by Hunt, Angela
“The problem,” the female anchor adds as the camera cuts to her, “is that the Gulf Coast is shallow—much more shallow, for instance, than the waters off Miami. The shallow waters allow for a higher surge and downtown Tampa is located at the point of maximum surge potential. Experts say that if a hurricane the size of 1992’s Andrew were to hit Tampa, waves of twenty-five to thirty feet would smash into the city.”
Eddie’s house is not in a flood zone, but thousands of others are. How are those home owners coping with this news?
His gaze drifts toward the sliding glass door behind the kitchen table. Though the plywood blocks his view, the glass reflects a wavering image of the television screen. No sound seeps in from outside, leaving the air heavy with a peculiar muffled quality.
Instinctively, Eddie reaches for the dog, finds a silky ear and curls his palm around its warmth. Even with Sadie, the television and a crossword for company, he’s not looking forward to the loneliness of the next twenty-four hours.
With the television droning in the background, he picks up the crossword-puzzle magazine and flips to a clean page. The puzzle is titled “Independence Day,” and one across is a seven-letter word for free—
He flinches at the unexpected trilling of the telephone.
Michelle startles when in the middle of a dreadfully bland rendition of “Moon River,” the Muzak stops and Ginger McCloud’s voice blares over the speaker. “Hello? You ladies still on the line?”
She turns toward the elevator panel. “We’re still here.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Ginger says, “but I found a dispatcher in Pinellas County who put me through to one of her technicians. He answered the phone, but he says he’s off the clock.”
Michelle lifts her chin. “Can I speak to him?”
Her question is followed by a quiet so thick the only sound is the Hispanic woman’s congested breathing. “Honey,” the operator finally replies, “short of holding one phone up to the other, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to manage that. We’re a small answering service—we don’t have a lot of high-tech equipment.”
Michelle pushes herself up from the floor. “We’re going to have to figure something out, then. I need to talk to that man.”
For the past ten years she’s made a career out of persuading people, and she’s good at what she does. She’s a professional, for goodness’ sake. If she can convince corporate CEOs and CFOs to hand over thousands of dollars in the hope of gaining better positions, she ought to be able to persuade a mechanic to do his job.
But first she has to make sure this operator gives her the opportunity.
“Ginger? What’s this technician’s name?”
“Eddie Vaughn.”
Michelle stares at the speaker and tries to focus. When she wants to charge a fee at the top of her sliding scale, she must assure her new client that he will secure a result commensurate with what he has invested. “More money expended,” she promises, “results in more money returned.”
So how in the world is she supposed to convince a blue-collar guy in Pinellas County that he can’t afford to neglect three women across the bay? Money is not an issue, though the topic may soon enter the conversation. After all, every man has his price.
Dale Carnegie would recommend beginning the negotiation with the “can you do us a favor?” approach. What she’s about to request, however, is a monumentally massive favor.
“Ask Mr. Vaughn—” She hesitates, irritated by the limitations of the situation. If she could see this guy, look him in the eye, things would be easier. “Ask him if he and his loved ones are safe right now.”
She closes her eyes and strains to listen as Ginger repeats the question—presumably into another phone. A moment later the operator responds, “He says he’s fine and thanks for asking.”
Michelle resists the impulse to groan. Why does the one available technician have to be a smart-aleck?
“That’s good to know,” she says, “but we’re not fine. Since it’s Mr. Vaughn’s job to service these elevators, doesn’t he think he ought to come over here and fulfill his responsibilities? If he hurries, he can get here, get us out and still make it home before the hurricane hits.”
She bites her lip as Ginger parrots her words. After a pause, the operator’s honeyed voice drips from the speaker again. “He says Tampa’s not his territory, so you’re not his responsibility. He also wants to know why you decided to go downtown when you knew the area had been evacuated. He says those streets have been closed off since daybreak.”
Michelle rakes her hand through her hair. She wants to let this guy have it with both barrels, but this isn’t the time to tell him what she thinks of such a cavalier attitude. He’d hang up, and then where would she be? Worse off than before, because Ms. Trench Coat looks as if she’s itching to strangle someone, and Michelle is the closest target.
She addresses the panel again. “Listen, Ginger, this back-and-forth conversation isn’t working. Can you please put the phones together? I need to speak to this man directly.”
“I could try three-way calling, but I’d have to hang up—”
“No!” Michelle forces herself to take a calming breath. “Please. There has to be another way.”
“Well—wait a minute. Maybe if I turn this other receiver upside down…”
Michelle catches the redhead’s attention and frowns, but the woman maintains her locked expression. The housekeeper, however, has dried her tears and is leaning forward, her eyes bright with hope.
Michelle hears a clunking sound, a hum, then some sort of electronic yelp. Finally a baritone voice buzzes through the speaker: “Hello? Is this some kind of a joke?”
The voice is young and rumbling, not at all what she expected. In the static-filled background she can hear the comforting jingle of a State Farm commercial. Just like a good neighbor…
She can picture Eddie Vaughn with no trouble—thirty-something, soft belly beneath a flannel robe, fresh out of bed with his coffee mug in one hand and TV remote in the other. He’s reclining in his easy chair, waiting for his wife to bring him breakfast….
