“You fed it oatmeal,” Old Sally says. “I had to teach you that a tree’s food was the sun, rain, and nutrients in the ground.”
“You were teaching me even then,” Violet says.
“Yes, I was.” Old Sally thinks again of how the tree was already ancient when Sally was a girl. A storm this size will topple many trees. The pines may stay rooted—most of the damage will be to the branches and upper parts of the trees. But the wind will do different injury to the oaks. The live oaks are top heavy, with roots that don’t go that deep in the sandy soil. The most vulnerable ones will be pushed right over, roots and all.
Violet looks at her watch. “We don’t have much time left before the full brunt of the storm is here. What are you suggesting?”
“You need to get the others here as quickly as possible,” Old Sally says. “We must keep everyone safe. My grandmother has never been wrong about anything like this.”
Violet takes a deep breath, as though her belief in Old Sally is faltering.
“I wouldn’t want to walk back in this storm, either,” Old Sally says, “and I wouldn’t even suggest it if lives weren’t at risk.”
Violet nods.
A few days ago, Old Sally’s tea leaves predicted a great disorder would occur before order returns. She didn’t realize the full extent of the danger until now. Sometimes in the dark of night, things become clear as day. Her people have survived many storms on this island, but the coming storm is more extensive than any of her ancestors have ever seen before. One that will be documented in history books. One that will change everything.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Rose
Rose excuses herself to go out to the cottage to check on things, but the real reason is to get away from her newfound niece. Unfortunately, Heather doesn’t take the hint and follows Rose to the cottage. Now Rose must look busy and like she has a reason for being here.
A hurricane is hard enough without a stranger hanging around. A stranger with hidden motives. Rose has never figured out Edward’s hidden motives for burning down the Temple mansion with Rose in it, and she can’t help but wonder if that same family trait has passed to Heather. A character trait that destroys instead of preserves. A trait that could be true regarding Rose’s mother, as well.
“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Heather has cornered Rose again, something she seems quite good at.
“I guess not,” Rose says, a thin veil hiding her irritation.
“What kind of man was my father?” Heather asks.
Oh, good God, Rose thinks. Now?
The storm is due to hit in two hours. Now is not the time to give Heather a character analysis of her brother, and yet the question causes her to pause. Hasn’t she asked this before? Should she offer a feel-good version of Edward, so Heather can walk away thinking he has contributed something endearing to her gene pool? However, there is also something to be said for knowing the truth.
“If he hadn’t been my brother, I probably wouldn’t have spent any time around him at all,” Rose says.
This admission bolsters her. Yet, the candle in their small cottage kitchen illuminates Heather’s disappointment.
“He was older than me by a few years,” Rose continues, feeling a bit stormy herself. “I irritated him simply by being alive, and sometimes he tormented me, too.”
There, Rose thinks, let her chew on that for a while. Maybe it will stop any further questions.
“When my mom was dying, she told me he was a real jerk,” Heather says. “She said she didn’t like him that much.”
And the truth shall set you free, Rose thinks.
For years she tried to understand why her brother was the way he was, attributing all sorts of childhood wounds and Temple family karma. But the truth is whether you were family, friend, or stranger, Edward was an alpha dog who played dominance games. You never knew when he might try to pee on you, hump your leg, or toss you to the ground.
“But I thought she told you that your father was a sperm donor,” Rose says.
“Yes, she did,” Heather says. “Initially. Then when she was dying she told me the truth.”
Rose pauses. Didn’t Heather tell her that she found out while looking at her mother’s documents?
“We were very close,” Heather adds. “Like friends instead of mother and daughter.”
Rose can’t imagine being her mother’s friend. As far as she knows, her mother didn’t have friends. She had connections to assert her influence. People who witnessed her wealth and status. Not close friends like Rose is with Violet.
