I Love You to Pieces

by Lori Flynn

  “Let’s have lunch. I promise I’ll tell you all about it.” Olivia sat beside Gretchen on the passenger seat of the golf cart.

  They ordered salads to Olivia’s office. Gretchen picked through lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots before spearing a hardboiled egg, listening as Olivia presented her sold-out guest list, updated menu, and record-setting donation ledger.

  “Spill it, Harding.” Gretchen slammed her blue-veined hand on the desk. “Unless you’d like me to explode all over this lovely chair of yours, I suggest you tell me what you’ve planned that needed clearance from legal.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you. But keep an open mind.” Olivia held up her hands. “As part of the live auction, I plan to auction off eligible bachelors to single women who are in need of a date for New Year’s Eve. Our three volunteer candidates have been prescreened and include a veterinarian, a paramedic, and an attorney.” Taking a long breath, she waited for Gretchen’s reaction.

  “Am I to understand we’re auctioning off human beings?”

  “Only men, and I’ll do the auctioning, not the professional we hired. I thought it’d be kinder.” Olivia eyed Gretchen. Her poker face was hard to read.

  “Is your Mr. Thornton the attorney in your line up?”

  “Lord no, Gretchen. Why do you ask?”

  “I wanted to know if I should liquidate my assets so that I could be the top bidder.” Gretchen smiled with Olivia’s giggle.

  “What do you think?”

  “I love your idea. Please tell me the veterinarian you found isn’t Hunter.”

  Olivia grinned. “It’s not. I can’t imagine his wife would appreciate us listing him as an eligible bachelor.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased with your plans for the gala. It’s your reaction to Jimmy’s announcement that concerns me. If I were to hightail it out of here with every hurricane threat, I’d be living in a retirement home in Arizona.”

  “Oh that,” Olivia waved her hand. “I was born and raised in Florida and have a healthy respect for storms that form in the warm waters surrounding the peninsula. I know not to panic until the power goes out and the ice cream melts.”

  Gretchen pursed her lips. “We can’t control the weather. Worst case, we reschedule.”

  “What? No! We can’t move the gala. It’s exactly where it has to be. The end of October is the gateway to the holiday season. That’s what makes it perfect.”

  Gretchen nodded. “I appreciate the time and energy you put into these things, Olivia, but the decision won’t be yours. I’ve got the welfare of our guests and the liability of my business to consider. You’ve rubbed your temples more than once today. Have one of your migraines?”

  “I woke up with it. I’ve been waiting to take my meds. I think clearer without them. There are things I need to do.”

  “Go home. Take your meds, kiss those beautiful dogs, and sleep. It’ll all be here in the morning,” Gretchen said. “That’s an order,” she added when Olivia hesitated.

  Dropping her cell phone into her purse, she pulled the strap over her rounded shoulders as she padded to the car. She drove; her mind raced. What the hell. I don’t know what’s worse: worrying about the storm or Gretchen’s willingness to move the gala. She should know why she can’t without me telling her.

  At home, the dogs followed her upstairs. Olivia didn’t have interest in food. Her head pounded, and vomit stuck in her throat. She gagged just brushing her teeth and taking her meds, then scooped up Lily and placed the beagle on her pillow. Webster sprawled across the bottom of her bed like a black and white blanket. Buckley stretched his long yellow body along his bed.

  Her eyes closed moments before her cell phone vibrated over the end table.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Ben, hi, sort of. I have a migraine, had a bad afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry. Wanna go back to sleep, or tell me about it?”

  “There’s a tropical wave out there that wants to grow up to be a hurricane, just in time for my gala.”

  “I heard.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Everyone has.”

  “What does Gretchen say?”

  “That’s what makes it worse. She’s willing to reschedule. Do you believe it?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Olivia groaned, tugging the pillow over her face. “It’s timing—why doesn’t anyone get that?”

  “I can barely hear you.”

  “Goodnight, Ben.” With her unnaturally-flat voice a muffled whisper, she disconnected the call.

  *

  From the shore, Olivia watched the sunrise as Buckley, Webster, and Lily dug through the wet sand. They then padded to the kitchen, where, after first feeding her housemates, she sliced fresh fruit into a bowl and added a handful of red grapes and some almonds. She carried it with her upstairs.

  While hurrying from the shower to her closet, the weather segment on the TV caught her eye. The perfectly coiffed meteorologist straightened his tie, seeming excited about his morning announcement. As she turned up the volume, the apple slice she’d just eaten felt like it might stick in her throat.

  “Hey folks, remember the tropical wave I told you about yesterday? Well, it’s been upgraded to a depression and could very well be a tropical storm by the end of the day. If it happens, we’ll call her Ophelia. More when I’m back in a minute.”

  She turned off the broadcast and slipped into her dress, placing her bowl on the floor for the dogs. This isn’t going away!

  In the monotony of stop-and-go morning traffic, Olivia stayed deep in thought. More often than not, storms dissipate or veer away. I need a little faith. She headed straight to the warehouse. Necessity had her double the number of workers. Her name echoed as she entered.

