by Ann Jacobs
* * * * *
By eleven o’clock, the wind had whipped the sheltered waters of the cove into a gray-white froth. Palm trees swayed drunkenly along the long expanse of beach. Sam glanced toward the grotto where the wedding would be held in half an hour, noting with satisfaction that the lush vegetation there seemed not to be affected by the rising wind.
Concerned when the waves rocked the Lucky Lady against the dock, he checked the lines again. An oppressive damp heat permeated the lightweight linen of his slacks, settling uncomfortably in his gut. Kellen hadn’t veered south across Cuba and into the Gulf as everyone had expected. He was headed straight across Florida toward them. Fighting the fierce wind, he made his way to the grotto where the wedding was to be held.
“You’d better be ready to get everybody out the minute this wedding’s over,” he said to the resort manager, who stared through the canopy of dark-green leaves and orchids at the darkening sky.
“I will. Kellen’s still a Category Two, and it seems she’s headed straight for us. I’ll take the guests on the launch. Think you and the others who brought boats can make it to the mainland?”
Sam followed the man’s gaze, then looked back at the churning water. “The Lucky Lady’s a deep-draft cruiser, and she’s got two Volvo V6 inboards. She can make it. You’d better talk to the others, though, especially the guy with the sailboat. Wind’s going to go against him, and his motor doesn’t look any too powerful.”
“Will do. Hate to put a damper on the festivities, but we’d better hurry if we’re going to get everybody off this island.”
Doing his best to put the storm out of mind for the moment, Sam glanced around the heavily shaded grotto. It reminded him of a chuppah, covered by Nature instead of with the draped cloth and roses he remembered from his and Marcy’s wedding. Ileana stood, looking every bit the bride in something creamy white and filmy, next to Josh, whose gaze focused on his bride-to-be.
The manager, who apparently was also a justice of the peace, stepped up to them and said a few quiet words. Then he invited Ileana and Josh to say their vows.
Sam couldn’t help looking at Marcy, who hung back with the other guests on the opposite side of the clearing and resolutely refused to meet his gaze. Sam remembered how she’d looked the day they’d married with the reluctant blessings of families who’d thought they should have waited. Their parents had said marriage and attending universities didn’t mix. They’d been wrong. As students, they’d been blissfully happy. It had been after she graduated from law school and he finished his residency that the troubles had begun.
He’d never forget how beautiful she’d looked in her mother’s gown of white satin and lace. Her tiara had sparkled with crystal beads, and her veil had kissed the floor. Remembering that veil made him think of tropical islands like this and netted beds like the one they’d shared on their honeymoon in the Bahamas. Oh yeah, he remembered, and it hurt—but somehow reminiscing felt good too. Today she wore something green and clingy. Silk, probably. The colors should have blended into the setting, but then Marcy didn’t blend. With her pale hair and flashing eyes, she stood out against any background, this grotto included.
The vows he heard Ileana and Josh make now came from the heart. Personal, sincere, different yet inherently the same as age-old promises he’d made to Marcy and she’d made to him, promises set forth in the contract they’d signed before the rabbi and their parents and repeated in the presence of several hundred guests.
Vows not meant to be broken, intended to cement a man and woman’s lives into one. Vows that, though severed, lay deeply buried in his heart, keeping him from seeking another love.
When he looked at Marcy again, she was staring at him, the look in her eyes as sad as any he’d ever seen. As if she were regretting their split as much as he was. As soon as the celebrant declared Josh and Ileana man and wife, she tore her gaze away.
* * * * *
No way could Marcy stand any more of this celebration. Not when it meant seeing Sam and longing for what could never be again. She had to take a few minutes to collect herself before she could put on a happy face again. Drifting away from a crowd that headed for the docks and the reception Ileana and Josh had relocated to a restaurant on the mainland, she moved back into the grotto. It was as though something compelled her to stand where Josh and Ileana had stood, experience vicariously some of the joy that had radiated from them when they joined their hands and their lives.
The wind caught the full skirt of her short silk dress, whipped it up around her hips and plastered the fabric hard against the hills and valleys of her breasts and belly. A tempest not unlike the whirling dervish that had her heart beating faster, her whole body aching, seeking… God, she didn’t know.
