Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  Chapter Six

  Paradise Isle Geneva VanSant’s Beach House

  The ringing phone snapped Geneva VanSant out of the horrible dream about her friend and neighbor Roxanne Trawler. In the dream, Roxanne was dancing barefoot in her house as the monster hid in the closet. Roxanne danced into the closet and the monster attacked her. Geneva rubbed her aching head, hoping the dream portended nothing. Probably my punishment for taking a sleeping pill after hubby Loughton left in the wee hours to catch his plane.

  Geneva stood, stretched and took a deep breath to clear her head. The wind sounded like a chorus of whistling ghosts.

  She noticed the French doors were standing wide open. Probably from the wind or my own carelessness for not securing the doors properly. She walked over and closed the doors as the answering machine announced her mother’s voice, a mixture of Mr. Rogers and Martha Stewart with a southern accent. “Geneva? If you’re there, pick up.”

  Geneva grabbed the phone. “Hi.”

  “Were you asleep?”

  “Was, until you called.”

  “Why aren’t you answering your cell? I’ve called you a zillion times.”

  “I must have turned my phone off.” Geneva said, withdrawing the Nokia from a side pocket of her purse. She turned it on and saw three missed calls: Three from her mother; another from Lilah Sanderford, a fellow journalist; and a “no number.”

  Geneva’s mother said, “You need to keep an eye on that hurricane. It’s moving straight toward Dolphin.”

  “There’s been no evacuation, but I’ll probably be leaving soon.”

  “Probably? Don’t dawdle, Geneva, that thing’s supposed to make landfall tomorrow.”

  “Please, I’m not a child.”

  “You sound grumpy.”

  “No, Snow White, I’m Sleepy. Had a bad dream that made me Grumpy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Geneva’s attempt at humor was lost on her mother. “I said I had a bad dream that made me grumpy.”

  “Another one? Not about me, I hope.”

  Geneva scrambled in her purse for her head meds. She swallowed two pills with a sip of bottled water. “No, not about you, Mama.” “You’ve been having those awful dreams since you were in the first grade and predicted Elvis’ death.”

  Geneva glanced at herself in the mirrored wall above the couch and frowned at what she saw. Her green eyes looked tired. Her black hair fell in a tangled mess below her shoulders.

  “Wish I could talk, Mama, but I need to get dressed if I’m going to get out of here. Sorry I snapped at you. And hey, thanks for calling and giving me the warning about the hurricane.”

  “I know you don’t have cable there.”

  Through the phone, Geneva heard her mother’s television. A female broadcaster said, “Warnings in effect for Northwest Florida’s Panhandle...”

  “Before you go, Sweetie, good news. Barry and Carol are expecting.”

  “A baby?”

  Virginia laughed. “Of course, a baby, what else would they have? Due around the middle of March. And guess what else? Barry wants to deliver my grandbaby himself.”

  Geneva glanced at her wrist, forgetting she’d taken off her watch to put time out of her mind. The wall clock couldn’t be right. “Is it ten, already? God, I hate this noisy clock Loughton bought. It’s ticking away my life. Loud enough to drive a person insane.”

  “Might be your biological clock you’re hearing.”

  “No, mother, it’s not my biological clock, so don’t rub it in, just because my younger brother, who delivers other people’s babies, is having a baby of his own and delivering it, which I’m not a bit surprised about. Knowing Barry, he’ll charge his insurance company and make money off the deal.” “Oh, pooh, your brother’s a sweet, sensitive guy, and you know it. He told me most women fall in love with their OB/GYNs. Delivering their baby himself will make him and Carol closer. I told him I fell in love with Doc Sanders after he delivered y’all.”

  “Too much information, Mama.”

  “Did I ever tell you the story about Doc Sanders and the Green Stamps? Barry thought it was hilarious.”

  “What do Green Stamps have to do with falling in love with Dr. Sanders?”

  “Just listen. I was pregnant with you at the time. It was thirty-five years ago, can you believe it?”

  “Don’t remind me.” Geneva rubbed her aching temples.