  Jimmy called her from the far side of the building. He waved his arms wildly over his head. She held her place and waited as he cantered over.

  “What’s the absolute latest deadline to add something to the catalog? I have a great basket idea, but I need twenty-four hours to make sure,” he asked, his eyes wide.

  “The cut off time is nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” Olivia feigned a smile. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We have several donations that haven’t fit in with other themed baskets, like these candles, that lantern and those items over there. I’m thinking of making a hurricane survival basket. I thought I’d title it, ‘Surviving the Big O.’ Your approval means a lot.”

  “You’re like a dog with a bone. You aren’t going to let this storm thing rest, are you?” She shook her head. “All right, put the basket together. Hold off on the title until we see what happens.”

  Olivia took a seat on the production line. She spent several hours filling baskets and listening to the latest gossip. Her mood was buoyant—until the message came from Gretchen.

  Olivia reluctantly lost the optimism she’d found in the warehouse. Her employer worked steadfastly at her desk.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Have a seat.”

  She dropped in a chair facing the desk. Gretchen’s tone cramped her stomach. “What’s up?”

  The older woman clasped her blue-veined hands on the top of the desk. “I wanted you to hear this from me. With the latest afternoon weather report, we now have Tropical Storm Ophelia.”

  Olivia breathed deep. “The meteorologist this morning said that might happen. I’d hoped it wouldn’t.” Don’t fall apart.

  “There’s more. I’ve already fielded a call from an agent of one of your celebrity guests.”

  “You’re kidding, who?”

  “Candy Kirkland—she’s in demand, apparently, and if we were to cancel, she can rebook somewhere else. I said the gala was still on, as of right now. I need to know you can handle it, should that change.”

  Olivia lowered her eyes. “I can’t promise you that.”

  Gretchen couldn’t hide her worried expression. “Let’s pray it doesn’t happen.”

  Olivia left Gretchen�
��s office ready to break, tears welling. She searched for a sanctuary, her office or car, but became distracted when her cell phone vibrated from her back pocket. Ben’s number lit her screen. Crap. I meant to call him, apologize.

  “Hi Ben,” she answered. Picturing his face relaxed her tight expression.

  “How’s your gala?”

  “Other than a few last-minute things here and there, everything’s a go.”

  “That’s great. How’s your headache?”

  “It’s only background music, so it’s better.”

  “I’m glad. Are you gonna hang up on me if I tell you Ophelia’s a tropical storm?”

  Her smile faded quickly. “I didn’t hang up on you, exactly. And I’m sorry. The gala’s important, and no one understands.”

  “It probably feels like that right now, but not even Gretchen can control the weather. I’ve seen you wound up during these things before, but not like this.”

  “This one’s different.”

  *

  She showered off the day and brought a mug of decaf to her home office. Her mail had piled up. She settled deep in her chair. Then, without provocation or explanation, a small plaque, hung years before by her grandmother, dropped to the floor. It took her breath away, making her jump to her feet. Bending to retrieve it, she remembered the plaque contained the Mariner’s Poem about hurricanes that her grandmother had taught her.

  “June too soon, July stand by! August look out you must, September remembers, October all over,” Olivia read aloud as she returned the plaque to its rightful place on the wall.

  Did you hear that, Ophelia? It’s all over! Leave us alone! Was the plaque a bad omen, or was she allowing the dark forecast to cloud her mind?

  With every breath and beat of her heart, she felt the storm front brewing, inside and out.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Olivia

  Olivia returned to the warehouse at dawn, before the world could begin plotting Ophelia’s coordinates. Alone, without questions and interruptions, she’d make her final checks and then send the catalog to print. There’d be an addendum for last-minute donations, but she’d keep it to a minimum.

  She took a last look through the warehouse. Elaborately decorated holiday baskets crowded tables, while oversized backdrops glittered, anticipating placement. She was down to the wire and ready.

  By late afternoon, Olivia finished the last of her calls. Leaning back in her chair, she took slow deep breaths as her cell phone vibrated, flashing Ben’s number. We haven’t spoken all day. On the line, she heard sirens and horns honking. In Ben’s greeting, she detected concern.

  “What’s wrong, Ben? Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay, but my mom called and said Dad hadn’t felt well for a few days. He had a couple of heart attacks years ago, so we don’t take chances. His doctor’s gonna run tests at the hospital. I’m trying to meet them there, and as you can probably hear, I’m stuck in traffic.”

  “Would you like company? Just tell me where.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but my dad will gripe that Mom called me. Besides, don’t you have your hands full over there? Have you heard a weather report lately?”

  “Not today.”

  “Maybe you should, babe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Give your dad my best, and keep me posted.”

  She filled every minute until dark and called it a day. When she spotted Gretchen leaning on the hood of her Ferrari, she slowed her stride.

  “I wanted you to hear the news from me.”

  “I already regret this. What news?”

  “Ophelia is now expected to reach hurricane status within twelve hours. I’ve called a meeting for first thing tomorrow to discuss the fate of the Happy Howladays Gala.”

  Running a hand through her hair, Olivia drew a sharp breath. “No, Gretchen! It would be easier to hold it in a category-five than cancel it when we’re this close. You know that!”

