by Leigh Duncan
Did Judy mean to keep them out? That wasn’t right.
Realizing she had missed something, she searched for the object of contention. At the man’s feet sat a dog with sad brown eyes and glistening wet hair.
“No dogs allowed,” Judy insisted. “And he can’t stay in the car by himself. You’ll have to leave.”
At this, one of the toddlers let out a loud wail. “No, Daddy, no! Don’t let the hurr’cane blow Sem’nole away!”
Her mirror image chimed in with another cry, “The hurr’cane will get us if we go outside!”
“He’s well-behaved, ma’am,” the father argued tiredly. “Please. We need to stay here.”
Judy’s arms crossed, her intentions plainly visible.
Stephanie was on her feet almost before she realized it.
At last—she had found something she could handle.
“Hey!” she shouted on her way to the door. “What took you so long? I was so worried about you.” She reached the disheveled family and leaned in to hug the mother. “Just play along,” she whispered.
“The kennel gave away our reservation.” The explanation sounded like a confession between best friends. “We tried several others—we’ve been driving around for hours—but no luck. We had to bring Seminole with us.”
A skeptical Judy interrupted. “Stephanie, you know these people?”
“They’re my neighbors,” she said though she had no idea where these “neighbors” actually lived. “Oh, you must be exhausted!” She gave the father a quick hug and smiled brightly at the distraught towheads. “There’s plenty of room next to my stuff. You guys can settle in there.”
“No,” Judy argued. “They can’t.”
Stephanie ignored her and looked down. “Seminole, I didn’t forget you. You’re such a good boy. Lie down, now.”
The dog was prone in an instant. With the retriever supplying all the confirmation she could hope for, Stephanie decided the situation required a well-placed lie. Maybe two. Dredging up the tone usually reserved for recalcitrant employees, she turned to the shelter manager.
“Judy, Seminole is a companion dog. He’s been specially trained as a mother’s helper. With these two precious little ones, you can see why anyone would need an extra pair of hands. Or, in this case, feet.”
“We sure do,” the father piped in. “He’s especially gentle around children. He won’t be a problem, I swear.”
Stephanie hoped their earnestness would put the manager on the fence.
Judy’s doubtful look traveled over the group. “I can see that he’s well-behaved, but our rules don’t allow pets. If you’re saying he’s a guide dog or something, can you prove it? Don’t they all wear vests? Where’s his?”
“You didn’t think you’d need it at the kennel, did you?” Stephanie prompted.
“Oh, Stephanie, it’s my fault.” The mother’s trembling voice let everyone know honest tears weren’t that far away. “I was in such a rush to get out of the house that I walked out and left it on the kitchen table.”
Judy’s voice dropped so low no one outside their immediate circle could hear. “I don’t believe you for a minute, but if you swear this dog will behave himself—” She paused, waiting. One by one, three adults and two children gave solemn nods while the Lab’s eyes flicked from one face to another as though he knew his fate was being determined.
“Companion dogs are exempt from the no pets rule,” Judy announced at last. “He’ll be confined to your space. If he makes a mess—” she squinted one eye and pursed her lips “—I expect you to clean it up immediately.”
“We will, but he won’t,” the father agreed.
“All right, then.” Judy turned to Stephanie. “You get them settled. Make sure they fill out the registration forms.”
“Sure thing,” Stephanie said. Beckoning, she led the way to her pallet.
“I’m Tom, by the way,” the father whispered as they threaded down winding aisles. “This is my wife, Mary. The girls are Barbara and Brenda.”
“Good to know,” Stephanie said with a chuckle. “And you must be Seminole,” she said to the dog who tagged along at Tom’s heels. “Where are you guys from?”
“Cocoa Beach,” answered Mary.
Stephanie’s chuckle became a laugh. “We really are neighbors. I just finished moving in there today. Do you think I should thank the mayor for rolling out the red carpet?” With a sweep of her hand, she indicated the bare patch of floor next to her few boxes. “Definitely not The Ritz. The Marriott, either. But it’s dry.”
