Hurricane Season

by Amanda McIntyre

  She glanced out the window, noting the sherbet-colored hues of a beautiful August sunset. She didn’t mind flying and certainly she’d experienced turbulence before. Still, a gin and tonic and her playlist couldn’t hurt any in helping her to relax. Finding her best of Norah Jones, she popped in her earbuds, snuggled into her neck pillow, and closed her eyes. The music was balm to her weary soul after the intense week of meetings and deadlines at work. “Come away with me,” she followed the artist’s song softly, surrendering to her last-minute adventure.

  Aware that she might be singing too loud, she opened her eyes and looking up slammed into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. One of the passengers caught behind the attendant helping a guest, stood looking down at her. A grin curled the corner of his mouth that looked as though it hadn’t seen a razor in a day or two.

  Come away with me, the singer crooned in her ear as she silently held the stranger’s gaze—interested gaze, at that. Holy Cow. She took in his rugged jaw, graced by that shadowy beard, the dark head of hair, with a glint of silver at the temple. Aged to perfection, the thought. The pièce de résistance were the studious round spectacles magnifying those amazing eyes.

  She tried hard not to stare, but she couldn’t help musing what kind of body filled out that old grey college T-shirt and worn blue jeans. From a pure fashion standpoint, it was clear the man would look good in any type of clothing—or nothing at all.

  He held her gaze as though aware of the affect he had on her. Her cheeks warmed at the fleeting thought of whether the “mile high club” was actually a thing.

  As though reading her thoughts, his smile went full-blown sexy and Caroline tingles invaded parts long overdue in the use department. Fearful her longing gaze might give away her lustful thoughts, she glanced away. How ridiculous. She couldn’t think of a man—much less a stranger—who’d ever had such a powerful effect on her.

  The remainder of the flight was spent in a futile attempt of whether to forget his “come-get-a-piece-of-this” smile or tackle him upon landing. This wasn’t in her wheelhouse—being attracted to strange men. She liked the slow progress of building a relationship, making sure the compatibility was going to stick before opening herself and her heart to something long-term. And lets’ face it—she wasn’t getting any younger. Not that she minded being a single, successful career woman. But sexy was sexy and this guy came loaded with it. She blamed Norah and her seductive tunes for planting such naughty thoughts in her brain.

  The elderly woman seated next to Caroline touched her arm. Caroline removed her earbuds. “Yes, may I help you?” she asked.

  “Me?” the woman responded with a soft smile. “I’m perfectly fine, but there is a handsome young man a few seats back that asked me to give you this.” She handed Caroline a slip of paper. On it was a phone number and a note scribbled with it-If you’ve never had a beignet and café au lait at midnight, I’d enjoy taking you to the Café.

  Butterflies—uncharacteristic for her—took flight in her stomach. She peeked between the seats, failing to see where he sat without moving out of her seat. She debated the wisdom of following through with the invitation. The man could be a serial killer for all she knew.

  “Seems like a nice boy,” the old woman said, chuckling low. She nodded toward the paper. “His phone number, I presume?”

  Caroline settled back in her seat, eyeing the note. She’d traveled Europe, experienced the flirtations of dozens of men—colleges at work, college friends at alumni events—but none with the impact of the handsome blue-eyed stranger. This was just crazy. She glanced at the woman who’d gone back to reading her dog-eared romance novel-clearly a favorite.

  “This is kind of crazy, right?” She held up the paper. “It’d be best to ignore this.”

  The woman peered at Caroline over the rim of bright yellow reading glasses. “Where you heading, honey?” she asked. He southern accent wrapped around Caroline warming her heart with the ease of a quilt.

  “New Orleans,” Caroline said.

  The woman shrugged. “Business or pleasure?”

  Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. “Pleasure, mostly. I’m meeting a friend for the weekend.”

  The old woman smiled. “Lady New Orleans, she is an enchantress.” The woman nodded with her thoughts. “I’ve seen more romance happen in that city than anyplace else I’ve been.”

