by T. I. Lowe
“You said you put one shell with each piece?”
“Ye-e-s,” she answered slowly.
He lifted the bag. “Then why’d the bench get an entire sack full of shells?”
Opal shrugged. “I sensed the new owner was in need of a lot of prayers.”
Lincoln snorted and crossed his arms but didn’t let go of the bag of shells. “Well, I had plenty of folks praying for me while I was overseas.” He shifted his weight to his right leg. “Fat lot of good it did me.” He untwined his arms and shoved the bag into her hand, leaving her no choice but to take it. “I don’t need these.”
“August said you were hit during a rocket attack.” Opal’s statement had his stature going rigid, but she was ready to stand her ground.
“He ain’t got any business telling my business.” His statement came out just shy of a snarl.
Opal dismissed his scold and plowed on. “What’s the likelihood of someone surviving an attack like that?”
“Slim to none,” he answered, anger lacing the three words.
She pointed to his left pant leg, knowing that was the one he favored when walking. “Is there a prosthetic underneath your britches?”
“No!” Lincoln’s face turned an impressive shade of red.
Opal let out a low whistle. “What are the odds of them not having to amputate after that kind of damage?”
Lincoln’s shoulders deflated, obviously losing steam after being put in his place. “I was told it would be removed during surgery but woke up with it still there.”
“Humph.” Opal pointed to the door behind him. “You stormed in here earlier and I’m sure you’ll exit in the same fashion.” She tossed the bag of shells in the air and caught it with ease. “I suppose you’re right on not needing these. I’d say plenty of prayers have already been answered on your behalf. You may go ahead and stomp back out now, Mr. Cole.” She turned and walked to her office without so much as one glimpse back.
Several punctuated moments passed, making her curious as to why he hadn’t left yet. When the bell finally jingled announcing his departure, Opal let out an exasperated sigh. She moved over to her desk and the bubbles dancing along the computer screen caught her attention, reminding her she was still without the much-needed help. She quickly sent the ad before focusing on an old rocking chair begging to be transformed into a plant stand.
“Maybe this will give me the calm I need after that storm,” she muttered, picking up a piece of fine-grit sandpaper and getting to work.
She tried envisioning the color that would replace the dingy white, but all she could see was the whirling gold in those livid brown eyes. Shaking her head, she tried again while smoothing a rough patch on the armrest, but the bronzed red of his cheeks took over her thoughts. Boy, does he have himself some anger issues.
“Red with gold accents,” she declared, finally seeing what the chair would be dressed in once it became a planter. Maybe the heated exchange with that ornery soldier was just what she needed for new inspiration. The hostile collection, she mused with a smirk slipping across her lips.
3
Storms had always held an allure for Lincoln in his youth. He used to revel in them barreling in and taking charge of the atmosphere around him, reminding him who was in charge, and that it certainly wasn’t him. But those days were long past. Now he dreaded the ache deep in his leg that showed up before a storm and hated knowing he had no power to do anything to stop it. His eyes flicked to the graying skies as he lowered the hammer.
“Storm’s a-coming,” he mumbled to himself, inflecting his tone to mimic his grandfather’s deep Southern drawl. It was what the old man always said when the skies over Beaufort dulled the way the one before Lincoln was doing at the moment. He looked over the storm shutters once more to make sure they covered the cottage windows properly before collecting the other tools and returning them to the small shed behind the house.
He’d only been in Sunset Cove for two weeks and was already thinking the harebrained idea of leaving his hometown was a bit silly. Perhaps after the storm passed, he’d pack up and head on home. He just needed some space to lick his wounds, but no space had been found so far.
On a long sigh, he knew that wasn’t an option just yet. Those last several months he spent in Beaufort flashed before his eyes, emphasizing the fact that he was where he needed to be. They had been the darkest months of his life, and he wasn’t even thinking about the injuries or the surgeries or the physical therapy. Those months were filled with misery as he battled some kind of funk he couldn’t shake, a battle he came close to losing. Most of those days, he’d lain in bed wondering if there was even a point in ever getting back up. His mother pushing him to make a change was among the reasons for his move. Then the true reason for the abrupt move weighed down on him and had his stomach flinching with embarrassment. Lincoln doubted if he’d ever be ready to go face the mess he had left behind.