While the girls clung tightly to their parents’ necks, Tom and Mary lingered on the threshold of their temporary home. Profuse thanks were offered and declined, but no one seemed certain what they should do next—no one except Seminole. He followed his nose straight to Stephanie’s sleeping bag where he helped himself to a good long sniff before plopping down on the floor beside it with an audible sigh. His ease made the girls laugh and soon they were toddling around examining their patch of linoleum.
Stephanie left her newfound friends to embark on a brief scavenger hunt. She returned bearing towels, blankets, hot coffee and juice boxes. While Mary and Seminole watched the girls, she and Tom donned plastic garbage bags turned ponchos—another useful evacuation fashion tip—and raced to unload necessities from the van before the storm worsened. By the time the girls were in their jammies and pallets had been spread across the floor, rain pummeled the roof relentlessly, and the wind blew in powerful gusts.
Hurricane Arlene was nearing the coast.
Local weathermen reported a rapid decrease in barometric pressure, and someone turned up the volume on the television sets. A new edginess spread throughout the cafeteria as evacuees realized the hoped-for turn had not occurred. Voices raised. Arguments broke out. Children grew fussier. Rain drummed the roof.
Stephanie’s headache renewed its steady pounding until all she wanted was to curl up in a ball somewhere. Not an option. Copious amounts of chocolate were her fall back remedy. Grumbling about mothers who always knew best, she unearthed the box Judy had toted from the car. She had no idea why it, intended for the local food bank, was in her trunk, but she was mighty glad to see it. Inside sat her mom’s idea of a housewarming gift—enough graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows and canned fuel to make s’mores for an army. Tom, Mary and the girls joined her, and they set everything up on one of the cafeteria tables.
The first marshmallow was barely warm before a gawky teen stood at Stephanie’s elbow. Told he needed to contribute something—anything—to the table, he quickly returned with a liter of soda. As soon as he walked away with a plate of s’mores and soft drink in a small cup, the game was on. By the time Stephanie opened the second box of crackers, people were helping themselves to a smorgasbord of treats that littered the long row of tables.
With her headache in abeyance, Stephanie turned the s’more making over to Tom and another father. It seemed a pity to waste the good mood running through the room so she commandeered likely looking parents and, with Mary’s help, organized several “camp fires.” Soon teenagers sat at one and swapped ghost stories. A preschool teacher volunteered to lead another group in children’s songs. Other kids played charades. And watchful adults circulated, quietly updating each other on the storm’s status.
Stephanie was bouncing Barbara—or was it Brenda?—on her lap and singing what had to be the twenty-fifth round of “The Wheels On The Bus,” when word spread that Hurricane Arlene had finally turned her devastating winds away from Florida. Relief swept the room. Fatigue followed closely on its heels, and the party quickly wound down. As she and Mary carted the girls to their makeshift beds, she asked the question on everyone’s mind.
“How soon will they let us go home?”
Mary shifted a sleeping toddler and spoke quietly. “It’s hard to say. It depends on the extent of the damage, especially to the causeways.”
“But if the hurricane turned…” Stephanie began.
Mary tucked one twin between blankets and reached for her sister. “Even in a near miss, there’s damage. Just not as much. Power lines will be down for sure. It may take days to get electricity restored. And some of the roads were probably buried or washed away.”
Stephanie stared. “How do you stand it? Evacuating—what? Two, three times a year? Not knowing what you’ll find when you get back.”
“I’ve lived here all my life. You get used to it. Besides, the damage usually isn’t that bad, and when it is, we hear something before we get home.” At Stephanie’s questioning look, Mary added, “Tom’s best friend is a cop. He’s on duty tonight and as soon as the sun comes up, he’ll tell us how bad things are.” She yawned. “Excuse me,” she apologized.
The exhausted look on Mary’s face kept Stephanie from mentioning that she also knew a Cocoa Beach police officer. She said a quick good night and followed the young mother’s example by crawling into her own sleeping bag.