  Caroline studied the old woman’s weathered expression, convinced in the creases of face lay the experience and wisdom of someone who knew what she was talking about.

  “Sometimes, you got to let fate take the reins, child.”

  Caroline listened intently feeling there was something here she was supposed to hear.

  “If it’s meant to be, then the lady—she’ll see to it that it happens.” The woman’s eyes narrowed, her dark eyes glittered with the wisdom of age. “That is, if you believe in fate.” She raised a brow. “Do you believe in fate, Miss…?” She held Caroline’s gaze expectantly.

  “Uh, Caroline.” She blinked from the woman’s mesmerizing gaze. “It’s Caroline.”

  The old woman smiled. “Ah, I see, Miss Caroline. That’s a fine name. Strong.” She peered at her. “You will need that strength, Miss Caroline.”

  Maybe she needed another gin and tonic.

  The woman chuckled under her breath and raised an impervious brow. “You thinking this old woman is crazy. She don’t have any idea about me. She’s just a crazy old bayou woman.”

  Caroline cleared her throat and glanced away. Unsure when exactly this flight had taken a turn into the Twilight Zone.

  “Let me see your hand, child.”

  “My hand?” Caroline asked, looking back at the woman. She was a petite little thing—somewhere between Driving Miss Daisy and Cicely Tyson. Complete with a pillbox hat.

  “Your hand, girl. Give it to me.” She held out her wrinkled hand with nails manicured in a flawless watermelon red.

  Caroline tentatively placed her hand in the woman’s palm.

  “Now, I have to tell you. I don’t like to make a practice of unscheduled readings,” she said as she turned Caroline’s hand over and traced her palm with a petite red nail. “See now, right there. It says you have a secret desire you been holding deep inside you.”

  She leaned over to follow the old woman’s assessment of her palm. “You can truly read that it my hand?” Her path of enchantment had taken a sudden turn down skeptical street.

  The woman smiled and gave her a wink. “You’ll see, honey child. That wall you have built up around you is about to come tumblin’ down.” She nodded. “Oh yes, baby girl. You are heading for a grand adventure of the heart. If you let yourself be open to it.” She looked up then and caught her gaze. “But you must take heed. For what you sow, so shall you reap.”

  She grinned and Caroline noticed the space between her front teeth. The kindly woman patted her hand. “You come down to New Orleans. The lady, she is waiting for you.”

  The plane jerked slightly causing Caroline to grab the old woman’s crooked hand.

  The overhead seat belt sign went on and the pilot came over the intercom. “Folks, we’d like to ask that you return to your seats and fasten your seat belts. We’re going to also ask the crew to please take their seats for the remainder of the flight. We’re headed for some mild turbulence on our approach into New Orleans. We’ll try to keep things smooth as we can. New Orleans is about thirty minutes. The temps are balmy, ninety degrees with rain showers. Next stop Louie Armstrong International.”

  Caroline gripped the woman’s hand and neither spoke a word for the next half hour. In a hurry to reach the restroom for fear of making a scene, she’d lost track of the silver-haired woman in the throng of people coming and going at the airport. As for the handsome stranger—he was nothing more than a phone number stuffed in the pocket of her rain jacket.

  Chapter Two

  Gavin had been stood up by women before—not often—but he’d live. Probably. The connection he’d felt when he
r dark gaze met his had been a punch to his solar plexis. In retrospect, maybe passing his phone number via the old woman wasn’t the smartest idea. Had all gone as he’d planned, he would have then traded seats with the woman and properly introduced himself. He had no idea what the lady had done with his note. Maybe she hadn’t deemed it necessary to pass the number along.

  Regardless, he watched his mysterious dark-eyed beauty scramble from the plane, nearly knocking over the attendant in an effort to speed down the hallway.

  By the time he exited the plane, she was gone. He found the elderly woman, however, who offered him a saucy smile and unsolicited advice. “I don’t dabble in the affairs of the heart, boy.”