He looked out over the abandoned shore and had a nagging feeling that he was about to walk into another type of life storm altogether.
As he limped inside, the shrill tone of his cell phone sounded from where it sat on the weathered kitchen counter. He was renting the place from a friend of the family, and on first glance he knew the aging beach cottage was a good fit.
He grabbed the phone and swiped a finger across the screen before placing it to his ear. “What’s up?”
“You battening down the hatches?” Carter asked, his voice a bit muffled.
“Yeah. Just finished putting up the hurricane shutters. I figured you’d be on a surfboard.” He leaned over the counter and peered out the small window above the sink, noticing the waves were growing more aggressive by the minute. It used to be their favorite time to be out there on a board in the midst of the chaos.
“No time for that today. I’m finishing up over here at the music studio. You wanna hang out at the firehouse with me and my crowd?” Carter asked on a grunt, sounding hard at it.
“You want me to head over and give you a hand?” Lincoln straightened from the counter, ready to head out.
“Nah. I’m almost done. Pack yourself a bag and head on inland before they shut down the waterway bridge.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Meet you there in about an hour if the traffic isn’t too thick.”
Lincoln bit back a groan. Traffic was going to be horrendous. “During a tropical storm warning that’s close to hurricane strength? Right.” Both men chuckled.
“I’ll text you directions in a minute. You know how nasty these late-season storms can be, so no dillydallying.”
Lincoln snorted, thinking his buddy sounded a little too fatherly. “Yes, sir,” he taunted and said a quick goodbye.
Before he could place the phone back down, a voice mail notification caught his attention. The name Jefferson Cole was attached to it, making his heart plummet. Warily, he hit Play and brought the phone back to his ear, prepared for that booming voice to shout out disappointments and harsh reprimands at him. Instead, nothing but a few haughty breaths came from his father’s side of the phone. It was a sound of defeat. One that Lincoln recognized all too well. From what his mother’s last message informed him, his father wouldn’t really be able to say much anyway. In spite of that, the call was just as heavy as if it had been filled with words.
Knowing Beaufort was well out of the storm’s projected cone, Lincoln brushed off the voice mail and focused on what needed to be done before the storm made landfall. There was nothing he could do about the storm he had caused back home, anyway.
Just as he’d expected, it took Lincoln close to two hours to make it inland to the firehouse that was being renovated to become August’s home and studio if he ever decided to put down some roots. The building was something to look at, with its redbrick exterior and large bay doors, so he spent a chunk of time exploring the outer perimeter of it as he secured chairs and other items left in the yard.
Carter’s gray truck eased up beside Lincoln’s Je
ep just as a band of rain moved in. Lincoln watched it begin at the far side of the field across the road until it met up with them in the front yard.
“I’d call that perfect timing,” Carter yelled as they did a mad dash inside with his two younger nephews on his heels.
The guys took a good part of the next hour to gather sleeping bags, flashlights, and other needed supplies. Each one of them focused on the task at hand until the only thing left to do was to unload the mountain of grocery bags.
Looking around the expansive bottom floor, Lincoln couldn’t help but be impressed. August had told him about the renovations, but seeing it in person was an entirely different experience. It remained looking like a firehouse, complete with ladders hung on the wall, a brass pole beside a line of chairs with helmets hanging on hooks behind them. Only thing missing were the fire trucks.
“This is one slamming man cave.” Lincoln moved his gaze away from the vintage fire truck photos dressing one of the brick walls and looked over at the kitchenette along the back, where Carter was unloading bags filled with enough junk food to fatten a small army. “You sure you don’t want us to move in here with August and you forget about that nonsense of getting married?”
Carter chuckled. “Never been surer of anything in all my life. The wedding can’t get here fast enough.”