  “Well, anyway, I was in Doc Sanders’ office. I had to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately, there was no toilet paper, and I was forced to use a tissue from my purse, filled with green stamps. Little did I know that one of the green stamps stuck to the tissue and transferred to my. .you know what. Doc Sanders found it and accused me of giving out green stamps in a unique dispenser.

  Geneva laughed. “Thanks for sharing. I think.”

  “Your dad thought it was hilarious, too.”

  “He would.”

  “I sure do miss him.”

  “Doc Sanders?”

  “No, silly, your dad. I put fresh roses on his grave yesterday.”

  “From the way you talk, you spend half your time at Daddy’s gravesite.”

  “Gives me a chance to mourn and. .share things.” “What do you mean by share things?” “Talk to him, as if he’s still alive.”

  “Oh, Mama, that’s not healthy.”

  “I disagree. Some people talk to themselves; I talk to your dad.”

  Geneva closed her eyes to fight the tears. “What do you talk with Daddy about?”

  “Yesterday, it was my genealogy research. On your father’s side was a woman hanged in Salem for witchcraft. Imagine. In 1692 we had a witch in the family. She was psychic like you are.”

  “Mama, you and I both know the women hanged in Salem weren’t witches.” Geneva balanced the phone on her shoulder as she pulled her dark, tangled hair into a ponytail.

  “You’re right, Sweetie, some preacher started that rumor. He needed a gimmick to keep his congregation from leaving.” Virginia yawned. “So, relax, I was joshing, I know those women hanged in Salem were innocent victims, but maybe they had intuitive powers like you have. Who knows? Even Beth Baxter has strong premonitions. Or so she claims.”

  “How’s Ms. Baxter doing?”

  “Not good. She refuses to attend my grief group. Says it’s too soon after Tara’s death. And lately, Beth’s been acting peculiar.”

  “Understandable, she’s lost her daughter, her only child.”

  “No, I mean, she’s become a hypochondriac when she used to be such a positive, healthy person. Now she’s always talking about how bad she feels, and—I hate to say this—but I almost can’t stand to talk to her anymore. She brings me down and scares me?”

  “How do you mean?” “Says you and Loughton ought to get rid of your beach place because it’s too close to where Tara’s body was found. Stuff like that. Beth still insists Tara was murdered, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I try not to let what she says get me down, but I can’t help but worry about you.”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always saying most of what we worry about never happens? And aren’t you always telling me I’ve got street smarts?”

  “True. Beth calls you ‘Lois Lane.’ Beth said, ‘Thank Lois Lane for running that lovely picture of Tara.’”

  “Which picture was she talking about?”

  “Taken the night she won Miss Florida.” Virginia paused. “Hear that rain, loud as thunder? Better let you go. Drive safely. I wish you’d come stay with me. No reason for you to go home when Loughton’s in Washington. Did I tell you I saw him on CNN this morning?”

  “No. What’d he say?”

  “The reporter asked him if he was planning to run for the Senate. Loughton said it depends on if he can raise the money. I figure money shouldn’t be a problem with his uncle’s support. Calvin’s been in the Senate as long as you are old.”

  Geneva walked to the back patio and watched the r
ain. “Yeah, and Uncle Cal’s hoping to make it a family tradition.”

  “Sort of reminds me of that country song by Hank, Jr. You know the one I mean, Family Tradition? I think that’s the name of it.”

  Geneva laughed. “Yeah, but Cufflink Cal hates country music.” “Makes me wonder how he gets elected.”

  “Hook and crook, probably.”

  “When’s Loughton flying home?” Geneva could hear the concern in her mother’s voice.

  “Who knows? Depends on what happens in Washington, I guess.”

  “Why don’t you spend the night here then? Granny Wild’s cooking your favorite: onion pot roast and sweet potato casserole.”

  “I’m eating mostly veggies and fish these days.”

  “Boring.”

  “Also, Ellen’s supposed to clean and organize my house.

  Bothers me I didn’t leave a list.”

  “Who’s Ellen?”

  “Ellen Langley. I told you. The singing hitchhiker, remember? She stayed with me one Christmas, cleaned and organized my place. I could actually find things for once.”

  “Wasn’t that years ago?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve kept in touch, and the other day she called me out of the blue to say she was ready to accept my offer.”

