by Jan Hudson
“And you believe that it will hit Corpus Christi?”
“No, not directly. The eye will move over an area to the south of us, but Corpus Christi and the surrounding areas will feel the effects and can expect extremely high winds and heavy rain, and tides will run six or seven feet above normal. Our weather will be severe and damaging.”
“You say this will happen on Saturday?” Jessica asked, one eyebrow slightly askew.
“Yes. It will begin moving ashore shortly before dawn.”
“Tell me, Sunny—” Jessica leaned toward her, and Sunny thought, Uh-oh, here it comes. “Tell me how you can predict the path of a hurricane when it befuddles our finest scientists. Are you a witch?”
Sunny turned her most engaging smile on the camera. “No. I don’t ride a broomstick.” She chuckled. “I don’t even own a cat. I’m simply an ordinary person with an odd quirk to her nature—a talent, some would say, like having a green thumb or being able to fix mechanical things. I can predict the weather that affects the area where I am.”
“And you’re always right?”
“Always.” Sunny chose to ignore the single miss when she’d had the flu.
Jessica turned to the camera and smiled. “And there you have it. We’ve been talking to Sunny Larkin, evening news anchor for KRIP-TV in Corpus Christi, Texas, who is defying science and predicting the course of the hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. Back to you in New York, John.”
Sunny’s blue silk blouse was decidedly damp under the arms when they finished, but when she glanced at Kale, he gave her a thumbs-up and winked. She smiled, then made polite remarks to Jessica and escaped with the excuse that she had work to do.
Kale met her in the hall and they went downstairs to his office. When the door was closed, she melted into a chair. “Whew! That lady has sharp teeth.”
“She’s what you can expect if you want to swim with the network sharks.”
“I think I held my own pretty well.”
“You were fantastic,” he said. “Made old Jessica look like an amateur.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, but you do wonders for my ego, Mr. Hoaglin.”
“And you do wonders for my libido, Miss Larkin. Come here.” He pulled her to her feet and kissed her, a long, lingering kiss that pushed everything out of her head. Until his phone rang.
“Hold my place,” he said, tapping her lips.
“I really do have work to do. I’ll see you later.”
The rest of the day was hectic, spent primarily in the newsroom, tracking the hurricane on radar and preparing for the periodic updates and the evening news.
Experts from the National Hurricane Center said that assuming Chloe turned north, as was characteristic of hurricanes, she might make landfall along the upper Texas or Louisiana coast. Corpus Christi was on the outermost fringe of their probability table. Assuming. Maybe. Perhaps. Might. If. But. The experts gave a thousand qualifiers. Sunny knew exactly.
* * *
On Friday morning, Sunny, her arms hugged tightly under her breasts, stood at the window of her fourth-floor office and stared at the bay. The sun shone; the water was calm; it was a beautiful day. Despondency filled her so completely that her bones ached. Kale stood beside her, his arm around her shoulders.
“Cheer up, honey,” Kale said. “I don’t like to see you like this.”
“Cheer up? Only moments ago, Jessica Martin chewed me up and spit me out. She made me look like a fool. Several million people across the country now think I’m a raving lunatic.”
During the night, Chloe had stumbled once or twice, then veered north. Experts had sucked in their guts and declared that there was a fifty percent chance that the hurricane would make landfall around midnight near Galveston. Corpus wasn’t in the range of probability.
Kale hugged Sunny to him. “By this time tomorrow Jessica Martin will be eating her words. Better yet, around midnight we’ll chain her ankle to one of the lampposts on the jetty and, come morning, Chloe will give her the thrashing she deserves.”
Sunny laughed and buried her nose against his chest. “What would I do without you?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that I’m indispensable. If I weren’t around, who would keep you out of mischief? Who would find your car keys?”
She looked up at him. “What if I’m wrong, Kale? What if I’m wrong?”
“You’re not wrong, sweetheart.” He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her close. “Get that idea out of your head. Don’t let those cynical bastards get you down.”
