So basically, we’ve determined that talking to Chris is better than talking to Mrs. Wilson. A week or so ago, I dreaded every time he showed up in the ER. Now I’m looking for more excuses to talk to him. My, how things change.
“I just want to confirm that you have no neck or back pain, okay?” I ask.
“For Pete’s sake, girl! How many times are you going to ask me that? Are you sure you’re licensed to practice medicine?”
“I don’t want to move you if there is any chance you could have a spinal injury,” I seethe under my breath, trying to summon any semblance of patience I can conjure up from deep within.
“I believe we’ve established that it’s just my leg, hip and finger,” she spits out. “Stupid woman,” she adds under her breath.
I know she’s in pain. I was hoping there’d be something stronger than Tylenol in the First Aid kit, but alas. I think I need a painkiller as badly as Hurricane Victoria does.
Okay, so I know it’s mean to call her that. And probably unprofessional. But if you were in my shoes, I think you’d be calling her something even worse.
Jack is still standing behind me, waiting for instructions. “Okay, we’re going to splint her, then we’re going to make a stretcher. There’s rope and stuff in the supplies you brought, right?” I ask him.
He nods. “Yep. What are we going to use for the splints?”
“Is there any stiff cardboard?”
“I’m sure it’s wet if there is any.”
“Can you go check the kitchen? The caterers might have brought some stuff in boxes. Maybe try to put it under your jacket or something? And I need a sharp knife. Oh, and some towels or something soft to wrap her limbs in.”
“Got it,” he says and makes his way out of the restroom again.
“Where is the ambulance?” Mrs. Wilson groans, her eyes rolling back in her head. It’s really hard for me to tell at this point if she’s being overly dramatic, or if she is truly getting close to passing out from the pain.
I sent Sonnet’s mother back to the reception, and she hasn’t come back once to check on her mom. That sounds about right.
“We haven’t been able to get a cell signal, Mrs. Wilson, so we’re going to move you to the cabin, okay? I think you’ll be more comfortable there,” I explain.
“Well, I’ll be a hell of a lot more comfortable in a hospital bed with a competent doctor, x-rays, and medication!” she snarls at me.
I clench my jaw and bite my tongue to prevent myself from going off about how I’m doing the absolute best I can with no equipment or actual medical supplies. I distract myself by wondering how Chris is doing inside the reception hall, and whether or not he’s told anyone about the bridge yet.
I can’t freakin’ believe we’re marooned here. I feel like I’m in a bad B movie or something.
“Can’t you just drive me to the hospital? I’m sure there’s a big car or a van around here these strapping young men could lift me into!”
“We’re not going to move you off the peninsula at this time, Mrs. Wilson. Please be patient and know we’re doing everything we can to treat your medical conditions.”
“Medical conditions!” she scoffs. “Do they teach you how to be disrespectful, patronizing morons in medical school?!”
“Come on, Jack,” I mumble under my breath. Once I can get her situated in the bed in the cabin, I’m getting her daughter out here to look after her. I just can’t even with this. If we were in the ER, I would have given her a big fat dose of painkillers and knocked her ass out so she couldn’t gripe at me.
It feels like it takes an eternity, and Mrs. Wilson is bitching away the entire time, but Jack and the guys finally return with everything I asked for. The cardboard is dry enough that it will work, so I have them cut it into thick strips for her legs and then two small, thin ones for her finger. I wrap the limbs in the towels, then we bandage the splints on either side with the gauze from the first aid kit.
“Is that okay, Mrs. Wilson? Not too tight?” I ask once we’ve completed the process.
“Oh, it’s fine. I’m probably going to lose all these limbs anyway since you morons won’t get me a real doctor!”
Meric shoots me a look that seems to say, What the hell is wrong with this ungrateful c-word? The other guys offer sympathetic smiles as I look at the rest of the supplies and try to figure out how we’re going to make a stretcher.
“Can you guys get me two long branches, as straight as you can find? Around six or seven feet in length, alright?”
