Hurricane Season

by Lauren K. Denton

  “That sounds perfect.”

  There was so much more to say to these girls, so much she wanted to thank them for, but they were young, happy to be with their mom, happy to be going home. There was no need to burden them with a grown woman’s heart, even if it did feel whole for the first time in years.

  Ty hugged Jenna, then bent down low to the girls, his voice steady and quiet. A tear slipped down Betsy’s cheek. She flicked it away with her finger, then reached out to hug her sister. “You know I’m going to follow you out of here, right?”

  “You don’t have to do that. We’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will, but I just want to make sure. My mind’s made up.”

  Jenna smiled. “Thank you. For this, for them.” She nodded toward the girls who were climbing into the back of the car. “For everything.”

  Jenna’s car stopped at the light to turn onto I-10. Betsy sat behind in her own car. When the light turned green, Jenna beeped the horn and three arms stuck out of the windows and waved wildly. Betsy waved, then made a U-turn and headed back home.

  Out in the barn Ty was in the middle of the morning milking. The day before, he’d found 216 of his cows in the pasture where he’d left them before the storm. Two were missing and he’d yet to find them. It would take the herd some time to calm down and settle back into routine, but considering all they’d been through, they were doing fine.

  “It’s later than I’d like to be doing this—definitely later than they’d like—but they’re happy now,” Ty said. “We should be back on the regular schedule tomorrow.”

  He stood and kissed her head, pulled her in close, as if he thought by holding on tight to her, he’d keep her from coming apart. That was the thing though—she didn’t feel like she was coming apart. Instead, it felt like bits of her were returning, strands and wisps settling back into place after a long time away. Still, she let herself melt into his arms. He felt rock-solid.

  forty-one

  Jenna

  A few weeks later, Jenna sat in her car outside the Nashville Gallery of Arts trying to get up the nerve to open the door. She’d applied for the job—as photography assistant—on a whim just days after returning from Halcyon, not thinking she had a chance but feeling just brave enough to try.

  “Good for you,” Delores had said. Once Jenna had returned to Nashville, she and Delores had picked right back up with their nightly visits after the girls went to sleep. Delores clinked her wineglass to Jenna’s. “I’m proud of you, dear.”

  Jenna had been proud too. And a little giddy, which only intensified when she received an e-mail the next week asking her to come in for an interview. But now, staring at the sleek glass building, she was wracked with nerves. What had she been thinking? Jenna Sawyer—no college degree, only one summer of intensive photography instruction under her belt, and applying for a job like this?

  She smoothed her hair from her face and pulled her shoulders back. Do it, Jenna. Get out of the car. Before she could second-guess herself, she pushed open the car door, grabbed her bag, and entered the cool, temperature-regulated air of the lobby.

  “Thank you for agreeing to come in so early for your interview,” the museum director said as he led her down the hall to a large, airy office in the back. “We’re hanging a new installation later this morning, and this was the only time all day I could guarantee a few quiet minutes.”

  He sat and gestured for her to sit in the chair across from his desk. “Halcyon Art Retreat?” he mused as he scanned her résumé over the top of his glasses.

  “Yes, sir. It’s in central Florida, near the coast.”

  “Oh yes, I’m well aware of it. A few of our artists on display here have spent time at Halcyon. And I see you worked with Gregory Galloway.” He tapped his pen on the desk and looked up at her. “A lot of people would love a chance to spend the summer under his mentorship. I bet you learned a lot.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “I did. Much more than I expected to. It was . . . life-changing.”

  The director raised his eyebrows. “I see.”

  Half an hour later, she walked out of the gallery into the morning sunshine with a grin on her face. The interview had gone well. Very well. And who would have thought Gregory would have played a part in it?

  On a whim, she swung by Full Cup on her way home. She was off today, but she hadn’t yet had a chance to catch up with Mario and a few other baristas she used to work alongside. Her shifts started at ten now, and by that time, business was in full swing and there was no time for chatting.

