The Officer's Girl

by Leigh Duncan

  As if she needed another reminder of how right Officer Lincoln had been, her cell phone rang the second her tires hit the mainland. Her anxious parents needed reassurance. It was hard to sound breezy and carefree while winds buffeted her car and another squall rattled the roof, but she downplayed the danger and focused on her safety.

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. When the radio announcer disagreed, she spun the dial until country music filled the car. Carrie Underwood’s “Jesus Take the Wheel” wasn’t the most reassuring choice, but it was better than the storm warnings.

  “I’ll be perfectly safe in Orlando. I’m practically there already.” She crossed her fingers so her parents wouldn’t know she was lying.

  Rain squalls stretched the hour-long drive to ninety tense minutes. When she finally steered into the crowded parking lot of the middle school marked on the map Officer Lincoln had given her, her cell phone began to ring insistently. She found a lone vacant slot at the end of the building and blew out a deep breath, promising she would one day thank the man who had evicted her from her house. Before it quit ringing, she grabbed her cell and glanced at the 321 area code and the unfamiliar number.

  Was someone from Space Tech calling to warn her of the impending storm? A bit late, she thought, and straightened.

  “Stephanie Bryant,” she said mustering the most professional voice her frazzled nerves allowed.

  “Stephanie, this is Brett. Where are you?”

  Her brow puckered. Memorizing all the Space Tech employee names was still on her To Do list, but she was almost certain there was no Brett on the payroll. “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

  “Brett. Brett Lincoln.”

  Oh. Him. She dropped her work voice.

  “Brett, huh?” she teased. “So, you have a first name other than ‘Officer’?”

  “All my life,” came the dry response. “Have you reached the shelter yet?”

  If a sense of humor lurked beneath that rough cop’s exterior, she hadn’t found it. She eyed the mortar that ran between the concrete blocks of the shelter’s sturdy walls and tried again. “No, I decided to ride it out at the house.”

  His response was immediate. “Not a chance. Your place is locked up tight and your car isn’t there.”

  The jury was still out on the humor thing, but he had checked. Concern was also a good quality.

  “Don’t worry. You made a believer out of me. I’ve just arrived at the shelter and I’m headed inside as soon as we finish. Anything new on the weather reports?” The constant hurricane warnings had been so unnerving she had opted to stick with the country western station broadcasting from someplace called Ocala.

  Brett’s voice deepened. “They say the eye will come ashore before daylight.”

  Stephanie gulped. An intercom crackled in the background and Brett asked her to hold. The interruption gave her a chance to pray that her Cocoa Beach home would still be there when she got back.

  “I have to go,” Brett said.

  There was something else she needed to say. “Um, if I haven’t told you already, thanks. Thanks, for everything.”

  “Yeah, well. Just part of the job.”

  She thought it might be more than that and wondered if he did, too. “Stay safe,” she said.

  “As safe as I can be,” he replied and disconnected.

  Her thoughts raced back to the bridge. If the rain squall hadn’t hit at that moment, would she have made a complete idiot of herself? Thoughts of dark hair and chiseled features kicked her heart rate into overdrive.

  This was so not good.

  She’d bet money that a long-haul kind of guy lurked beneath all that bluster. Trouble was, she wasn’t a long-haul kind of gal. Relationships were a distraction and simply did not figure into her foreseeable future. Brett Lincoln might be someone to build a life with, but she she’d be moving on soon.

  Space Tech had given her a huge promotion, moved her across the country, provided a house to live in and a thousand other perks. In exchange, the company expected results. Positive ones. Results that hurricanes and hunky cops threatened to undermine.

  The timing couldn’t be worse. She shook her head.

  Cocoa Beach’s finest might as well be wrapped in crime scene tape labeled Police Line, Do Not Cross. Her commitment to Space Tech was the only relationship she could afford. Her career—and her future—depended on it.

  She stifled a groan as a fresh crop of splatters hit the windshield. Dreaming of the unattainable was not going to keep her safe. She got out of the car and dashed through the rain to a wide covered walkway where smokers had congregated. Spindly legs pumping and torn canvas sneakers splashing through puddles, a woman whose polyester shirt ended at midthigh over a pair of biking shorts headed toward Stephanie before she had a chance to shake the drops from her umbrella. The woman aimed a nicotine-stained thumb toward a set of oversize double doors and blew smoke and information with the same breath.