Jack, who is inside the restroom, and Meric, Sam and Luke, who are crowded near the door, all nod and disappear again, leaving me with our delightful patient. The scowl on her face is so deep, it looks like it was carved into marble. Not only that, but of course, it’s her middle finger that’s broken, so every time she moves her hand, it looks like she’s flipping me off. Adding insult to injury, literally.
The guys return quickly, and for that I am eternally grateful. “It’s getting worse out there,” Meric mumbles to me under his breath. He and Jack are now inside the restroom with me, each one holding a two-inch thick tree branch. Thankfully, Mrs. Wilson is light, so I think those will support her weight.
“Great,” I murmur back. I am not sure if they know yet about the bridge. “Hey, you guys tried your cell phones too, right?”
They both nod at me. I looked at mine in the cabin before I headed back over here, when I was changing clothes. For some reason, that feels like it was two hours ago now, but looking at my watch, I see it was only twenty minutes ago. It’s about 8:30 PM. And we were originally going to try to have everyone over the bridge by 9 PM. I guess there’s no way that’s happening.
A part of me considers swimming for it. Just diving into the dark, churning waters and swimming the half mile or so to Fenwick Island. But even the mere act of considering it causes an irrational fear to grasp ahold of me with long, sharp claws. No. No, I can’t do that. Even thinking about it makes my heart seize up and my blood run ice-cold in my veins. It’s not even an option. I don’t care how good of a swimmer I am. One glance down at my hip, which is safely hidden under my jeans, reminds me of my absolute greatest fear.
“So what’s next, boss?” Meric asks. “We gotta make a stretcher, right?”
“Where are your jackets?” I question, my eyes darting between the two of them.
“Oh, our sportscoats?” Jack confirms.
I nod. “Can you get them?”
They don’t even answer; instead, they take off again to the shelter. They must be fueled by pure adrenaline, because I swear they jet off to the reception hall and back in record time. They’re both soaked from the rain by the time they return.
I take the jackets and stuff the sleeves inside. The guys help me thread the poles they’ve created through the sleeve holes and down through the bottom of the jackets until the jackets make a space for Mrs. Wilson to lie between the two branches.
“Perfect!” Jack gasps. “Good thinking, Brynne!”
I hear Mrs. Wilson belt out a disapproving scoff, but I completely ignore her. I direct the guys to get on each side of our patient and gently lift her onto the makeshift stretcher. Of course she gripes and whines the entire time, but in a few seconds, they have her positioned in the middle.
“Alright, can you lift her?”
“Aye aye, Captain!” Meric says, and I can’t help but laugh. These two guys are awesome. I feel really lucky they never once questioned my authority. They simply did what was asked of them.
I open the restroom door so they can make their way out with Mrs. Wilson on the stretcher. It’s a bit harrowing as they try to turn the sharp corner, but they make it without banging her too badly. I run ahead of them toward the cabin, and Sam and Luke follow in case they are needed.
Mrs. Wilson cries out in pain when we transfer her from the stretcher to the bed, but we do our best to prop her up on pillows just how she wants. “Can we get you anything else?” I ask. “Water? A piece of cake?
A strong cocktail?”
I’d love to get a big shot of vodka down her hatch. Maybe that would ease her pain a bit, but she doesn’t seem like the drinking type.
“Just some water would be fine,” she sneers at me.
No “thank you” for examining her, splinting her limbs or getting her transported and situated in a comfortable bed. Not even a smile of appreciation. I roll my eyes as I turn to the four guys, who are still standing there around the bed. I think they might have been expecting a tiny expression of gratitude as well.
“I’m going to send your daughter in now,” I tell her. I’m not asking; I’m telling. If she doesn’t want a strong vodka-based cocktail, then I definitely do.
I slip in the back door of the main building and try to filter into the space where the reception is in full bloom without drawing any attention to myself. Bob and Connie Clark spot me right away and motion me over. I affix a confident smile to my face—there’s no reason for me to upset them at their son’s wedding. After all, we’ve got the situation contained. Kinda.