  “I’m aware. Go home and rest. You’re gonna need it.” Gretchen gave Olivia’s shoulder a rub before crossing the lot to her car.

  *

  She spent a long restless night, policing the Weather Channel, plotting coordinates while eating her way to the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. She’d chosen Chocolate Therapy—a flavor she kept for the most stressful of situations. Her stomach twisted, and her head pounded when the meteorologist informed the world Ophelia had indeed reached sustained winds of seventy­­-five miles per hour and was officially a hurricane.

  The shrill of the alarm clock jarred her. Did I sleep at all? She had a faint memory of the tapping of her mother’s stiletto heels echoing through her ears. Was it a dream?

  The morning meeting brought a shiver of panic as she settled in her chair. Gretchen assembled representatives from businesses taking part in the event and had included a sampling of individuals on the guest list as well. They appeared impressed when a dashing weatherman from one of the local television stations strolled through the door and offered an updated storm report, along with his opinions on the strike probability.

  “According to the most current information available from the National Hurricane Center in Miami, Ophelia is predicted to strike to the north of this area, sparing you a direct hit,” he said. “They haven’t been as accurate with the strength of the storm. I’d be happy to explain steering currents and forecast cones.”

  Gretchen requested his estimated timeline. With as much certainty as he was willing to expend, he placed Ophelia’s arrival in the early morning hours—following the fund-raiser. A collective sigh of relief circled the room, and with a vote, they unanimously decided the event would go on. Gretchen suggested they increase their valet parking staff with the likelihood of inclement weather.

  *

  Relief covered Olivia like a blanket on the return trip to her office. Her eyes bordered with tears. The fate of her gala had been decided with a vote. A coordinate or two in another direction, and it would all be over. She reached for the phone to call Ben, and it rang in her hand.

  “So, how’d it go?” The deep tones of Ben’s voice were warm, comforting.

  “They voted to go on with the fundraiser. We’re just not inviting Ophelia,” Olivia said as she kicked off her shoes and popped her migraine medication into her mouth. How many times have I taken these today—two, three? I don’t remember.

  “Is it that simple?”

  “God, I hope so. How’s your dad?”

  “His doctors ran a bunch of tests and sent him home. They think he may have had the flu. My mother said he looks a bit better this morning. She’s still concerned about his color.”

  “Please tell her not to worry about coming to the gala. Your father’s health is more important.”

  “My dad’s got a stubborn streak; he won’t hear it. He knows how much she wants to go.”

  “So, you come by it honestly.” Olivia grinned with his long sigh. “Then you stay home with him, Ben. He shouldn’t be home alone with the storm threatening, and I’ll be working all night. It’ll give your mother peace of mind, and you and your dad a guys’ night.”

  “That’s sweet. I’ll run the idea by him and see what he says. Remember to eat something.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

  She cradled her head and lowered it to the cool desk. The bass drum beating a path through her brain made swallowing painful. Her vision blurred. While trying to blink it away, she caught a glimpse of her toes. It caused her to jerk her head back and cry out.

  Her toenails were painted hot pink instead of the color she’d put there, her usual classic French.

  “I’m just fine,” she said aloud in the empty room.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Olivia

  Strong winds punished the windows of Casa Nonna hours before the official start of the Happy Howladays Gala.

  “Relax, Olivia,” Mr. Garcia said in a calming voice. “As caretaker, I assure you the house and grounds are secured, and o
ur crew is standing by in case they’re needed.”

  She pulled the paper bag she breathed into to keep from passing out from her mouth. “I trust you, Christian. It’s Ophelia that’s on my last nerve. And I can’t take another minute of the Weather Channel.” She reached for the remote and turned off the TV.

  With her make-up and the elegant upsweep of her dark hair complete, Olivia turned the care of Lily, the small beagle jumpy because of the wind, over to Maria and then continued to dress. She chose a gold strapless Dior gown, cut to drape close to her body. Glancing in the mirror, her thoughts remained consumed by the storm, hoping it stayed away for as long as they’d predicted.

  Then she noticed him, his back to the doorframe, watching her. She gasped when his gaze held her eyes before sliding downward. It felt as soft as a caress.

  “What are you doing here, Ben?”

  “I came to wish you luck. You look gorgeous, like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “That’s quite a compliment. I would’ve never expected an old movie reference from you.”

  He shrugged, half grinned. “My college adviser filled in my electives with film courses. I actually enjoyed them.”

  “That’s impressive, Ben.”

  “I’m capable of surprising you now and again.” Moving into the room, he lifted her bathrobe from the chair and gently placed it over her shoulders. “This goes well with your dress.”

  “My only concern tonight is that Ophelia will crash the gala. There’s no reason to worry about me. Most of the sheriff’s department will be there.”

  “Don’t tell me O’Reilly’s one of them. Can you leave the robe on, so no one else falls in love with you?”

  Olivia swallowed past the lump growing in her throat. “Is someone in love with me, Ben?”

  He slipped his hands in his pockets and turned to pace by the window. Had she embarrassed him or given him something to think about? She considered apologizing when he turned back and faced her.