She chuckled. “You’ve come a long way in a few weeks. You were the world-champion cynic. I’m glad you believe in me.” Turning in his arms until she faced the window again, she added, “And I’m glad they do.”
She pointed to city crews working along the wide earth median of Shoreline Drive. Huge holes had been dug in the divider with backhoes, and they were burying boats from the marina. The harbor was almost empty. Those vessels too big to bury or haul easily had been moved or triple-tied. The barge restaurant where Sunny and Kale often ate had been towed up the ship channel to a safer port.
Windows were being boarded up, loose material nailed down, and evacuation was proceeding as planned. Foster had sent his family to Austin on Thursday. Emergency supplies were being stockpiled, and grocery stores were running low on bread and nonperishable items. Sterno, candles, and flashlights were gone from the shelves, and batteries were at a premium.
The station was fully stocked; cartons lined the walls, filled with everything that could conceivably be needed. Kale had taken care of that. The emergency generators had been checked so that KRIP could stay on the air unless the tower went down, which was likely.
Roland Cantu and a camera crew were about to leave for Port Mansfield. Tom Crockett and another crew were en route to Brownsville, and two additional teams had been dispatched to Rock-port and Port Isabel. The other KRIP employees had brought cots, sleeping bags and clothes to the station, prepared to settle in for the duration.
“I should be going to Port Mansfield instead of Roland,” Sunny said.
Kale’s arms tightened around her. “I’ve told you that I absolutely forbid it.”
Sunny sighed, not wanting to reopen that argument, and rapped on the window with her knuckles. “Think this will hold?”
“It should. Foster assured me that Aunt Ravinia had only the best installed. They’re special storm windows—tempered safety glass, guaranteed.”
“It seems that you’ve thought of everything. What do we do now?”
“Now, love,” he said, resting his chin atop her head, “we wait.”
At six-fifteen, during a commercial on the evening news, an assistant laid a piece of paper on Sunny’s desk.
* * *
When the break was over, the camera cut to Sunny, who said, “I have this bulletin just in from the National Weather Service. Hurricane Chloe has stalled in the Gulf.” She read the coordinates giving the longitude and latitude. “This puts her center approximately two hundred miles east-southeast of Corpus Christi.”
* * *
At eight-thirty, with the remnants of their Chinese dinner in little boxes on Kale’s desk, Sunny sat curled up in his lap, drawing strength from him. He held her firmly, quiet and undemanding, as they waited.
She felt as if she were in limbo, helpless to do anything but anticipate the approaching onslaught with dread. It occurred to her that waiting for the storm was analogous to waiting for the day of Kale’s leaving. Although he hadn’t mentioned it to her, scuttlebutt had it that Kale’s bureau chief had called twice in the past week urging him back to his post. The dreaded events were both coming closer and closer. Inevitable. Uncontrollable. Devastating.
She snuggled into the perfect cradle of his arms, her hand on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her fingers, breathing his familiar spicy scent. She hadn’t intended to fall in love with him, but she had. How would she deal with the hole he would leave in her life?
After hurricanes passed, people rebuilt and went on with their lives, but there were always scars gouged in the land that took years and years to heal. Even then, things were never quite the same again.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Kale said.
Pain slashed through her as she looked up at his dear face. She stroked his jaw—relaxed now rather than perpetually clenched, as it had been only weeks ago—and felt the faint stubble of his beard. “I love you,” she whispered. “Remember that.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.” He kissed her tenderly.
* * *
At a quarter of ten, Sunny ripped a page off the printer. Her stomach churning and shivers rippling up her back like a frightened snake, she turned to Kale with anxious eyes.
“She’s moving again. Fast. She’s changed direction and is headed our way.”
* * *
At one o’clock, Kale insisted that Sunny try to get an hour or two’s rest, promising that he’d take over the half-hour updates himself.
At one-thirty, Sunny was back on the job.