Violet. How could she forget her best friend is out in this storm? She left a while ago to look for Old Sally. Has she even come back? Heather has distracted Rose from what is essential. Two of Rose’s chosen family members are in danger: Violet and Old Sally. Two people who helped Rose survive her mother’s dominance and are directly responsible for the person she is today.
Rose leads the way back from the cottage to the big house, her light jacket doing little to protect her from the wind and blowing sand. Heather is even less prepared for the elements and uses Rose’s back as a buffer. Once inside, the ongoing weather report now has the forecasters calling the storm a potential hundred-year-event. A destructive storm, like her mother could be, who if crossed had no problem destroying lives and making you wish you had never met her.
Seconds later, Violet bursts through the back door, her hair sculpted in the direction of the blowing wind. She leans over to catch her breath. The others come from all corners of the house to greet her.
“We need to go to the lighthouse,” Violet says, still leaning over. “Old Sally says we’re in danger here. The lighthouse is where we’ll be safe.”
“We should go, right?” Rose says, looking at Max.
“I’m not going to some dirty lighthouse,” Heather says, standing straighter.
Everyone turns to look at her, as though suddenly noticing the stranger in the room.
“Well, I’m not,” she says. “That old lady probably has dementia.”
“I trust Old Sally with my life,” Rose says to her. If Rose were one of their dogs, her hackles might raise. “If she says we should go to the lighthouse, then we should go.”
Violet agrees.
Max and Jack debate logistics. One truck. Twelve people and various animals. Can it be done? They challenge each other to think creatively.
Meanwhile, Rose goes to check on Katie and Angela, who have no idea what is happening. Their room is upstairs, the other side of the house from Queenie’s. Rose knocks on the door and finds Katie lying on her left side, a recommendation from her doctor a month ago when her blood pressure was creeping up. Angela coaches her to breathe deeply; the smell of unearthed live oak fills the hallway like meditation incense.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Rose says, “but we need to go to the lighthouse, the house isn’t safe.”
Katie sits up and holds her stomach. Where Rose expected panic, there is calm.
“The lighthouse?” Angela asks.
“Old Sally says to. We need to keep you and the baby safe.”
“Then we should go,” Katie says.
Angela looks at Katie, then at Rose, as if the calmness is a surprise to her, too. Rose and Angela help Katie stand and cover her shoulders with the light blanket on the bed. One thought reassures Rose. If this baby comes during a once-in-a-century hurricane, then they are better off with Old Sally than without her. As always.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Violet
The wind fights against Violet as she puts the food and water in the back of Max’s truck, the only vehicle spared by the capsizing of the giant live oak. In the car are Katie and Angela, along with Lucy, Ethel, and Harpo. A cat carrier with Angela’s two cats inside—Zelda and Gertrude—sits at Katie’s feet, and Angela holds a terrarium containing Tia and Leisha’s turtle, Jake. Lives are seldom set up with an evacuation in mind. They have animals. Too many possessions. But at least they have a destinat
ion that should keep them safe.
Queenie starts the truck, revving the engine, and then waves goodbye to Violet like she is off for part two of her honeymoon, instead of evacuating from a hurricane for the second time. Provided it is still passable, she will take the old gravel road to the back entrance of the lighthouse. The rest of them will walk through the dunes and up the beach to the same destination.
Standing on the back patio, where the wind is less intense, Jack and Max secure a rope around everyone’s waists and attach them, allowing six feet between each person. Violet wonders if this is necessary, but when they step away from the shelter of the house and into the dunes, everyone immediately stumbles backward. For several seconds they struggle as a group to stand upright again.
Violet is willing to be tethered if it will get them all there safely. Max leads. By way of the beach, it is a simple ten-minute walk. At least any other day it is. By road, it is half that, but the storm is fast approaching, and they don’t have time to make multiple trips. It is still over an hour or so before the storm is due to hit, but someone needs to tell the wind that. It is already intense.