Lincoln sidled up beside him and began adding his loot to the bounty of junk. He tossed a few bags of hot-and-spicy pork rinds and a pack of teriyaki-flavored beef jerky beside a package of Oreos. It was common knowledge that junk food was always a part of the emergency preparedness kits for hurricanes and tropical storms around these parts.
He patiently waited for Carter to peel back the plastic on a plate of homemade blondies before swiping one and taking a bite. “Hmm . . .” It was brown sugar and pecan heaven in a gooey square.
Carter smirked. “My wife made those.” He took his own bite, looking more than a little smug.
“You ain’t married yet,” Lincoln mumbled while chewing the sticky goodness. No matter how tasty the treat was, it didn’t move one bone in his body to want to take a trip down any aisle. Since his injury, Lincoln didn’t even like his own company and wouldn’t subject a significant other to his bitterness, especially on those dark days when the pain became unbearable. He needed his space and had no intentions of changing that up.
“I am in my heart.” Carter placed a hand against his chest and batted his eyelashes, tease beaming from his dark-blue eyes.
Lincoln couldn’t hold back the roar of laughter. His friend’s company was good medicine, and Lincoln was in need of a healthy dose of it. Life had been way too heavy in the last few years for his liking. Just thinking about it made swallowing the blondie a little difficult. After he managed to get it down, he asked, “Where is Dominica, anyway?”
“She had a few doctor’s appointments back in Maryland and was already planning to visit her parents while she was there before this storm even began brewing. She left yesterday.”
“Oh.” He didn’t find the visit to Maryland odd since that was her home state, but the appointments—and Carter not being there—were. “What’s going on and why ain’t you with her?”
Carter pulled his hat off and tugged a hand through his hair before putting it back on. “I wanted to go, but I promised Derek I’d help out with the boys during the storm. Dominica insisted I’d be better use to my brother than sitting in a waiting room. Her mom is with her and they plan on a day of pampering afterward that I think will do Dominica some good. She needs a lot of rest.” Carter sounded like he was trying to convince himself that he’d made the right decision to stay back.
“Is she okay?”
“Nothing that strong-willed woman can’t handle. We’re still going through tests to figure it out, but the doctors at Johns Hopkins think she has an autoimmune disease.”
Lincoln’s chest tightened. “Anything I can do?”
Carter clamped him on the shoulder and cleared his throat. “Just prayer for now would be greatly appreciated.”
Lincoln’s gut churned. Of course his friend would ask him for something he couldn’t handle at the moment. Before he could figure out how to voice that without spilling some of the heavy load he was struggling to carry, a squeal saved him.
“Linc, look at me!” Carter’s youngest nephew, Zachary, shouted as he slid down the fireman’s pole.
Tucker stood at the bottom and easily caught him but let out a grunt when the rambunctious boy whacked him in the face while trying to squirm out of his arms. “Chill, kid,” the teenager reprimanded.
“You’re mighty brave for just a tiny kid,” Lincoln commented, knowing it would rile the boy up.
“I ain’t a tiny kid. I’m five years old.” Zachary hurried over and swiped a blondie and a handful of M&M’S.
“Whoa now. Your momma will get ahold of us if you end up with a bellyache before she gets here.” Carter pulled Zachary back by the hem of his shirt. “That’s enough snacking until supper.”
Zachary wiggled free and darted around him to swipe a few more pieces of candy before dodging out of the way. Another effect of storms was turning kids into little balls of spastic energy.
Shaking his head, Lincoln could tell it was going to be one lively night. He tore open a bag of pork rinds, needing something savory to offset the sweet. “So what’s for supper?”
Carter peered at him from underneath the brim of his tattered hat. “You’re just as bad as Tucker.”
“Hey,” Tucker garbled out as he grabbed his third blondie while Carter slid the plate out of reach and secured the plastic wrap back over the goodies.
Lincoln knew that wasn’t going to keep anyone out of them. “Serious though, supper?” He popped another pork rind into his mouth, enjoying the crunchy spice.