  She found a space out front and checked the time before she hopped out to pay the parking meter. Nine fifteen. As she approached the glass door, she saw Mario standing at the counter handing a whipped cream–topped drink to a lady with white hair and cowboy boots. A barista she didn’t recognize was ringing up a customer. Another one stood in the back on tiptoes pulling a syrup bottle off the top shelf. Jenna pushed open the door, prepared to go straight to the counter to talk to her friends, but almost involuntarily, her eyes searched the room.

  Or maybe not involuntarily. If she was honest, she’d have to admit he was the person she most hoped to see.

  After a quick scan, she determined she’d missed him. Maybe he grabbed his coffee to-go now. Or maybe he didn’t even come here anymore.

  Just as she was waving to Mario, a group of ladies in the back stood to leave. As they made their way to the front of the store, tossing leftover bits of pastry and lipstick-stained napkins in the trash, she saw him. His back was to the door and his thumbs were busy typing out a message on his phone. Other than his phone and a sheaf of papers, his table was empty.

  Mario cleared his throat. Jenna held up her hand and mouthed, Sorry. He rolled his eyes, and Jenna made her way to the back of the store.

  She hesitated before speaking. His back was still turned—she could leave now and he would never even know she’d been there. But even from behind, he felt good. Safe. A little like home.

  “Sam?”

  He turned. A slow smile stretched across his face.

  “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  forty-two

  Betsy

  In the weeks after the storm, Betsy had mostly ignored her garden. There was so much else to do around the farm—clearing debris and hauling trash, finding the two missing cows and the owner of the rogue kayak. Helping neighbors whose homes or property hadn’t fared as well as theirs had. A tree had fallen clear across the garden during the height of the storm, crippling the split-rail fence on three sides and coating her carefully planted rows in splintered bark and wet leaves. With everything else going on, it seemed easier to just leave it and come back to it later.

  But today when she passed the garden on her way back up to the house, the rich, dark soil called to her. What she thought would just be a quick walk down the rows to see what, if anything, had survived had turned into a half hour on her hands and knees in the dirt collecting handfuls of sticks and acorns and tossing them away from the garden.

  She’d just paused in the shade of the oak tree when she heard the screen door open, then slam shut. She smiled. Ty was coming to check on her. When he reached her, he handed her a glass of ice water. “Remember what the doctor said. Don’t try to do too much.”

  “I know.” She took a long sip of water. “He said to keep my stress level low. Gardening is about as low stress as it gets. And you’re going to have to stop worrying about me. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve done this.”

  “I know, I know.” He reached over and brushed dirt off her cheek. “I want you to rest if you need it.”

  “I will. You have my word. Now let me get back in there and fix my garden.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She still couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to go back to see Dr. Fields again. Or that Ty had been the one to suggest it.

  “A lot has happened since we were there last,” he’d said. “We’re stronger now. Maybe we give it o
ne more shot.”

  She’d been hesitant to go back to that waiting room of muted colors and hushed voices, the blood draws, the urine specimens, everyone’s cautious optimism. But Ty had a feeling, so they tried one more IUI. It was as strange and awkward as it had been the other three times they’d done it, but this time they laughed as they left the office, their hearts not heavy as before. Ty took her out to an early dinner at LuLu’s and they celebrated with shrimp po’boys and dancing to a bluegrass band.

  They wouldn’t know the results for at least another week, but unlike last time when she chewed through her fingernails while waiting on the call, this time she felt calm. Whatever happened, she knew they’d be okay.

  She was walking down the last row of the garden when sunlight filtered through the high clouds and something caught her eye. Approaching carefully, she saw a bright-green shoot pushing up from the earth. It was next to the trunk of the fallen tree they’d yet to clear away—a few more inches and the bud would have been flattened. As it happened though, it stood proud and tall, unscathed by the storm, having pushed itself through the mangled vines and splintered wood of her garden.

  She knew what it was. She and the girls had planted the autumn crocus bulb a few weeks before the storm. Addie had set the bulb down in the shallow hole and Walsh covered it with a layer of dirt.