  “The registration desk is just inside, but you might want to unload your car first. Looks like we’re gonna get wet and there’s no tellin’ when it’ll let up again. You want some help?”

  Stephanie glanced from the woman to the rapidly darkening sky and back to the ID badge that lay nearly horizontal across her ample chest.

  “Sure, Judy,” she said. “That’d be nice.”

  Judy Evers kept the monologue flowing between puffs until they reached the car. “You can fill out a form and leave it on the table. Rules are on the table, too. Just pick a spot anywhere and spread out your stuff. You’re too late for dinner, but there’s sandwiches in the kitchen if you’re starving.” She bent to dip the nub of her smoke in a nearby puddle and rubbed the butt between her fingers until it flaked as Stephanie opened the trunk.

  Judy took a quick look. “You’re not going to take all this stuff inside?”

  It was not a question Stephanie knew how to answer. “Brett, um…The police said not to leave anything important at the house. Too much, huh?”

  “There’s not a lot of room,” Judy cautioned. “And you have to watch your stuff, though we don’t have too many problems. Those file boxes will probably be just as safe in your car as they would be inside. That a laptop?” She paused long enough for Stephanie to give a brief nod. “Leave it here unless you’re prepared to watch it every second.”

  So much for getting some work done while she waited out the storm. “Fine,” she said. “Whatever you think.” It had been a long, tiring day. If she couldn’t work, she’d settle for someplace safe and quiet until the danger passed.

  “You got a pillow? A blanket?” Judy asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, remembering. While she retrieved the bedroll from her backseat, Judy grabbed a few things from the trunk and splashed through puddles toward the school.

  Stephanie eyed the manicure stand swinging from the woman’s grasp. How on earth had that gotten into the car? Thinking back, she realized she had succumbed to hurricane mania at the end there, throwing anything within reach into the trunk. But a manicure stand? What else had she packed? And what had she left behind? After grabbing her overnight bag, she hit the lock button on the remote and caught up to her talkative new friend.

  Judy had run out of breath and steam by the time her feet struck the protected sidewalk again. She set her bundles on the cement, lit another cigarette, brushed a handful of snarled hair behind one ear and fired questions. “Where’re you from, sugar? Hit any bad weather? You all by yourself?”

  Stephanie decided not to rehash the trip’s harrowing details, but there was no denying that she was alone.

  “Come on.” Judy’s words floated on white smoke. “I’ll show you the way.” Hoisting the stand and a cardboard box with a loud sigh, she dropped her third cigarette of the quarter hour into another smoker’s soda can. “Next year, we’ll demand ashtrays,” she said to a rail-thin man.

  “Promises, promises,” came a graveled response. “That’s what you said last year.”

  “Last year?”
Stephanie felt her stomach drop. “People have to evacuate every year?”

  Judy’s barking laugh was half cough. “More like two or three times a month. But only in the summer, sug.”

  “And sometimes in the fall.” The thin man’s caveat earned a nod or two from those lingering on the walkway.

  Hurricanes did not hit Cocoa Beach. According to her Realtor, a direct strike was as unlikely as a meteor hitting Earth. But people evacuated…often?

  Stephanie rolled her neck to ease the tension. A headache brewed. A couple of aspirin and a few hours of peace and quiet were a sure cure, but noise rolled out of the school like a wave when Judy tugged on one of the doors. Stephanie cringed.

  So much for peace and quiet.

  Several hundred noisy evacuees filled the cafeteria. A raised stage dominated one side, where small groups played board games or cards at long tables. On the other, families had staked out sleeping areas the way miners staked their claims, marking personal space with piles of belongings packed in everything from American Tourister luggage to black garbage bags. Televisions blared from AV stands in the four corners, and children were everywhere. Some played or sat or quietly napped despite the din. Others contributed to it.

  Stephanie glanced over her shoulder, considering. Behind her, rain poured from the sky. A strengthening wind drove it halfway across the covered walkway. Thunder clapped on the heels of a bright flash, and she saw several of the smokers hurriedly drown cigarettes and move to the doors. Outside was not the place to be. Squaring her shoulders, she trailed the shelter worker down a haphazard aisle until they reached a bare patch of floor.

  “This is a good spot,” Judy declared. Before Stephanie had a chance to agree or disagree, her temporary home had been established. “Come on up front soon as you can. There’s some papers for you to fill out. Bathrooms are over there.” She pointed. “And the kitchen is behind the stage. Hungry?”