“Have they cut the cake yet?” I take a seat at their table casually, waiting for their answer. Meanwhile, using my peripheral vision, I try to count the number of guests so I know what we’re dealing with here.
“They’re getting ready to,” Connie answers. “I think Sonnet was waiting for Drew to come back inside. How are things going out there?”
“Is Sonnet’s grandmother okay?” Bob questions.
“Oh, she’s going to be just fine,” I assure them, even though I’m not 100% positive of that myself. “She’s in some pain and probably has a couple of fractures, but Brynne is taking care of her.”
“Thank goodness we have a doctor here!” Connie gasps. “Did you get ahold of an ambulance?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think anyone has cell service. Can you check your phones please?” I give them a pleading look as if to add, “as nonchalantly as possible?”
Mrs. Clark reaches into her purse, and Bob whips out that massive phone I saw him with earlier. If only bigger phones got better reception, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. They look down at their screens momentarily, then back up at me with disappointed looks on their faces.
“Should we just drive her to the hospital ourselves?” Bob suggests.
“Let’s cut the cake first, and then we’ll talk about it.” I give them another reassuring smile before I head over to where Drew and Sonnet are standing at the cake table, just waiting for the DJ to make the announcement. Ken is hovering around with his camera, ready to snap photos of the first bites of cake.
“Is my grandmother okay?” Sonnet turns to me as soon as she sees me.
I nod, definitely not wanting to ruin the moment for her. “She’ll be fine. Brynne is taking good care of her. They’re trying to splint her leg and get her moved into the cabin.”
“Why didn’t you guys call 9-1-1?” she questions.
If one more person asks me that—
“And now,” the DJ’s booming voice crackles across the microphone, “everyone’s favorite part of the evening: cake! Please turn your attention to the cake table where Mr. and Mrs. Clark will be slicing and dicing, then sharing their first bites as husband and wife!”
Sonnet moves her hand to cover Drew’s on the knife, which is positioned on the bottom layer of the gorgeous cake, which is embellished with beautiful seashells, sand dollars and starfish that look real, but I know are made from chocolate. On top are Princess Leia and Han Solo figurines, and underneath them, it says “I love you,” then “I know.”
I chuckle under my breath, wondering what Drew had to do to get the Star Wars theme incorporated into the cake. I guess these two are a good example of how well compromise can work in a relationship. They press down and smoothly slice into the layer, then slice again. Sonnet carefully lifts out a slice, then makes a couple cuts with a fork.
“You ready for this?” she asks her husband, who is facing her with the silliest grin spreading his cheeks. He looks well aware that bite of cake is about to be smeared all over his face.
“As ready as I’m ever going to be!” he calls back, undeterred.
Instead of taking turns, they both reach down to scoop up a bit of cake, and in the blink of an eye, they hurl it toward the other’s face, smashing it into their partner’s mouth with all the precision and grace of monkeys hurling feces at the zoo. Oh, now there’s a fun image for one of my books! Kids think poop is hilarious!
Sonnet sputters with laughter, sending cake crumbs flying through the air and into Drew’s face. He licks his mouth clean, then sweeps his bride into his arms, giving her a smushy, mushy cake-covered smooch as she squeals in protest. Meanwhile, Ken is flashing away with the camera, capturing the moment for all posterity. I then notice Winston standing at the front of the building, beckoning his husband, which sends Ken running off to see what he wants.
As soon as the bride and groom get themselves cleaned up, I lean in toward them to announce that I need to talk to them outside for just a moment. Sonnet shoots me a concerned look, just as I expected, but Drew is still smiling over the cake incident. I’m not that worried about Drew’s reaction. He’s always been a roll-with-the-punches kind of guy. But Sonnet—well, Sonnet is a whole different story. I think Drew’s challenge is going to be keeping his new bride calm after I share my news about the bridge and lack of cell service.
“Can we go out into the hallway? Or the kitchen?” I suggest. Kitchen might be better, though I don’t want the caterers in there.