It had taken Ileana ten years to love again after she lost Ben. Ten years without seeing him or hearing him or feeling the weight of his flesh pressing into hers. Ten years, and Ben had been dead, beyond any hope that somehow fences might be mended, new bridges built to span chasms too deep and too wide to be conquered by words or deeds alone.
It might take Marcy forever, seeing Sam occasionally the way she did. Comparing other lovers to him in her mind and having them fall short every goddamn time. She didn’t want to grow old, always seeking yet never finding the kind of emotional commitment she once had with him.
Shit, she wanted the impossible. Hot, committed sex, mastery by her beloved, as well as a love with whom to share a life, not lovers sharing only a moment’s passion. No matter what he thought of her, she wanted Sam. She’d been innocent of the accusation that had driven them apart, but she’d made up for that these past five years.
Caught up in her daydream, she barely noticed the warm rain that began to fall, caressing her softly through the dense canopy of trees and vines. Soon, the soft drips became a deluge, and the wind tore at the natural protection overhead, breaking limbs like twigs and sending them flying about like whirling dervishes. As though Nature were giving her a warning too fierce to be ignored.
A boat whistle pierced the air. Damn, she had to hurry or they’d leave her.
The air grew heavier, the dampness more oppressive. Lightning crackled in the darkening sky, thunder clapping as furiously as Marcy had ever heard it. The soaked silk of her dress clung to her like a shroud. Who knew? Maybe it was. Perhaps it was her destiny to die here, victim of Hurricane Kellen. But she wasn’t about to go down without a fight.
Struggling against the fierce winds, Marcy tried to make her way to the docks as the brackish waters rose among the sea grapes and mangroves, soaking the sandy ground and catching the stiletto heels of her Manolo Blahnik sandals, driving her to her knees. She stumbled, losing precious time trying to extricate herself from the muck that held onto her shoes as if it were glue. Finally she pried her feet out of them and started moving again.
“Damn it. Wouldn’t you know I’d pick five hundred dollar shoes to wear during a fucking storm.” Sand caught in the folds of her dress, on her bare legs, even in her hair. And there wasn’t a fucking boat in sight by the time she’d fought her way to the dock. They’d left her as surely as she’d abandoned the ruined shoes. Trying hard to stay calm, she forced herself to move away from the water, toward high ground—the restaurant and cabins at the top of the rise.
Debris swirled in the air, bounced off her body, caught up in the snarls of her sopping hair. When she covered her face with both hands to protect it from the onslaught, she stumbled into a downed Australian pine sapling and sprawled into the dirt.
The temptation to stay there and accept that she was doomed was strong. But she wanted desperately to survive. She dragged herself to her knees and crawled the last few yards to the top of the rise, stoically overlooking the pain of a twisted ankle, and the stinging of a thousand tiny scratches over what seemed like every exposed inch of her body.
Oh God. The wind had ripped off a large chunk of the restaurant’s thatched roof. No refuge there. Marcy’s chest tightened. Branches cracked and
fell, tossed like matchsticks in the wind. She had to get inside somewhere if she were to have any chance to weather the storm. Stumbling over debris on the pathway, she made her way to the rustic cabin she’d rented a day earlier.
Once inside the quaking walls, it hit her. She was alone. Seriously alone. Caught without another human soul in the leading edge of what promised to be one hell of a storm.
As sand swirled and sturdy palm trees groaned and cracked in the fierce wind, Marcy huddled in a corner against an interior wall, trembling and watching the rain come down in what looked like horizontal sheets that pounded the windowpanes as if determined to break them down and invade her flimsy sanctuary.
Teeth chattering, she stripped off her soaked clothes and wrapped up in a cotton blanket from the bed.
When driving rain shattered the window, Marcy dived under the bed, crying out in terror. For a long time she stayed burrowed in a blanket there and prayed for deliverance from this hell. For someone, anyone to share it with her. Another window shattered, on the other side of the room that seemed to grow smaller with every crashing piece of debris that attacked. She dragged her blanket to the farthest corner from the creaking windows, closed her eyes against Nature’s onslaught, and prayed for Sam.