  “What offer?”

  “As my live-in housekeeper.”

  “Can you trust her?”

  “Absolutely. I checked her out when I did that article.”

  “She might be different now. People change.”

  “I don’t have a bad feeling, except when it comes to her safety. Ellen’s too trusting, honest to a fault.”

  “Good of you to take her in, I suppose.”

  “Hiring Ellen isn’t charity, Mama. I need her help. She’s organized, and I’m impossibly the opposite.” “No comment.”

  Geneva heard her mother turn up the television volume. A male reporter said something about Doppler radar tracking and scanning everything from raindrops, insects and dust to the movement of air. No one knew for sure where Hurricane Donald might go or how much force the storm would gather before reaching land. “...gaining strength since blasting Cuba.”

  Geneva glanced out the French doors and spotted Roxanne Trawler, running in the rain. She wore melon-pink shorts with matching top, angling toward Geneva’s place.

  “Gotta go, Mama.”

  “Okay, Honey, be careful. Hope to see you soon. Call me when you hit the road.”

  “Okay, love you, Mama, bye.”

  “Bye, love you, too.”

  Geneva retied her bathrobe and walked out to greet Roxanne. “Hello, stranger. Glad someone’s energetic today.” She gave Roxanne a hug and smelled her exotic perfume, diluted by rainwater. She looked like a life-size “Rapunzel Barbie” with her blond ponytail pulled through the back of an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.

  Roxanne flashed a sad smile and nodded toward the Gulf. “Tsunamis out there.”

  “I hope not tsunamis. I may have to drive in it.”

  “Forget that shit. Let’s have a hurricane party at the Pink Palace,” Roxanne said, pointing to her palatial beach house, a stone’s throw away from where they stood.

  Roxanne withdrew an envelope from her shorts. “This came in my box by mistake.”

  Geneva took the envelope, wondering who’d send personal mail—with no return address—to me at the beach rather than to my home in Tallahassee.

  Roxanne plopped down in one of the patio chairs underneath the overhang. “What’s that weird noise?” She looked up at the wind chime, a conglomeration of wire and metal.

  “Gift from my brother’s wife, Carol. She makes them. Claims they soothe body, mind and soul. Hasn’t worked on me yet.” Geneva pulled a chair out to sit down next to her friend. “Carol gave me two of those darn things, one for here and one for home.”

  Roxanne forced a laugh. “I’d hang a dozen if they’d soothe my body or my mind or my soul.”

  “Rain’s angling on us,” Geneva said. “Let’s go inside.” Roxanne squeezed her wet ponytail. “Do I look like someone who’s concerned about the rain?”

  Geneva glanced up at the purple sky and watched seagulls line up on a neighbor’s roof. She and Roxanne were neighbors in both Tallahassee and Dolphin, but lately Roxanne had erected an emotional wall Geneva couldn’t seem to penetrate.

  “Loughton with you?” Roxanne asked.

  “He flew off to Washington this morning.”

  Roxanne propped her right foot on her left knee and began to massage her calf. “Weren’t y’all supposed to be on vacation?”

  Geneva nodded and grimaced. She hated to explain her husband’s absence. “Yeah, but you know how that goes. Politics is more important. Mason with you?”

  “No, the flamboyantly famous criminal lawyer couldn’t make it.” Geneva crossed her legs and jiggled her foot, a nervous habit. “You two still on the outs?”

  Roxanne pressed her lips together like a toddler refusing green beans. The wind scattered her tears. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “I’m sorry.” Not knowing what else to say, Geneva watched the jabbering seagulls and reflected on how estranged she and Roxanne had become since Tara’s death.

  No question Roxanne had aged, crows feet around her eyes, looked much older than her thirty-one years and too thin. Her diamond-and-platinum wedding bands wobbled on her ring finger.

  Geneva opened her mouth to confront Roxanne about her weight loss, but when a neon snake of lightning ripped through dark clouds, followed by a thunder boom, Geneva changed her mind. No time for a serious conversation. “Thunder doesn’t usually accompany hurricanes. A good sign, maybe?”

