by Leigh Duncan
“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 pre-school 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 that 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?”
“Couple of streets over. I’m Dick. This here’s my friend Sam.” Dick eyed the rest of the house. “Whew! You trying to do all this yourself?”
Though she sensed no threat in the disbelieving smiles the men traded, Stephanie hedged. “My friend ran to get drinking water and ice. He’ll be back soon.”
Dick gestured to the boarded-up windows. “The two of us can make quick work of these shutters if you want. We got all the right tools out in my truck ’cause we just finished taking down our own. Be nice to get some air blowin’ through the house, wouldn’t it?”
Stephanie was all for ocean breezes, but she recognized a business deal in the works. “How much?”
Dick scuffed his toe through the grass and her collection of screwdriver darts. “Well, we wouldn’t charge much, seeing as we’re neighbors and all.” He stopped to think about it. “Fifty sounds about right. That okay with you?”
Fifty dollars to remove a houseful of shutters sounded more than fair. “Okay,” she agreed.
At Dick’s nod, Sam produced a battery-operated tool and went to work removing the next panel.
“That’s fifty…each,” Dick said.
Still fair, thought Stephanie. A day at a nice spa cost at least that much. Behind her, the second shutter slid down. Sam moved on.
“Plus expenses.”
“Expenses?” She spun away from the house to face the man who was fast losing his neighborly appeal.
“What expenses?”
“All right. Five hundred an’ we’ll eat the extra costs if there are any.”
She could move into a first-class hotel for that price. “Stop!” she called.
Dick cupped a hand to one ear as though he had suddenly gone deaf. She motioned to Sam who paid no attention and kept right on working. Another shutter slid from a window.
Stephanie stomped the ground, frustration mounting when her foot sank soundlessly into the spongy grass. She shouted loud enough to make herself heard above the noisy drill.
“I said stop! I am not paying you a dime. Get off my property, and do it now.” Even as she issued the order, she wondered what she would do if the two men refused.
What would they do? She didn’t think she wanted to know the answer and, thanks to the green-and-white cruiser that pulled to the curb behind good ol’ boy Dick’s truck, she wouldn’t have to find out. Her very own cavalry had arrived wearing the uniform of the Cocoa Beach police. Despite the hat pulled low and eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, she recognized Brett Lincoln’s tall frame and muscular chest.
Her breath caught. Adonis had never looked so good.
BRETT KEYED his mike.
“Dispatch, this is Lincoln requesting a 10-28 on a Ford pickup bearing Tennessee license plate XAP 195.”
After a pause, Doris responded. “Tennessee license plate XAP 195 registered to a 2001 Ford Ranger. Red. Owned by R. J. Johnson. No wants, no warrants.”
Which only meant R. J. Johnson had not been arrested in the Sunshine State. Brett sniffed the air. Beneath the salty tang of the ocean, he smelled trouble.
“Doris, I’ll be at the Henson place for a bit.”
“Roger that.”
No banter. No playful flirting. He missed it but Doris, like the rest of the police force, was feeling the strain of thirty-six stormy hours.
He had managed one brief, uncomfortable nap on a folding cot. With no pillow or blanket, the only way he had slept at all was by imagining Stephanie Bryant ensconced in the storm shelter and wrapped in the cocoon of his sleeping bag. Now she was back. How she had gotten through the roadblock and onto the beach he did not know, but he had heard Dispatch verify her street address…before the roads were safe or the power lines up on their poles. He had been fighting the urge to swing past ever since.