No wonder he doesn’t want to leave the house.
“It’s no joke. We’re trapped in the Lark Tower.” She raises her voice to be sure he can hear. “My name is Michelle Tilson, and I’m stuck in this elevator with two other ladies. You’re Eddie Vaughn, right?”
She pauses, hoping he heard everything she said. She wants him to realize she’s being civil, and she wants him to know her name. It’s hard to turn someone down once you associate a need with a name…or a voice.
The television in the background goes silent. “That’s right.”
“Well, Mr. Vaughn, we really need your help. The elevator’s stuck and I’m pretty sure the power’s off. There’s a backup generator to run the emergency systems, but I’m not sure how long the generators will last.”
“Why are you ladies downtown? You had to know about the hurricane. It’s been all over the news.”
She blanches at the gentle sarcasm in his voice. “I can’t speak for the others, but I came down early this morning and only meant to run upstairs for a minute. I’m pretty sure one of the ladies works the nightshift, and the other—” Her gaze moves to the intractable redhead, then she looks away. “I haven’t had time to take a personal history from everyone, but we need your help. Please.”
“Those roads are blocked off.”
“It’s not hard to drive around a barricade.”
He snorts into the phone. “Are you sure there’s no building engineer or security chief in the building?”
“I didn’t see anyone. One guard was at his post this morning, but I don’t think he knows we’re stuck. If he did, he’d probably call you. So you see?” She smiles, hoping he’ll hear warmth in her voice. “You’re our only hope, Mr. Vaughn. Eddie.”
White noise hisses over the line, followed by the swishing sounds of movement. “Where did you say you are?”
“The Lark
Tower.”
“If I make it over there, will I be able to get into the building?”
Michelle glances at her watch and remembers that Gus intended to close the lobby at ten. “The street entrance may be locked, but the parking garage is always open. Park on any level and you can’t miss the elevators. We’re in one of the express cars.”
“All right. But before I agree to come, you all have to promise me something. Two things, actually.”
Michelle grits her teeth. “What?”
“First, you have to sit calmly and wait for me to arrive. No messin’ around in the car, okay? And when I get you out, you have to leave the building. Nobody hangs around to watch Felix roll in. I’m not going to risk my neck rescuing you twice.”
Michelle immediately thinks of Parker, who has surely given up on her by now. He’s probably on the road, racing home to be with his kids. If he’s not, well, how’s this elevator guy going to stop her from checking on him?
“Agreed,” she says, without looking at the others.
“One more thing—you know a seven-letter word for free?”
Michelle blinks in exasperation. “What?”
“I was thinking vacant, but that’s only six letters.”
“Just hurry up, will you?”
For some odd reason, he whistles, then she hears a slamming door. “I’m already at my truck, lady. I’ll be there as soon as I can get across the bay.”
Michelle swallows hard. So—he’s been getting ready the entire time. “Thanks. Eddie.”
After another series of murmurs and assorted clunks, Ginger’s voice blasts over the speaker again. “That do it for you?”
“Yes. Unless you think it’d be useful to alert the Tampa police or our fire department.”
The woman laughs. “I’ll call ’em, but it sounds like you’d get better results if you rang up a superhero. Good luck, then.”
“Wait—Ginger?”
“Yeah?”
“We might call you back.”
For an instant Michelle’s afraid the woman will say she can’t be bothered, but the operator’s response is surprisingly gentle. “Call if you need me, hon. I’ll be here all day.”
After Ginger disconnects, Michelle leans against the wall and looks out from the corner she’s begun to consider her own. “I think,” she says, sinking into a cross-legged position on the floor, “we might as well settle in and get comfortable. Any way you look at it, we’re going to be here a while.”
The housekeeper wipes her nose with a tissue, then, after a couple of awkward attempts at modest maneuvering, sinks to the floor and tucks her short dress around her thighs. The redhead remains standing for a long moment, then she slides down the wall until she’s sitting across from Michelle.
Discomfited by the woman’s hollow-eyed stare, Michelle pulls her cell phone from her purse and punches in 911. No response, no service. Nothing.
She drops the phone back into her bag and tries not to let her frustration show. She glances at the cleaning woman, who has stopped crying and seems calmer. The redhead sits with her legs crossed and her head lowered, one wrist balanced on each knee.
The housekeeper is the first to speak. “Discúlpeme—excuse me?”
Michelle looks toward the barely lit back of the car. The cleaning woman’s mouth purses up into a rosette, then un-puckers enough to ask, “Help is coming, no?”
“That’s what the man said.”
“And we will all go together? We will go down and leave?”
Michelle shrugs. “Might as well.”
“Thank you.” When the housekeeper nods, Michelle realizes the woman is younger than she’d first thought. Her dark hair has come loose from her ponytail and floats around eyes that are large and smooth, their corners unlined.
No wonder she’s upset. She’s only a kid.
Michelle shifts her weight onto one hip and leans toward the cleaning woman. “I’m Michelle. And you are?”
The girl’s shy smile temporarily banishes the shadows on her face. “Isabel.”
Michelle plants an elbow on her knee, then rests her chin on her cupped hand. “Forgive me for being nosy, but have you worked here long?”