  Clearly, the universe had been trying to tell him something.

  Securing his car rental, he decided to waste no time in heading straight out of the city. His phone buzzed with a notification and checking it he found a text from his mother.

  “You should have told me you’d planned to come down. We decided to try something new and listed the family cottage on one of those vacation share lists.”

  He pulled over and dialed her number.

  “Gavin, mon-chere. How are you, sweetheart?”

  What the hell had they done every to his cherished summer childhood summer memories? “You turned the—our cottage--into a bed and breakfast?” Yeah, so maybe his twelve-year-old side was showing a bit, but also his protective side. He didn’t care for the idea of strangers in his house, much less anyone snooping around the family cemetery.

  “Well, honey, had I known you’d be coming down, I wouldn’t have rented it, obviously. And no, it’s not a B & B. They have to fend for themselves. It’s one of those vacation share lists. You know, where the linens and the house are all you have to provide.”

  Gavin frowned staring at the traffic whizzing by on I-90. He had pulled into an old gas station to call.

  “You know you could stay at the house in town. You’d have it all to yourself.”

  He’d toyed with the idea, but one of the reasons he wanted to stay at the cottage was to walk down and see Olivia. He needed to talk with her, but he wouldn’t admit that to his mother. “What about the houseboat?”

  “Your father’s houseboat?” she asked with a hint of surprise.

  “You didn’t sell that when I wasn’t looking, did you?” he asked

  “Don’t sass me, young man. I’m still your mother.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Of course, the houseboat is still down there. Though Lord knows what creatures might be living on it by now. I think it’s been a couple of summers since your father has used it.” There was a brief silence. “You’d have to check the generator and there’s no food. You’d have to bring your own.”

  “I can handle that. Is the key still under the flowerpots in the shed?” He’d started the car, knowing where there was a twenty-four-hour grocery store just up the road. He had a number of good memories of his own on that houseboat. Ones of drinking and smoking cigars with his buddy, Patrick while still in high school, talking about what they wanted to do with their lives and later, even better memories of stolen moments with Olivia before they’d been married.

  His father had bought it from another doctor leaving New Orleans and for years they’d used it for fishing trips and the occasional family gathering. In later years however, his father had claimed it as his own sanctuary—a man cave of sorts, on the water. He’d spared no expense in furnishing it to have every convenience, including the building of a dock that had a large deck attached to the side of the boat. It was docked a few yards down the road from the house, just past the family plot, floating in an inlet of one of the many little tributaries that crisscrossed the area. If all went as planned, he and his mother’s renters need never cross paths. Just as he’d come to that conclusion his mother spoke, “You know these are our first renters. It might be the hospitable thing to do since you’re down there anywhere to check in on them and make sure everything is going well.”

  Damn. He knew that tone. The one that meant her suggestion wasn’t really a suggestion at all. He rubbed the tension knotting at the back of his neck. “I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

  “That’s be lovely dear. The one I spoke with—Louise—works with the Preservation of Historical places. You’d probably have much in common.”

  Ah, there it was. She’d been at him to start dating again and if he guessed correctly had already managed to bring her friend, Bayou Bonnie in on the task of finding him someone new—thing is, he wasn’t ready for that.

  “Are you in town long? Can you stay until we get back home?” she asked.

  He sighed quietly, guilt assuaging him as it usually did on the topic. “I’m only here for the weekend. It’s a fundraising event for the Evermore and a chance to visit with Patrick and Savannah.”

  “It’s a pity you can’t stay another week.”

  “Mom, I can’t. I have to get back. This was a last-minute trip. But I do have a realtor looking for a ranch big enough for me and the girls, close enough to a school. I’m hoping to move them before the fall.”

  A soft strangled sigh emitted over the line and he knew he hadn’t played fair dealing her the news on that manner. She’d been a large part of his girl’s lives since birth. “Well, then you just relax, if you can and have a good time. Maybe get in a little fishing or whatever else suits your fancy.”