  Stephanie took stock. An aeon had passed since the morning’s bagel. In the car, hunger had gnawed at her. But the stale cafeteria air smelled of too many people, cleaning supplies and a million school lunches. “I could use some coffee,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, there’s plenty of it. I’ll meet you up front. You go ahead and get settled.”

  She should be getting settled in her new home. Maybe meeting a neighbor or two.

  Stephanie blinked back frustrated tears. She wanted to crawl between the soft sheets of her own bed. Not spread a borrowed sleeping bag across a linoleum floor. Not unwrap the sweatshirt and small pillow Brett Lincoln had tucked inside. She pressed gray flannel to her face, hoping a whiff of his aftershave would clear her head and give her strength. But the shirt smelled of soap instead of the spicy, woodsy scent she hoped for. She wrinkled her nose and put it aside.

  A ripple of excitement brought her head up. People were moving to the corners of the crowded room, gathering beneath the television sets. When she overheard someone say there was an update from Miami, she scrambled to join the rest.

  The room quieted as serious-faced television announcers spoke about projected paths and wind speeds. One of them displayed a map of Florida with a red funnel aimed directly at Cocoa Beach. Though the announcers hedged their predictions with “as near as we can tell” and “our best estimate,” they concluded that Hurricane Arlene could still make a last-minute turn. On the screen, the funnel tilted and curved north.

  Stephanie wanted to ask if that meant they could go home. Her question was answered when the screen switched to a reporter who stood against a backdrop of black sky. He ducked when palm fronds sailed past.

  “Stay indoors,” he cautioned.

  Next came a woman who aimed her camera into the darkness where she said trees had fallen. She repeated the warning to stay inside.

  Stephanie watched a replay of the reports. Apparently the Hurricane Center issued updates four times daily. The rest was just fill—excited weathermen standing in gusty rain telling everyone else it was too dangerous to venture outdoors. When the official report began its third replay, she eased her way out of a clump of people who stared at the screen as if in a hypnotic trance.

  She rubbed her throbbing temples. Everyone seemed to know more than she did. It was irritating and it was giving her a headache and headaches always put her in a foul mood. She swept the room looking for a distraction that would lift her spirits, but she was doomed. There was nothing even faintly amusing about her situation…unless the clothes thing counted.

  She had failed the evacuation dress code. Big time. She would have to offer a class at Space Tech before the next hurricane struck. Calling it Evacuations for New Hires she would teach, “Avoid all sense of style. Go for the comfort of polyester over linen, stained T-shirts rather than lacy camisoles.” Denim was permitted, but never worn cropped and pocketed and definitely not formfitting.

  She glanced at Brett’s sweatshirt where it lay atop her overnight bag. A mile long and two miles wide, the jersey made perfect evacuation wear. She slipped the gray flannel on over her own shirt. The sweats’ arms and hem dangled nearly to her knees, but she rolled the cuffs to her wrists. Cropped pants and strappy shoes still earned her a C-minus in EW, aka Evacuation Wear, but the sweatshirt was warm and cozy. She even felt her headache ease a bit.

  Five minutes and a few directions later she sat at the registration table holding a cup of hot coffee. She thumped the dull end of a pen against the table’s yellow Formica top and stared at a blank line where she was supposed to provide contact information. The realization that her next of kin were thousands of miles away triggered a wave of vulnerability she hated.

  How had she, an Ohio girl—a city girl—ended up in a hurricane shelter? Her Realtor, that’s how. Stephanie had believed the woman, who’d said she needn’t fear a direct strike. If that wasn’t a lie, the forecasters would claim it was “too close to call.”

  She shook her head before bending to dutifully provide the requested information. The copy of shelter rules looked simple enough. No alcohol, no firearms, no pets, no sex. She looked down at herself, swathed in acres of gray flannel.

  Sex was so not an issue.

  But someone had an issue and from the sound of things, it was serious. Stephanie honed in on an argument taking place at the entrance where Judy stood with one hand braced against the doorjamb and an unlit cigarette dangling from the other. Her strident voice rose above the general din. “I said that’s not allowed. You can’t bring it in here.”

  Stephanie half expected to see someone at the door toting a gun or a case of liquor. But instead what she saw was a bedraggled family. The parents each held a whimpering toddler. Rain dripped from their sodden clothes.

  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.