Brett’s sleeping bag, she corrected. Juniper and spice wafted in the air. Stephanie curled into the scent and was immediately asleep.
Morning meant leftovers from the sweet feast for those who wanted them, cold cereal for the rest and long delays. Up and down the east coast, businesses remained closed, schools on holiday. In the shelter, discussion centered around the extent of damage. Stephanie ignored the talk until television reporters began spouting estimates in the millions. She nearly hit her own panic button before Mary intervened.
“How do they know?” the young mother pointed out. “The causeways are closed. No one has access to the beach. Let’s wait for official word before we go too crazy.”
Stephanie grabbed a nail file and sank, cross-legged, onto Brett’s sleeping bag where she sawed on the jagged remains of a sculpted nail. She was nearly finished when a serious-faced Tom crossed to his wife’s side and wrapped her in a warm embrace. When he whispered something in her ear, Mary buried herself in his arms. They clung together for a long moment while the twins played at their feet.
Watching them, Stephanie felt a hole open in her heart. I want that, she thought before catching herself. There was the little matter of finding a likely candidate. She knew exactly one man in Cocoa Beach—Brett Lincoln. Though thinking of him made her pulse jump and his face gave new meaning to America’s Most Wanted, the policeman had slapped her in handcuffs and threatened her with arrest. He was not her Mister Right.
I want that, but not now, she corrected. Not until after I get my feet on the ground at Space Tech. Not till…sometime.
She was so lost in thought she didn’t see Tom until he kneeled beside her.
“Stac—uh, Stephanie. The roads are officially closed,” he said quietly. “But I’m pretty sure I can get us back into Cocoa Beach. Mary and I are going to pack up and get out of here in a bit.”
Stephanie’s breath caught in her throat. “You’ve, um, heard from your friend, then? How are…things?”
“Not nearly as bad as the reporters would have you believe.” Tom grinned. “I run a small marina and we have some damage—nothing we can’t fix. The power’s still out and the roads won’t open for a day or so, but my pal can get us through. How about you? Want to blow this taco stand?”
And get back to work before everyone else? Was he kidding? Even one extra day would give her the time she needed to get her schedule back on track. It would take hard work, but she’d prove that Space Tech had chosen the right person for the job. Stephanie squelched an impulse to jump to her feet and kept her voice low.
“I’m right behind you, but you probably want to keep this quiet?” Tom’s nod told her she had accurately judged the situation. “I just have a couple of boxes and a sleeping bag. Why not leave Seminole and me to watch the girls while you and Mary load the van.”
There was nothing like a good plan for getting things done. While Mary and Tom reversed the unloading process, Stephanie, much to the delight of the twins, grabbed two bottles of soft pink polish and painted twenty fingernails and twenty toenails.
Chapter Four
Stephanie kept enough pressure on the gas pedal to breeze through the unmanned tollbooth seconds behind Tom and Mary’s van. She crested an overpass, the closest thing Central Florida had to a hill. Looking out across the landscape, she could see pine trees that had been snapped like toothpicks. Cattle pastures on either side of the highway stood knee-deep in water. The inky surface sprouted islands of fan-shaped plants and scraggly bushes. In the distance, the Beach Line glistened.
She pressed on, trusting Tom to stop if the road was flooded.
Heat mirages shimmered, but the Beach Line stayed dry all the way to I-95 where their cars were turned aside.
They joined convoys of utility vehicles that crowded the southbound lanes of the interstate. Tom led the way past flatbed trucks heavily loaded with Caterpillars and bulldozers from the Carolinas. They steered around a line of power trucks from Alabama.
Canvas flapping, National Guard troop carriers thundered along like the cavalry coming to the rescue. Uniformed men gave casual waves from the backs of green Jeeps and buses. Returning their greetings, Stephanie swallowed tears.