* * * * *
Raindrops driving into his flesh like tiny needles, Sam lashed down the Lucky Lady and made for the relative safety of the Flying Fisherman Marina. Once inside, he shook off the worst of the water, blinked and searched the crowd of soaked, disheveled wedding guests.
No Marcy. He’d have sworn he saw her leaving the grotto with the others. He assumed she’d taken the resort’s motor launch or one of the other guests’ boats. But she was nowhere to be found. Ileana stood trembling in Josh’s arms near an inside wall of the sturdy cement block building.
“Where’s Marcy?” he asked, his teeth chattering as he joined them.
Ileana’s dark eyes widened. “Didn’t she come with you?”
“No.” He’d have been the last guy on Earth she’d have willingly hitched a ride with. Sam’s gut clenched. Surely she hadn’t waited for the ferry that wouldn’t be making its twice-daily trip today. “You haven’t seen her?”
“She gave us her best wishes, then said she was going back to the grotto. I assumed she was looking for you.” She paused, her full lips curling in a nervous little smile. “That she’d wait until we’d left, then take that as an excuse to ride in with you.”
“Hardly. I’d be the last guy she’d want to hitch a ride with.” Then it struck him. Marcy was out on Cabbage Key, alone, with Hurricane Kellen bearing down. “I’ll go back and get her.”
Ileana reached out and clasped his hand. “My God, we should have evacuated yesterday. If I hadn’t insisted on having the wedding go on as scheduled, Marcy wouldn’t—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get her.” Sam squeezed Ileana’s hand, hoping to reassure her.
“Don’t, Sam. Let the resort manager go. It’s his job.”
“No time. And the launch might capsize. My boat’s built for heavy seas.” Not that he’d ever taken her out before during a hurricane. But never before had he had such a compelling reason.
Hanging onto posts along the weathered pier when the wind threatened to blow him into the water, Sam made it back to the Lucky Lady, fired up both motors, and cast off. Five-foot waves broke against the sturdy fiberglass hull, soaking the deck and making the boat lurch slowly ahead.
He could use help. Not able to work the marine radio and hold the boat on course in the heavy waves—no Coast Guard ship could make its way through the narrow, shallow corridor anyhow—he pulled out his cell phone. He barely managed to dial 911 before the boat rode a wave then slammed down, wrenching the phone from his hand and slamming it into the deck.
Shit, he wouldn’t be calling anyone now. The phone popped apart on impact, its pieces scattering across the deck and bouncing crazily every time the boat rode a wave, then careened back into the murky water.
The noon sky was black with clouds, backlit by a struggling sun and lightning bolts that cast an eerie orange on the eastern horizon. Thunder clapped, its noise deafening. Sam clutched the wheel, his knuckles white as he struggled to hold the boat on course for Cabbage Key.
Stubborn, willful Marcy. Leave it to her to ignore Nature’s warnings, get herself marooned on a barrier key while a hurricane raged around her. When he got his hands on her, he’d shake her until her teeth rattled. Spank her until she begged for mercy. Then he’d drag her foolish ass back to the mainland and wash his hands of her for good.
Who the fuck was he kidding? If he found her in one piece, he’d wrap her in the love that had never died. He’d humble himself if he had to, do whatever it took to make her listen. He’d bare his soul. Hell, he’d sell it to the devil if that meant he could have her back.
A wave crashed over the bow, making him struggle to hold the boat in the channel that led into the cove where he’d docked the night before. A fierce tailwind practically sent him airborne into the calmer waters of the cove, propelling him toward the shore.
Working frantically once he reached the dock, Sam tied the boat down, trying to gauge how much higher the tides would go and leaving slack that might keep the Lucky Lady from snapping the lines—but which might also, probably would, cause her to break up when the storm surge tossed her into the main pier or up on land. He wouldn’t be leaving Cabbage Key anytime soon, in any case, not with the way the winds were building and the storm tide rising.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but finding Marcy, protecting her as he’d vowed to do so long ago. Keeping her from harm. Wading along the half-submerged pier, Sam made it to shore and spied Marcy’s silly high-heeled sandals mired along the pathway to the restaurant. Bending to avoid flying branches and debris, he fought a wind that seemed intent on lifting his two-hundred-pound body and propelling it like an insignificant twig.
