa Claus.' I wish you could have heard the cheer that went up when I got that TBF back onto the carrier.
"And now I'm saying the same thing to you, my darling. 'Get the milk and cookies ready, 'cause here comes Santa Claus.' I'm coming back to you, Annie. I will return for you, my love. Always."
Dusk began to claim the landscape, and Ann lit a candle and set it in the window.
"Just in case," she whispered. "Just in case."
CHAPTER SIX
Soon it would be dark and Colt wouldn't be able to see the treacherous currents that threatened to catch his boat and hurl it into oblivion. He thrust the throttle forward, and the boat bucked like an ornery stallion before it plunged ahead at a speed he knew was foolhardy under the circumstances. Power lines down and floating God-only-knew where, swift currents churned up by Hurricane Bethany waiting to suck him under.
"Wait until conditions are better," Wayne had said to him. "Wait until the waters begin to recede and you can see what you're doing."
"Wait and let her die up there? Is that what you're saying?"
"Ann Debeau was at the window. You said so yourself."
"Can you predict whether the waters will rise or recede, Wayne?"
"Wish I could." Wayne knew he was engaged in a losing battle. He put a hand on Colt's shoulder. "Be careful. There are hundreds of people who still need you."
Colt knew that, but right now his focus was on only one, the woman trapped in Windchime House.
He peered through the gray mists and the thickening darkness, wondering if he'd steered off course. Suddenly, out of the gloom he saw it, the tops of massive magnolias and ancient oaks, the gabled roof and book-end chimneys of Windchime House. And in the attic window he saw the light.
Colt gave a whoop of joy, throttled back, and steered his small craft through the swirling waters. Focused on the light in the window, he almost didn't see it, the power line that coiled like a snake in his path.
He swerved, barely missing it. But that was not the last of the obstacles. Trees floated in his path, parts of dismembered cars, entire rooftops.
The venerable magnolia that stood in the front yard of Windchime House was just up ahead, its top standing above the floodwaters like a giant green flag. If he could only make it to the tree, he'd have a chance.
He focused all hi
s energy on the tree.
o0o
The sound woke her. A roaring sound, like a small plane. Disoriented, Ann sat up, the letters scattering about her.
He had come back. Just as he'd promised.
"Anthony?"
She stumbled across the floor, the candle in the window guiding her way.
"Anthony?"
She fumbled at the windows, finally got them unbolted. When she flung them open the winds slapped her in the face, bringing her fully awake, fully aware. She was not in the midst of a war waiting for Anthony; she was in the midst of a hurricane awaiting rescue.
The sound that woke her had ceased, and she strained her eyes into the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of something, anything.
"Annie!" Colt's voice. But where was he?
"Over here."
A dark object floated past her window, and beyond she saw the beam of light. A boat, lashed to the magnolia tree, and in it stood Colt Butler.
She gave a whoop of joy. "Thank God, you're here. Can you get the boat any closer?"
"No. Too much risk."
"That's okay." She started over the windowsill.
"Wait! I'll come to you."
"There's no need. I'm a strong swimmer."
"We can't go back in the dark. It's too dangerous. Do you have a flashlight?"
"Yes."
"Get it. Train it over this way. Light me a path, Annie."
He secured the boat, then dived into the dark waters.
o0o
A small eternity later he was in the attic. Colt scooped her into his arms and held her close, his heart pounding so hard, the blood roared in his ears.
"I thought you were in New York." He held on to her, unwilling to let go.
"I changed my mind."
"I would have come sooner if I had known."
"You came. That's all that matters."
They swayed together, and never had a woman felt so good to him, so perfect.
"When that helicopter flew in, then left, I thought I was stuck here."
"I said I'd return for you, but of course, you couldn't hear me."
She pulled back to look up at him. "That was you?"