She followed Tom onto surface streets, her stomach tightening as they detoured around downed trees that hadn’t already been cleared by volunteers wielding chain saws. Along the river, the wind had ripped shutters from condos that had once looked impervious but now sported gaping black holes. A woman stopped sweeping debris from her balcony long enough to wave as their little caravan eased through a low spot where water covered their hubcaps. It was slow going until they reached a line of orange-and-white barricades at the entrance to the causeway. There, state troopers ordered them to halt.
Tom stepped from his car. The men spoke and calls were made, but the wait stretched out so long Stephanie felt sure Tom’s influence wouldn’t get them past the barricades and onto the road beyond. Wondering if Brett would have better luck, she reached for her cell phone just as a scowling deputy motioned her car forward. Once he verified her street address over the radio, he read from a checklist.
“I have to let you through, but there are rules,” grumbled the officer who was so disappointingly not Brett.
“Sand drifts cover some roads, so drive with care. There’s no electricity, which means no traffic lights. Treat every intersection like a four-way stop. Drinking water and roof tarps are available at the community center. Before you hire anyone, ask to see their business license.”
Stephanie’s thoughts stuttered to a halt midway through the speech. “Roof tarps?”
“More rain comin’.” He jerked a thumb toward a sun-drenched sky. “If your roof has a hole in it, you’ll want to cover it with a tarp to minimize water damage.”
“Ooo-kaay.” She sure hoped that wasn’t necessary. “Any idea when we’ll get the power back?”
“Several days, at least.” The man’s frown deepened. “That’s one reason we’d rather you stay on the mainland.”
His point made, he waved her onto the narrow causeway that led to Cocoa Beach. By then, worry about what she would find there burned fiercely at the base of her throat. With the river a sea of whitecaps on either side of the road, her anxiety ratcheted higher with every mile.
Each wave sheared off a new piece of a partially submerged sailboat. Where the causeway met A1A, the market where she’d bought coffee the day before looked okay, but only rubble marked the spot where an ice cream parlor had once stood. When Tom and Mary waved and turned north, Stephanie’s hand and stomach fluttered in return. How much she would see of her new friends remained in doubt but she resisted the urge to follow them. She headed south, her fingers crossed.
A short drive down the coast and she was staring in pleasant disbelief at a sturdy little house that sat right where she had left it. All red roof tiles present and accounted for, peach stucco unscathed. Even the storm shutters had held. Stephanie breathed a thankful prayer.
Inside, she reached for the light switch, but no one could be t
hat lucky. She rocked back on her heels and considered the shutters which had so admirably kept hurricane-force winds at bay. Now, they barred both light and ocean breezes. The temperature was in the nineties…and climbing. So was the humidity level. Even the walls sweated. She could wait for help to come along, but ever since Brett Lincoln had appeared on her doorstep, she’d been relying on other people. That was not the way she usually operated. Certainly not the way she had climbed onto Space Tech’s corporate ladder. It was time she started fighting her own battles again.
“You can do this,” she said to hear the words. Grabbing several tools, she headed outside.
An hour later, she leaned from her ladder’s top step, slid the tip of a screwdriver into a slot and gave it another turn. “Ow!” She winced as a piece of rounded pink acrylic popped off her finger. It flew into the grass at her feet. The shutter would not, could not, win. If she had to wear bandages on all ten fingers when she reported to work, so be it. She tried again.
This time the screwdriver spun in her sweat-slicked hand and joined her fingernail in the grass. Gritting her teeth, she reached into her back pocket. The ground below already looked like a dartboard and if she dropped her last screwdriver, she would have to clamber back down to retrieve the entire set.
Intent on her task, she barely acknowledged the rust-colored truck that pulled to the curb. The two men who emerged must, after all, be her neighbors in the truest sense of the word. Otherwise, they couldn’t have gotten past the roadblock. They stepped into place on either side of her window.
“Here now,” one of them said. “Need to take the weight off it or the screw won’t budge. We’ll lift the panel while you turn.”
With their help, the shutter she had struggled with slid to the ground.
“Hey, thanks.” Climbing down, she brushed damp hair from her face, swiped her hand on her pants and greeted the new arrivals. “I’m Stephanie Bryant. You live around here?”