  Roxanne massaged her eye sockets and swung her right leg, as if she had developed Geneva’s habit of jiggling her feet and legs. The silence between the two women grew, and Geneva couldn’t resist tearing into the envelope Roxanne had given her.

  It turned out to be a three-page epistle from Dee Samson, the young woman who had verbally sucker punched Geneva four months ago while she was on deadline at the Tallahassee Reaper. Dee had her own breaking news to report: She and Loughton were lovers.

  He’d hired Dee fresh out of college to do his “grunt work” in the Florida House, a seat he won last election. According to this letter, they had grunted together on numerous occasions after Loughton had promised he would fire Dee for making false accusations.

  Roxanne leaned close. “Bad news?”

  “Same old, same old.” Geneva handed Roxanne the letter and said, “Bastard. Insufficient blood supply to the brain and you know what causes that?”

  “Pecker gorge,” Roxanne said; then read the letter while shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Hon. You deserve better.” She hugged Geneva. “You want my advice? Get out now. He’ll never change. Mason says most women divorce their husbands because they don’t change.”

  “He ought to know.”

  “I shouldn’t quote him. I wish I’d never met the jerk. Bet you feel the same about Loughton.” Roxanne squinted at Geneva, as if perplexed. “How did y’all meet anyway? I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”

  “I was covering one of his trials for the newspaper. He was D.A. at the time. After the trial ended, he asked me out. We had four dates, and he wanted to get married. I should have listened to Daddy.”

  “Your dad didn’t want you to marry Loughton?”

  “He thought we should wait, get to know each other before making a life-time leap. Unfortunately, I didn’t listen. I loved Loughton, so...here I am.”

  “You tied the knot that’s strangling you.”

  “Interesting way of putting it.”

  “Was your Dad disappointed you didn’t wait?”

  “He said he respected my decision.” Geneva choked, feeling the stabbing pain of losing her father. “But he didn’t get to walk me down the aisle. He died a month before the wedding.” In a comforting gesture, Roxanne stroked Geneva’s hands. “I’m so sorry, honey. I feel your heartache. I really do. It’s almost
like we’re connected somehow.” Roxanne cradled Geneva’s chin. “I know it’s a cliché, but ‘life’s not fair.’ However, I want you to know you can always count on me to listen and help you out whenever and wherever.”

  A flash flood followed another thunder boom. In seconds, water covered their ankles. “Let’s get inside,” Geneva said, opening the French doors.

  Roxanne waved off the invitation. “I’ll see you later. I need a hot bath. Meanwhile, pull yourself together. Promise me you won’t let this Dee-and-Loughton stuff depress you.”

  “I’ve passed that point.”

  “Yeah, right,” Roxanne said, hugging Geneva. “Call me later.”

  After Roxanne left, Geneva wandered aimlessly around the townhouse. Then changed into red sweats, thinking warm clothing would keep her from shivering, and provide a modicum of comfort, but no. She still felt cold, alone and depressed.

  In an effort to break the pall, she called her landline in Tallahassee. After four rings and no answer, Loughton’s outgoing message came on.

  Geneva said after the beep, “Ellen, it’s Geneva, I hope you made it in okay...pick up the phone if you’re there. ”Strange, no answer. Where’s Ellen?

  Geneva needed to talk. She didn’t want to face a hurricane alone, but she couldn’t stand the thought of driving back to Tallahassee in the storm. If only she could forget about leaving here. She had no desire to see Loughton, ever again, and no desire to go back home. Clutching the phone to her ear, Geneva wanted to invite Ellen to the beach, which wasn’t realistic at the moment, of course, with a hurricane in the gulf, but maybe in the near future. Ellen could work in Dolphin on Paradise Isle, cleaning and redecorating the beach place. Geneva hated the existing sterile-vanilla décor: white carpet, white couch, white recliner, white wicker dining-room table and chairs. Only two keepers, the maple entertainment center and the Monet print hanging on the wall. Everything else could go, even Loughton’s picture in the heart-shaped frame sitting on top of the white marble bar.

  She studied the blond-haired, blue-eyed photo of her unfaithful husband. Roxanne was right. He’ll never change. Lord knows, she’d tried. She’d even attended a support group of women married to womanizers.