The roar of the wind shut everything out. A fork bounced off his temple, and a square of plywood screamed past him like a lethal boomerang. He plunged forward as if he were in a raging river. In a manner of speaking, he was. A river of air boiling and surging around him like whitewater rapids. Tearing away everything in its path.
Where the restaurant had been, an empty concrete slab bore testimony to the violence of the storm. Cutlery and shards of broken dinnerware blew around on each fierce gust of wind, potentially lethal darts if they found a human dartboard.
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. Where to look next? A couple of guest cabins remained mostly intact, the ones that lay along the pathway toward the raging Gulf. Lowering his head to protect his eyes from flying missiles, he made his way to the first one. All right, it seemed, but for a hunk missing off the roof and shattered window glass. A carved wooden plaque with the number seven hung drunkenly from the door that flapped open and shut in the rain and wind.
The porch floor creaked under Sam’s feet, as if protesting his weight as too much an insult in light of the onslaught it had already endured. “Marcy?”
Nothing. He caught the door, pulled mightily against the wind. Inside clothes blew about, silent testimony to the storm’s power. The clothes didn’t look like Marcy’s. And Marcy wasn’t inside. Sam stepped back outside, pushing the door shut as though that might hold back the storm and protect belongings left by guests in their haste to run for safety.
Thunder clapped, and lightning crackled. A palm tree near the beach snapped and crashed to the ground as Sam made his way along the decimated path. “Marcy!” he yelled as he approached another cabin. Pray God she had the sense to get inside and stay there. That she hadn’t fallen victim to flying silverware or dishes, and wasn’t lying somewhere among the storm’s inanimate victims, hurt or dead.
No. She couldn’t be dead. He’d feel it if she were, just as he’d sensed the moment when his mom had slipped away from them…as he’d known before his partner had told him that Marcy had lost the baby he hadn’t been able to convince himself was his. He
stumbled, righted himself, hurried to the only other remaining shelter on Cabbage Key.
He forced the door open, then fought the wind to close it. Thank God. There she was, shivering against the bathroom wall. Her pale hair lay plastered to her skull, and her skin looked pasty beneath the golden tan she maintained with such pride. She stared, her pupils dilated, eyes unfocused at first, then registering recognition. For a moment she just stared. Then she dropped the blanket and held out her arms to him. “Sam. You came. I prayed you would.”
Desire punched him in the gut, banished his initial relief and made him gasp for breath. He took one step forward, then another, until he lifted her to her feet and dragged her naked, trembling body against him. For a long time he held her. Shivered with her while the wind pummeled their shelter, reminding him of the danger. Not only that which threatened them, but that which promised to consume him if he gave his raging emotions free rein. If he took her, claimed her now the way he’d been too young and green to take her at first. The way he’d quickly learned she wanted to be taken, possessed.
“T-take off your clothes, Sam.” Marcy tugged his shirt from his pants, her teeth chattering all the time.
“What?” Though his cock twitched with anticipation, he hesitated. Then he realized he was sopping wet, chilling her as well as himself as they stood there in a tiny cabin that shuddered in the wind. Cold air burst through shattered windowpanes, bringing goose bumps up on his skin as she exposed it. “Here, let me.”
Sam loosened his belt and dropped it with his rain-soaked pants and boxers to his feet. Toeing off sodden deck shoes, he stepped out of the puddle as she tossed his shirt onto it. “Come here, I’ll warm you.”
The loopy pile of the towel she rubbed over him brought circulation back. She’d often dried him off like this when they were kids at the beach, after they’d swum back from a favorite haunt. Closing his eyes, he visualized her on the sandbar they’d claimed as their own. They’d loved making sandcastles and exploring crystalline tide pools full of sand dollars and teeming with fascinating sea life. Then he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have lowered her to the bed in his parents’ condo on Tierra Verde and fucked her the way he had every chance he got since that first time under the school bleachers, after a pre-game pep rally.