The housekeeper’s eyes widen. “Long? No, no, not long.”
Could the girl really be that shy? Michelle gives her a reassuring smile. “How old are you, Isabel?”
A deep flush rises from the girl’s collar, marring her complexion with dusky blotches. “Diecinueve.”
“That’s what…nineteen?”
“Sí.”
Michelle nods in answer, then looks away. For some reason her questions seem to alarm the girl, so maybe Isabel would prefer to be left alone.
Michelle understands. At nineteen, she didn’t trust anyone.
CHAPTER 10
“Shelly? When you’re done sweeping up, we have some boxes in the back needin’ to be unpacked.” Mr. Morris, head of Maxim’s custodial department, pulled a white envelope from his shirt pocket. “Before you start the unpacking, will you run this up to Ms. Calvino?”
Shelly leaned the broom against a shelf, then pushed at her sweaty bangs. The custodial job wasn’t exactly a dream come true, but it provided enough to live on and had given her an excuse to leave home. Charleston, West Virginia, wasn’t New York City, but it was a sight more cosmopolitan than Bald Knob.
She wiped her damp hand on her jeans, then accepted the envelope. “Ms. Calvino? She’s…where?”
“Career Women, third floor. She’s a tall lady, elegant lookin’, blond hair. You can’t miss her.”
Shelly slipped the envelope into her back pocket as Morris walked away. She couldn’t imagine what the head custodian would have to say to an elegant woman on one of the posh upper floors, but she’d only been working at Maxim’s three weeks. A couple of the other girls had warned her that Morris was a single guy with fast hands, but he hadn’t stepped out of bounds with her.
Apparently he liked more sophisticated women.
A wry smile twisted Shelly’s mouth as she swept a heap of paper, dirt and assorted trash into an industrial-size dustpan. Maybe Morris had gone up to the third floor to change a lightbulb and liked Ms. Calvino’s looks. Maybe the envelope contained a dinner invitation, or a suggestion that the lady break another bulb.
Shelly snorted, dumped the dirt into a garbage bin and paused, spying a battered copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People among the Styrofoam peanuts and discarded packing materials. That book would be right at home in her collection. She’d read about the Carnegie title in the bibliographies of other books, particularly those on finding success in the career marketplace.
With her thumb and index finger, she pulled the book from the trash, then grabbed the spine and shook the dust from its interior. A quick riffle of the pages convinced her she’d found a decent copy, so into her back pocket it went.
After returning the broom and dustpan to the supply closet, she checked her reflection in the mirror behind the door. A copy of How to Increase Your Word Power peeked from the front pocket of her overalls, giving her an odd, bumpy look. Frowning, she pulled the book from its place and slipped it into the back pocket with Ms. Calvino’s envelope. She now had a pair of lumpy hips, but no one at Maxim’s would look twice at a cleaning girl’s backside.
The Maxim’s handbook categorically stated that no on-duty employee was to appear on the sales floor in jeans, overalls or soiled clothing, but no one seemed to notice her as she walked through small appliances and made her way toward the escalator. Morris must have known no one would care about a skinny nineteen-year-old in braids, dungarees and a faded Mariah Carey T-shirt.
She took the escalator from the basement to the first-floor landing, where dozens of oversize Christmas presents had been piled into a pyramid. A cutesy version of “I’m Getting Nuttin’ for Christmas” played on the intercom, a not-so-subtle reminder to the frantic mothers and fathers who were scouring the aisles for perfect gifts.
Shelly couldn’t
remember the last time she got a Christmas present from her mother. Her dad had always managed to bring her crayons or a new coloring book, but he died in a mining accident the year she turned ten. After that, people from the nearby Pentecostal church brought bags of groceries every Christmas Eve, but after setting the food on the porch they stood in a semicircle and sang carols loud enough to alert the entire park. Shelly appreciated the food—if not for those people, she’d never have known that people ate more than a chicken’s wings or that fruit didn’t have to come in a can—but the presentation so embarrassed her she vowed she’d celebrate her grownup Christmases with TV dinners.
She bypassed Toyland on the second floor, then rode the escalator up to A Woman’s World. The meandering rose-colored tiles led her past Better Sportswear and Lingerie, where she stepped off the tile pathway and wandered into the section reserved for Career Women. She didn’t see any tall blondes, elegant or otherwise.
She stood in a gap between two racks of gaudy holiday sweaters and pulled the envelope from her back pocket. With every passing moment she risked attracting notice from one of the wandering supervisors, so maybe she should leave Morris’s message where Ms. Calvino would be sure to find it.
She walked behind the counter, set the sealed envelope next to the cash register and backed away, feeling awkward and out of place. Not an inch of denim lay within a hundred yards of this register; apparently career women favored wools and linens and silk. She moved away from the desk, letting her fingers trail over the exquisite natural fabrics on the racks. No wonder things were more expensive up here. The clothing even felt different.
She was about to head for the escalator when a mannequin caught her eye. The faceless dummy wore a designer outfit—a halter top of light blue satin and a soft leather skirt in the same shade. Between her plastic fingers, she carried a matching jacket.