  The bud looked so vulnerable—a lone spot of life in the wreckage. She was tempted to protect it, to pluck it out of the ground and bring it inside the house where nothing could harm it. She imagined the green stem and delicate purple bloom perched in a milk glass vase in the center of her kitchen table, reminding her daily of life, precious and sweet.

  But when her fingers closed around the shoot, she paused. Having weathered and survived the storm’s fury, the stalk felt strong and healthy beneath her fingertips. It had already proved itself. She pulled her hand away. It would do just fine on its own.

  That night after dinner, she and Ty sat on the swing together on the back porch. Fireflies blinked in the darkness and cicadas scratched out their nightly concert. As they rocked back and forth, Betsy thought of the hurricane that had flung itself so mercilessly at the Gulf Coast. Weeks before landfall, the storm had begun as a puff of air, a gentle breeze that floated across Africa, picking up dust and dirt and red Saharan heat. It coasted to the ocean where it spread out over the water like milk from an overturned bucket.

  The warm water of the Atlantic agitated that formerly gentle breeze, particles mixing and mingling, until it became a cauldron. A tempest. An angry, steaming force to be feared. It unleashed its fury at the point of landfall, then moved inland, leaving a trail of damage and upheaval in its wake.

  Yet it also left behind unexpected beauty and bursts of new life. A tiny green shoot pushing through the garden soil. Hope shining like a beacon in the dark places.

  Acknowledgments

  I understand now, more than ever, how it takes a village—an enthusiastic, generous, and savvy village—to launch a book into the world.

  Thank you to the entire Thomas Nelson family, especially Amanda Bostic, Allison Carter, Paul Fisher, Kristen Golden, Jodi Hughes, Kristen Ingebretson, Karli Jackson, and Becky Monds. Thank you to Allison and Kristen G. for answering my million questions and helping me navigate this new world of publicity, marketing, and general author business! Thank you to Karli for your incredibly wise and insightful reading and careful editing of Hurricane Season and to Jodi for jumping into Hurricane Season in Karli’s absence and taking care of me. Thank you to Kristen I. for another gorgeous cover. Thank you to Julee Schwarzburg for another round of careful and fun edits. Thank you to the entire sales team who works so hard to get my books into the hands of bookstores around the country. Thank you also to my sharp and savvy agent, Karen Solem, who is always quick with encouragement and can tamp down my anxiety with just a few calm words.

  Thank you to my friends in Alabama Writers Connect: Doug Bullock, Michael Calvert, Nancy Dorman-Hickson, Anna Gresham, Chuck Measel, Denise Trimm, and Jennifer Walker-Journey. Thank you for throwing the yellow flag when necessary. You all helped me dig deeper than I thought I could, and Hurricane Season is much stronger for it. I’ll bring the wine next time.

  Thank you to friends who read this story in the early stages and gave helpful feedback: Anna Gresham, Ella Olson, Sara Beth Cobb. A huge thank-you to Will Gilmer of Gilmer Dairy Farm in Lamar County, Alabama, and Kerra Middleton and Robert Middleton of Middleton Farms in Moss Point, Mississippi, for answering my questions about cows, storms, and dairy farming. You all provided such helpful feedback, and if I got anything wrong, it’s on me, not you!

  Thank you to all the book bloggers, book communities, and book reviewers who helped spread word about The Hideaway to new readers. You’re a tremendous help to authors, especially new ones like me, and I was honored time and time again by the welcoming embrace you all gave me! Thank you especially to Kristy Barrett, Barbara Bos, Jen Cannon, Dena Charlton, Danielle Feliciano, Kellye Garrett and the 17 Scribes community, Holly Hamblin, Lisa Munley, Jenny O’Regan, Laura Rash, Kristen Swanson, and Jessi Tarbet. Thank you also to bookstores and librarians all over the country who put The Hideaway on your shelves. I hope you and your readers enjoy Hurricane Season just as much.