Like passenger cars attached to a train, they follow the person in front of them. Rose follows Max, followed by Heather and then Jack. Violet is next. Behind her is Tia, then Leisha, and then Spud as the caboose. Despite Heather’s insistence, Rose wouldn’t let her stay at the house alone, which Violet thinks is a good idea, and not only for safety reasons.
They shuffle toward the lighthouse, their human locomotion severely limited in comparison to the storm. Hurricane Iris pushes and pulls against them. Violet’s cheeks stretch like they’ve become elastic. She lowers her head to get the short, shallow breaths the wind will allow.
Meanwhile, sheets of rain begin to fall, hitting them from every direction like thousands of tiny bee stings hitting their exposed skin. The steady roar of the wind makes Violet’s ears ache. Periodically she looks back at Tia and Leisha, beaming courage in their direction. The storm of 2002 will be something they tell their children and grandchildren about.
Provided we survive, Violet thinks, and then tells herself to not even hold that result as a possibility. Her doubts create an opening to question the wisdom of their decision to walk up the beach. The lighthouse now feels like an impossible distance to cover with the intense rain and wind. But they are all tied together. If anyone falters, the rest of the group will pull them forward. Whatever happens, they will have to do it together.
Perhaps that occurs with whoever we attach ourselves to in life, she thinks. Family and friends.
The waves crash closer. How many times has she walked up this beach and seen only its beauty? Now she witnesses the sea’s dark side. Its ominous presence feels as dangerous as the wind. Old Sally is right about the lighthouse. It is built for storms like this. Solid concrete. Their house is only wood. Wood may be too vulnerable to withstand the storm surge promised to come.
They follow the curve of the land and Violet spots light up ahead. Someone must have figured out how to turn on the beacon. How is that possible? It hasn’t been turned on in twenty years. A surge of hope fills her. Violet jerks on the rope to get everyone’s attention and points ahead to the light. Their rope line stops. Then they rock the line in celebration like a spectator wave in a football stadium. Every few seconds the beacon rotates in their direction. A rush of adrenaline pushes away Violet’s tiredness. Her great-grandfather helped to build this lighthouse. In a way, it is like her ancestor helped construct this shelter for them years ahead of time, all the while knowing that they might need it someday.
The rain comes again, pinging against her raincoat. They turn inland toward the light. As before, walking is difficult in the soft sand of the dunes until they reach the concrete steps that lead up to the lighthouse. They’re going to make it. She’s sure of it now. Only a few more yards to get to the lighthouse. With each step, the wind vibrates the ropes ahead of and behind her.
In the next instant, Violet remembers the missing railing where an hour or so before she almost fell into the dunes. If one person goes down, the others will, too, including her. She stops and yells to warn the others. The wind silences her. Violet pulls hard on the rope and Heather stumbles toward her. Violet helps her up, and everyone finally stops and looks around to see what has stopped their forward motion.
“Danger up ahead!” Violet yells to Heather, pointing to the handrail.
The look in Heather’s eyes reminds Violet of how young she is. Only a little older than Tia and Leisha. The message gets passed up the line. They move more slowly now, and each person points out the danger as they pass the missing railing. She just hopes everyone can keep their balance. Now is not the time for clumsiness. Meanwhile, the beacon radiates light 360 degrees above their heads. A literal beacon of hope.
Finally, at the top of the cement stairs, the human chain stops again. Bodies huddle together at the entrance while Max pounds on the door. Slowly, the heavy metal door opens. They shuffle their way inside and turn as one body to push the door closed and latch it. Queenie, Old Sally, Katie, Angela, and all the animals await them.
Wild hair, bloodshot eyes, and red chapped skin tell the story of their escape. They are not only windblown but beaten up. Violet’s ears ring, and she can barely hear. Tia begins to cry, and Violet comforts her, while Jack goes to Leisha. Everyone talks louder than usual. Perhaps their ears are ringing, too. Lucy and Ethel greet them, licking faces, while Angela’s cats let out cautious meows.