Carter pointed to a rectangular cooler by the side door. “Derek gave me some fish that need frying. He was worried it would go bad before they could use it at the restaurant. I figured we’d set up the propane fryer under the shed out back and get to it in a few, before the rain squalls get heavier.”
Lincoln dusted his hands together to get rid of the crumbs. “Sounds like a plan. On the way over here the radio said the weather advisory bumped Lacy up to a category 1 hurricane and is predicted to reach cat 2 by nightfall.” He knew a cat 1 was still considered a mild storm, with winds not even reaching one hundred miles an hour, but the warm waters near the coast could send one up to a category 4 if the recipe was just right.
“Yeah. I heard that too.” Carter grabbed a roll of paper towels and tucked it under his arm so he could pull a pair of tongs from a drawer. “Derek and Nan planned on riding the storm out at their restaurant, but I finally talked them into staying here with us. They should be here soon. They’re gonna stay in the room upstairs. You’re welcome to the couch up there.”
“Nah. I already told Zachary earlier that I’d camp out with y’all down here.” Lincoln motioned toward the cement floor. “Pretty neat floor.” Various earth tones swirled in intricate patterns, making it art instead of simply staining.
“Yeah. August popped in for a weekend and did it himself.” Carter rummaged around in the cabinet, pulling out a container of seafood breading and handing it over to Lincoln. “You sure your leg can manage the floor?”
“I’m used to roughing it.” His leg pulsed in pain, emphasizing the fib he’d just spoken, but he pushed the discomfort off the best he could and followed Carter outside.
And roughing it they did, later that night, with near-about bellyaches. Each guy had eaten his weight in fish and then proceeded to attack the junk food with too much gusto. With rain pounding against the roof and wind howling through it, they were too wound up to properly settle down. All of them, that was, except for Tucker. The teenage boy was nestled inside his sleeping bag snoring in a tone reminiscent of an old hog rooting in mud.
“The kid needs one of those Breathe Right strips,” Carter muttered into the darkness.
The power had
gone out earlier, as predicted, but Lincoln could still vaguely see and hear the entire goings-on in the firehouse. Every so often, the crack of a tree branch or a harsh gust of wind from outside would catch his attention. It was one of those instincts he was born with that had come in handy as a soldier. Yet lying there, he knew it was useless to him now.
Not much later, Lincoln heard someone get up.
“Carter, I gotta peepee,” Zachary whispered loudly.
“Okay, dude. Go ahead,” Carter mumbled back.
“I need you to go with me,” Zachary said, his voice strained.
Lincoln listened as Carter unzipped his sleeping bag with no protest. He knew his old man would have told him to suck it up and go on by himself. He liked Carter’s way of handling things better. It didn’t indicate Zachary was weak, in his opinion, though he knew his old man’s view would have differed. It showed Carter was there when the little guy needed him, no matter the situation. There was no doubting Carter would make a stand-up dad someday.
Thinking about his father had Lincoln’s throat thickening until it was difficult to swallow. When he ran away from Beaufort, he left their relationship in shreds of anger and regret. He was a fixer by nature, but he was pretty sure he’d ruined things past the point of repair.
He heard two sets of feet shuffle back in and then something nudged Lincoln’s arm.
“Linc,” Carter whispered.
Lincoln rolled over in the direction of Carter’s voice. “Yeah?”
“Tucker’s snoring awfully loud.”
“It’s okay. Nothing close to how bad it used to sound in my barracks.”
“Yeah, I’m not talking about that. Tucker snoring that loud means he’s sleeping deep enough we can have some fun without waking him.”
Lincoln was always up for late-night mischief. He unzipped his sleeping bag and sat up. “Whatcha got in mind?”
Morning showed up with all kinds of aches and pains, but Lincoln held in the grunts as best he could while getting up from the floor. The throb began just below his knee and took off in a sprint all the way up to his jaw as soon as he put some weight on his left leg. He grasped the nearby table and took several staggered breaths through his nose until his jaw unlocked. Most days began that way for him anymore. First order of business was to swallow a handful of ibuprofen, so he rummaged around in his duffel bag until finding the bottle.