  Thank you to Eric Holsomback for answering a pile of questions about cameras and darkroom procedures. Thank you to Laura McLeod and my mom, Kaye Koffler, for being my south Alabama publicists! Thank you to Anna Gresham for the brainstorming, laughter, and conversation that continues to be a lifeline. So glad you Facebook stalked me.

  Thank you to my sweet little family: Matt, Kate, and Sela. Thank you for putting up with papers and Post-its spread all over the house, for letting me escape when necessary to figure out the characters and other worlds in my head, and for sharing in my excitement and joy over this crazy book-writing thing. I love you and am so thankful for you. Thank you to the rest of my wildly supportive, funny, and loving family: Randy and Kaye Koffler, Joe and Charlotte Denton, Jake and Leigh Koffler, William and Connie Seale, and assorted Kofflers, Rolls, Handwergers, Cranes, and Kirbys. Thank you to everyone who read The Hideaway and took time to tell me you enjoyed it, and thank you for telling other friends about it!

  Thank you to writer Dani Shapiro for the enormous encouragement and wisdom found in her book Still Writing. Her essays about the struggles and joys of writing helped pull me through the “I can’t do this” sections of Hurricane Season.

  Even though I’ve been breathing in books like air for as long as I can remember, this is a “job” I never imagined I’d actually be doing. Thank you, Lord, for the opportunity, and I pray I can continue to write stories that entertain as well as allow readers to feel a sense of connection and of being heard.

  Discussion Questions

  1.At the start of the book, Jenna loved her children but she also longed for a way to pursue her creative impulses. Did you understand her feeling of not knowing how to balance motherhood obligations with the need/desire to pursue her art and live a creative life? Or was it frustrating to see her making choices you wouldn’t make?

  2.Betsy longed to have children, but when it looked like pregnancy wouldn’t happen for her, she closed the door on that dream. Do you have any experience with having to mentally move on from something you desired that wasn’t totally in your control to achieve?

  3.As much as he could, Ty tried to understand Betsy’s feelings and choices. Do you agree with how he handled her dealings with Jenna and her decision to talk to the principal about school? Should he have responded or handled the situations in a different way?

  4.Is there one character you connect with more than the others? Maybe because of his or her actions, inaction, hesitations, or desires?

  5.If a woman takes time off from work or family obligations to pursue something she enjoys, do you think our society’s reaction to that mother’s choice is different from a man wanting the same thing? Would a man receive comments like “You’re a parent—you really s
hould be home with your children”? Would it be easier for a man to pursue his passions and hobbies because he doesn’t have mom guilt? Or do you think parents across the board battle guilt and pressure when trying to balance family obligations with personal desires?

  6.It’s often difficult for people who experience no trouble having children to understand the internal feelings of those whose path includes infertility. What was your reaction to how Betsy handled her feelings of failure and inadequacy? If you feel comfortable sharing, have you or has someone you know ever dealt with infertility?

  7.Toward the end of the book, Jenna had the option to continue pursuing her art by moving to California and taking the job as Gregory’s assistant at Berkeley. Do you think she could have made that option work? What about her children? Ultimately, she decided all she needed was to feel she had a choice in the matter but that she didn’t need to take the job and go to California to feel fulfilled—she could do that at home with her children in the life they’d made for themselves. How did you react to her choices at the end?

  8.What was your reaction to Gregory? Did you understand the connection between him and Jenna? Did you see him as trying to get her to make bad or selfish choices or as honestly trying to help her pursue the creative life she desired?

  9.Over the course of the few months before Jenna left Nashville, Sam Oliver became a constant in her life by showing up every day (except Friday) to have coffee with her. What do you think he represented to her? What do you think he saw in her that kept him coming back? Was he just a distraction for Jenna or do you think they could have developed a deeper connection once she returned to Nashville?

  10.Jenna’s two friends were Max and Delores, both much older and wiser than she was. Why do you think she developed such important relationships with these two people? How did they affect her throughout the book?