At two a.m., KRIP ran an old Humphrey Bogart movie. Only a shift worker in Refugio called to complain when they interrupted the film frequently with the latest news of Chloe inching her way westward on the radar screen.
By four o’clock Sunny and Kale were on the air almost constantly, working as an efficient reporting team.
Shortly before dawn, the winds picked up and the rains began as the outer bands of thunderstorms started moving ashore.
“Hold the fort,” Sunny said to Kale during a break for a report from one of the field teams. “I’m going outside with Carlos to get some shots.”
“Like hell you will! You’re staying in here. I’ll go outside with Carlos.”
“Like hell I am!” She jacked up her chin and glared at him. “This is my story.”
He chuckled and kissed her pursed lips. “Then we’ll both go. Hulon! Come here and take over for a few minutes.”
Hulon, his bow tie askew and his toupee ruffled, looked horrified, but he scurried to the desk when Kale barked the order.
Dressing quickly in boots and raincoats with hoods, the trio went downstairs to the seawall. Wind whipped at their clothes and rain stung their faces. The sky had lightened only slightly. Dark clouds obscured the rising sun, and haloed street lamps struggled to provide illumination through the downpour. Pitching waves battered the curving, lighted jetty, smashing against the huge rocks and sending high sprays dashing over the sidewalk along the top.
They filmed for a few minutes, yelling into their mikes to be heard. When the wind intensified so that Sunny had to hold on to Kale to stand up, he dragged her back inside.
After drying off quickly, they were back behind the desk. The roaring of wind and water grew louder, and the lights flickered, then died. The generator immediately took over, providing emergency power. Their broadcast continued as walls creaked and windows rattled.
“The tower is down!” Foster yelled. “We’re off the air.”
Repair crews had been dispatched, but until Chloe’s fury abated as she moved over land, nothing much could be done.
Kale rose, took Sunny’s hand, and said, “That’s it for a while. You’re exhausted. Let’s go down to my office and get some rest.”
Jessica Martin, looking considerably worse than she did when she’d bustled into the station around midnight, trailed behind them, gushing. “Oh, what a story! This is fantastic. Sunny, could I have just a few words with you?”
His jaw clenched and his eyes as cold as an Arctic winter, Kale looked the reporter up and down. “Miss Martin . . . go to hell.”
* * *
On Sunday, cleanup began. With Chloe’s main fury spent and her ragged remnants drifting through central Texas, the encroaching waters slipped back into the Gulf, uncovering the T-Heads and L-Heads and receding from the roadways. The KRIP tower was repaired, and utility crews worked feverishly trying to restore power and services to the area. Storm windows came down and plywood sheets were stored or trashed. Insurance agents went to work, and pots of red geraniums went back to sitting on porches.
At the breakfast table, Kale proudly held up the front page of the Caller-Times. The banner headline read simply: THANKS, SUNNY!
She laughed.
“About damned time they learned to appreciate you,” Kale said, dropping a kiss on her nose. “There was some serious property damage, but not a single life was lost.”
By Monday, although some repairs would take weeks to complete, most things were back to normal. Cleanup continued, but Mother Nature, as penance for birthing Chloe, had bestowed sunshine and a cool breeze to dry out the city.
Sunny was sitting at her desk working when the phone rang. She hesitated to answer it. The blasted thing had been ringing like mad since she’d come in, and she had a stack of message slips an inch thick. Nancy and David—or, rather, their producers—had called.
She reluctantly picked up the phone. It was an agent trying to hustle her, promising big bucks for appearances and maybe even a book. She told him thanks, but no thanks, and hung up.
The darned thing rang again almost immediately. She snatched it up and said a grumpy, “Hello.”
When the caller identified himself as William Hix, a vice president of the network, she sat up straight. As she listened to him, her heart began to beat faster and a smile spread across her face. “Yes, Mr. Hix, I’m very interested. May I get back to you in a few days?”
After the conversation ended, she sat stunned for a moment, the receiver still glued to her ear. When the buzz of the dial tone broke through her stupor, she hung up, flung out her arms, and yelled, “Whoopee!”