They both nod and follow me through the double doors to the kitchen. Sure enough, the caterers are putting leftover food into containers and starting to stack them on carts so they can wheel them out to their van, which is parked just outside the back door. I suddenly remember that Sonnet arranged to donate the leftover food to a food pantry. Guess they’re not going to be able to deliver it—not tonight, anyway.
“You guys did a great job,” I praise them, still hoping they’re a father/daughter team. She looks like she might be a third of his age, now that I examine them closeup. “Do you mind giving us a few minutes alone? We’re discussing their departure plans.”
The father looks like he is about to argue with me, but thinks better of it, then he ushers the young woman out the back door. I hear them fire up their van just moments later. Not that they’re going to get very far…
“What is it?” Sonnet questions, her dark eyes wide and unable to conceal her nerves.
“Well, we have a bit of an issue,” I begin, trying to deliver the bad news as gently as possible.
“What do you mean, an issue?”
Just then, I hear someone shouting in the reception hall, which is immediately followed by a huge commotion. I push open the doors just in time to see Ken lunging for the microphone at the DJ’s table. Barely able to right himself before he goes crashing into the equipment, he grasps ahold of the microphone, clutching the edge of the table as a flurry of words spills out of his lips and then out through the PA system: “I repeat, the bridge to the peninsula is completely flooded! We’re all stranded here!”
Sixteen
The room is in utter chaos by the time I arrive from the cabin fresh from trying to persuade Hurricane Victoria to take a nap. I was planning on finding Olivia, Sonnet’s mother, and sending her in there to deal with her mother, but everyone’s gripped in the clutches of sheer, unadulterated panic. My blood begins to boil at the fact that I left Chris in charge of one thing, and he apparently couldn’t handle it. I told him to keep everyone calm. This is exactly the opposite of calm!
My head whips to the right when my peripheral vision picks up the kitchen doors swinging open to reveal a very shocked and exasperated Chris. Sonnet and Drew are right on his heels, both with confusion etched all over their faces, and Drew has a death grip on Sonnet’s hand. It’s not a good sign when the bride and groom look like that. Not a good sign at all.
Suddenly, Chris leaps over chairs upturned by panic
ked wedding guests like a track star to dive for the microphone, which Ken is still holding on to. The poor wedding planner looks like he’s in way over his head.
When Chris violently yanks the microphone out of Ken’s hand, there’s so much ear-splitting feedback that everyone immediately halts their panic and freezes in place. Chris shoots Ken a nasty look, making the wedding coordinator shrink back and stalk off to cower in the corner next to Winston.
What the hell just happened in here? I’m trying to piece it all together, but it’s like I’m watching a silent movie play out with absolutely zero context. I move a few paces closer to Chris so I’m in position to yank the microphone away from him as abruptly as he jerked it out of Ken’s grasp if need be.
“Attention everyone,” Chris announces after briefly surveying the room. I notice the DJ leaning against the wall with a stoic expression on his face, as if scenes like this at a wedding are so commonplace in his line of work, he can’t bother to get excited about it.
“First of all, Ken is correct that the bridge is flooded at the moment, and the tide is still coming in.”
Another panicked buzz begins to build and rise toward the exposed rafters, prompting Chris to lift his fingers to his lips and emit a high-pitched whistle that sounds about a hundred times louder thanks to the amplification of the PA system. “First, I need everyone to take a seat at a table. Then, I need every person in this room to take a big, deep, cleansing breath,” he directs. “Alright? I’ll wait. There’s no need to panic right now. I need to see calm faces. Everyone find a seat.”
He holds the microphone down at his side while everyone complies with his instructions. Chairs are righted; tables are straightened, and everyone’s bottom finds a surface on which to perch. I glance around the room at all the wedding guests as well as the rest of the bridal party, slowly filtering in from the two entrances, one on each side of the large room. Everyone’s eyes are glued to Chris, who doesn’t display one bit of nervousness or worry. He’s as cool as a cucumber, just waiting for everyone to settle in.
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