  “Okay, we’re done. We’ll talk soon. I want to talk with you more about the girls coming up-”

  “Oh honey, your father’s calling to me. Kisses, love. See you soon.”

  His Bluetooth disconnected the call. He hadn’t yet found a way to convince his girls to move to Montana. Maybe Patrick would have some ideas.

  As he drove on, he shut off the air and rolled down the windows. He missed that smell, the air heavy with the scent of rain coming in wrapping its familiar arms around him, persuading him to take a breath, slow down a little-enjoy the moment.

  An hour later, he drove into the dirt road drive adjacent to the house, noting there was one of those boxy-looking cars in the drive. A few lights were on inside the house, but he wanted to get down to the houseboat, unload his supplies, and get the generator up and running before it got too much darker. He paused at the back corner of the garage and hopped out, searching in the shadowy twilight for the large rock where his family kept a spare key to the houseboat. Tucking it in his pocket he climbed in the car and started through the trees that bowed over the road This had been a great place to hang out as a kid. Evermore had been a short bike ride down the old county road and even shorter if he cut across the field to the dirt road that came up behind the plantation past the old slave cabins—preserved with care from the time when Evermore had been one of the leading sugar plantations in Louisiana. But he’d never ridden through the one-lane village after dark. Too many stories and legends floated like ghosts in the shadows. Growing up in Louisiana, especially with a mother with deep-seated beliefs in her hoodoo friend, Bonnie—a child learns to have a healthy respect for the spirits of the past. Bayou Bonnie, more than once, cautioned him to respect the turbulent history of where he lived And to understand that the spirit world lived right alongside of us each and every day—on a different plain—but all around us.

  Gavin shoved away such thoughts as his car’s headlights bounced off the black wrought iron fence that surrounded the family plot. In the dusky shadows of evening it appeared cold, foreboding. It was hard to think of Olivia there. She’d been so full of life, challenging him to try new things, take risks, live life. The world had been vibrant in her presence, and his world had turned to a muted gray since she’d been gone.

  A bright, full moon managed to peek through the growing cloud bank throwing a sliver of moonlight across the water. He stood at the side of his car for a moment, taking in the familiar sounds around him from the crickets and frogs hidden in the cool shade of the leaves to the occasional ker-plunk in the water that could signal anything from a fish to a gat
or, depending on who needed most to be cooled off.

  A heavier splashing sound drew him down the long dock toward the bow of the boat. He dropped his duffel on the deck and walked to the edge of the dock and narrowed his gaze across the dusky water. A dark object glided below him and at first, he thought it seemed pale for a gator, until he felt the dock sway and turned to see a woman climbing up the ladder. She hadn’t noticed him yet, but he’d already taken in her totally naked body, the water shimmering on her skin in the moonlight and the way her long, wet tresses curled around her firm breasts. His mouth had gone dry and truly his brain told him he should stop staring. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he looked down and saw the wadded towel on the dock and stopped to retrieve it for her, when a scream split the air. He had no time to prepare for the force that butted against his ribcage, throwing him off balance and into the water below.

  By the time he surfaced, sputtering river water from his mouth with greater concern than what might be swimming beneath the surface, his bayou mermaid had disappeared. He dragged himself up the ladder and stood on the dock, his clothes sodden and debated whether to go see if he’d frightened one of the cottage tenants. The houseboat sat, its windows dark, eyeing him in silence. To hell with that, he’d deal with it in the morning.

  An hour later, after a few small adjustments and a lot of cursing, he had managed to get the generator up and running, the small refrigerator plugged in and the only two lamps on the entire boat turned on. He’d changed into dry clothes, hung his wet clothes on the deck bridge railing, and had pried open two lawn chairs he’d found in storage. He leaned back in the lawn chair, an icy, cold beer in his hand, listening to the chorus of frogs vying for the last word, punctuated by the sound of an occasional plop in the water. As long as he watched where he stepped tomorrow morning—he and any resident gators would co-habitat peacefully this weekend.