* * *
Startled when the door banged open, Kale smiled when he saw Sunny. Her eyes shone like sparkling blue crystals, and her dimples were deeply etched in her cheeks from a bubbling smile that warmed him from across the room.
“Have I got news for you!” she said, laughing and turning in circles. “Guess who just called me.”
He caught her hand and pulled her into his lap. “The Queen of England.”
She rested her forehead against his and rubbed his nose with hers. “Nope. Guess again.”
“Elvis.”
She laughed. “No. William Hix, a vice president of the network, called me from New York.”
She looked excited enough to explode, and so adorable that he wanted to wrap her up and put her in his pocket. “I see,” he drawled. “And what did old Bill have to say?”
“He said that he thought I was the greatest thing since sliced bread—or words to that effect—and that I’d done a ‘damned fine job’ with the hurricane story. He also said that he’d seen my special on gangs and that it was ‘an excellent piece of work.’ Aaaand,” she added, drawing out the word for dramatic impact, “he offered me a job at the Washington Bureau.” She squealed and laughed and kissed his face all over.
Kale joined in her laughter, delighting in her excitement. “That’s great, love. Just great.”
Sunny cocked her head and drew her eyebrows together. “I wonder how Mr. Hix knew about the gang special?”
“Maybe a little bird sent him a copy of the tape.”
Her eyes narrowed and a smile played at the corner of her delectable mouth. “Are you the little bird?” She poked him in the ribs.
“Naw. It must have been Hulon.” He was about to kiss away her questions when the phone rang. He punched the button to activate the speaker-phone, and barked, “Hoaglin.”
“Hoaglin,” a gruff voice bellowed, “you’ve pussyfooted around with that two-bit station in Texas long enough. All hell is breaking loose in Tel Aviv. Kiss that little piece you’re shacked up with goodbye and get your tail on a plane—”
Kale disconnected the speaker, but he could see that the damage had been done. The happy animation had drained from Sunny’s face, and she looked stricken. She flew from his lap and tore out of the room with him calling after her.
&nbs
p; “Goddamn it, Stan Verick,” Kale roared, “if I could get my hands on you, I’d ring your scrawny neck!” Still cursing, he slammed the receiver down so hard that the plastic cracked. He grabbed something from his desk drawer and ran from his office, looking for Sunny.
She had disappeared.
He looked everywhere he could think of, twice. He’d checked outside first, but she wasn’t in sight. Her little red car was in the lot, so she had to be in the building. But, dammit, where?
He went back upstairs and stuck his nose in every office. He even looked in the ladies’ room and the broom closet. Where had she gone? He tried to think. When an idea hit him, he strode to the end of the newsroom and stuck his head out the window.
There she sat. On the ledge. Scrunched up in a little ball in the far corner.
“Dammit, Sunny, what are you doing out there?”
She glared at him. “Would you please stop saying, ‘Dammit, Sunny.’ My first name is not dammit. You need to watch your language. You have an absolutely foul mouth.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sunny, my precious, my love, what in the hell are you doing out there?”
“I’m sitting here being miserable. Go away.”
He kicked off his loafers and climbed out on the ledge with her. He sat down close to her and swung his legs over the edge.
“Be careful,” she said. “You’re going to fall off and break your neck.”
“Naw. I’m resilient. I’d probably bounce.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She wasn’t laughing. In fact, he saw that her lashes were clumped with moisture and that there were salty tear streaks on her cheeks. Pain pierced his gut, and he grew angry with Stan all over again. “Sweetheart, forget what Stan Verick said. He’s a nasty-minded bastard who’s got rocks for brains. He’s not worth being miserable over. He doesn’t even know about you. He was just shooting off his mouth.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. He fished his handkerchief from his rear pocket and held it to her nose. “Blow.”
She made a big honking noise. “Thanks.” She sighed and clutched her knees tightly to her chest. “It’s not just what he said.” She fluttered her hand. “It’s everything.”