It takes several minutes for Violet’s hearing to return to normal. “Most definitely a bad hair day, Mom,” Leisha says.
Both daughters laugh, and Leisha helps Violet unzip her rain jacket. The look they exchange has a new dimension. Is that appreciation she sees in her daughter’s eyes? A new level of maturity?
The storm continues to rage outside, but it is now a muffled rage. Muffled through layers of concrete that make up the lighthouse. The constant fight with the wind to stay upright has made Violet numb. When the numbness begins to wear off her skin tingles to the point of pain.
The metal door rattles from the wind but holds secure. The lighthouse has the faint smell of wet dogs and an old musty attic. Yet, it is relatively dry considering how close it sits to the sea. The lighthouse, wide at the bottom and narrow at the top, has a set of metal stairs in the middle that spiral upward to a small section with just enough space to walk around the beacon. Small windows dot the walls all the way up to the top, where that smallness expands to a panoramic view of land and sea. The beacon bathes them in a dull, golden glow. Below the beacon, an old generator emits a continuous, almost comforting hum.
Violet thinks about what a shame it is that the lighthouse has been abandoned, as many have been over time. Given advances in sonar instruments on ships and on land, people are kept safe by other means. Now lighthouses have become symbols more than anything. Reminders of how things used to be, and a belief that something manmade might have the power to dispel darkness and bring hope and safety.
Jack and Max untie the ropes between them, and they begin to settle. Once free, Violet walks over to Old Sally, who embraces her.
“You did it,” Old Sally says. “Thank you for bringing everyone here.”
“You’re welcome,” Violet says. “Who turned on the beacon?”
“Angela,” Katie says, sitting nearby on the cot, Harpo in her arms.
Violet turns and smiles at Angela, as word passes through the small space. The others thank her, too, and Angela takes a quick bow before returning to Katie’s side.
Violet sits and rests her back against a cool wall. Suitcases are piled under the spiral metal stairs to give them room to walk around a little. If everyone in the lighthouse stood shoulder to shoulder they would reach the entire way across, with maybe a little room to spare.
Violet turns to see Rose watching her.
You okay? Rose’s expression asks.
Violet nods, asking her the same.
Rose n
ods, too.
Violet thinks of the unspoken conversations she used to have with Queenie at the dinner table when Miss Temple ate. Now Violet has unspoken mysterious discussions with Old Sally, too. So much communication happens when she doesn’t even realize it. Body language. Facial expressions. She looks at Rose again. She sometimes forgets that they are not only best friends but also half sisters, given what Miss Temple’s will revealed about Violet being Mister Oscar’s child.
They exchange a secret Sea Gypsy look. When they were girls, they played in this abandoned lighthouse. A secret hideaway. A prominent no trespassing sign was posted next to the door, so they were not supposed to be here. By accident, they discovered where the old lighthouse keeper had hidden a spare key in a dried-out old paint bucket under a rusted-out wheelbarrow on the north side.
As girls, when they let themselves inside, Violet and Rose would climb the steep metal stairs to the beacon. Looking out over the ocean, they made up stories and pretended ships at sea relied on them to find their way. Using a conch shell as a radio, they sent messages warning the ships of gales and storms, offering anyone in trouble safe harbor. Never imagining, of course, that someday the lighthouse might be a safe harbor for them, too.
They exchange a smile, as though remembering the same things, before Rose turns back to check on Katie.
“How are you holding up?” Jack asks Violet, taking her hand while the girls doze.
She shrugs. Truth is, she won’t be entirely okay until this storm is over.
Jack leaves to help Max investigate their current haven.
While she rests, Violet begins to tremble from their harrowing walk to the lighthouse. It reminds her of the tiny birds that sometimes hit the front picture window. Stunned at first, they then begin to shake and let the trauma pass. It always takes longer than Violet thinks it will before they fly away again.
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