by Ellen Block
Her face instantly brightened. She belted out one of her signature laughs, relieved. “Gracious, I thought you were about to smack me. I heard what happened at the Kettle. Really, Abby, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side o’ you. Ever again, I mean,” she said, amending the statement.
Abigail affected a tough stance. “Is that a promise?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Cross my heart. Not my fingers.”
As Lottie scurried off, Abigail had to admit the debacle at the Kozy Kettle was starting to work in her favor. There was a hidden benefit to being “the Boston Bruiser.” She could intimidate her landlord.
“Maybe you are a badass,” Abigail told herself. But it was a stretch to feel strong with a hurricane looming.
The lines at the registers were lengthy and comprised mainly of women. Janine was at one register. The woman Abigail had seen with Janine’s husband was working the other. Abigail opted for the mistress rather than the wife. The ladies in line were reminiscing about hurricanes past.
“I lost my front windows in ’96,” one recounted. “Boy, was my husband pissed about having to replace ’em.”
“I lost every window that year. Least I got brand new shutters out of that hurricane,” remarked another.
“I had to put on a new roof after the storm in ’92,” one woman complained, caressing her daughter’s hair. “Hope I won’t have to do that again.”
The consensus appeared to be that, though inconvenient, the hurricane would come and go. All that could be done was to hope for the best. Abigail hadn’t had much hope lately. When she did, it was usually to exclusion: She hoped she wouldn’t have nightmares, that she wouldn’t start crying, that her memories wouldn’t unravel her. Abigail wished she could absorb some of their hope for her own.
When she arrived at the register, the woman pretended not to recognize her. Abigail did the same. While she waited, a gray-haired lady with a walker in Janine’s line accidentally dropped a bag of oranges, scattering them across the floor. Abigail went to gather the fallen fruit and came face-to-face with Janine as they both bent down.
“Thanks,” Janine said to Abigail.
Though there was no irritation or irony in her voice, that was the most she was willing to give. Having a hurricane on the way left no time for animosity, justified or not. They were both in danger, which made them equals.
A note was waiting for Abigail on the back door to Merle’s store. It read: Abby, Had to bring tools to a friend so he could board up his windows. Your stuff is next to the register.
“Merle the mind reader.”
She cut through the kitchen into the shop and ran smack into a heavyset man wearing suspenders.
“Hey there, Abby. Getting ready for Ms. Amelia’s arrival?”
“Um, yes,” she admitted warily. Then she remembered who he was—the bartender at the Wailin’ Whale as well as the caller at the bingo game.
“Some people might start to wonder.”
“About?”
“You get here, then lo and behold, along comes a big ol’ hurricane. Some might say you’re bringing Chapel Isle the wrong kind of luck.”
The man was kidding. Nonetheless, Abigail felt a stitch of personal responsibility. Had she dragged her misfortune with her from Boston, unable to leave it behind or outrun it?
“Aw, I’m joking. Some luck’s better than no luck, right?”
“We’ll have to wait until after the hurricane to decide.”
“That we will,” he replied, and went on his way.
The bartender wasn’t alone in the store. Two other men were milling around, picking items from the shelves. Before leaving, they wrote what they took on a clipboard Merle had beside the register. Abigail was astonished at the amount of trust he put in people. He chose to believe they wouldn’t steal from him, that they would be honest. As far as Abigail could tell, that was exactly what they did. Like hope, trust required a certain amount of willful ignorance. That was why she found it so difficult.
Her shopping complete, Abigail headed over to the Kozy Kettle to find Denny. The café was empty except for a handful of men, including Bert and Denny, who were sitting at the counter along with Sheriff Larner. A radio played, updating the latest on the hurricane.
“Hey, Abby.” Denny waved her over, excited. “Get this. Last report said Hurricane Amelia’s turning into a Category Five. That’s, like, totally huge. We’re going to have to evacuate.”
“Got the final word from the state police,” Larner added. “Denny, that means you and your dad are going to have to run straight shifts.” He turned to Abby. “I suggest you catch an early one. The shelters fill up fast. Want to make sure you get a bed.”
The enormity of what was happening had Abigail’s head throbbing.
“You seem disappointed,” Bert said.
“I just got here and now I have to leave.”
“Chapel Isle isn’t going anywhere, Abby.”
She knew that was true. It helped to hear it, though.
“Yeah, the shelters aren’t the greatest,” Denny remarked. “At least you can come home to a nice house full of pretty furniture.”
Bert elbowed Denny in the side.
“Oops.”
As fast as rumors flew around town, Lottie would learn about the furniture by morning, which made Abigail rue having to decamp even more.
“My bad,” Denny whispered to her, as Ruth came out of the kitchen holding a paper bag.
“Here you are, Caleb. One cheeseburger and one hamburger with pickles on the side. Hey, Abby. What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a—” Ruth stopped herself.
Everyone was quiet save for the newscaster on the radio, who was citing 180-mile-per-hour winds and twenty-foot swells off the Florida coast.
Sheriff Larner handed Ruth a ten, took his food, and left, saying, “Keep the change.”
Ruth watched him go. “Is it me or is Caleb grouchier than normal?”
“He must have a lot to do to prepare for the hurricane,” Abigail said, while Bert stared at the floor.
“Must be.”
“Guess I’ll be seeing the three of you on the ferry tomorrow morning?” Abigail asked.
“You’ll see me for sure,” Denny chirped.
Neither Bert nor Ruth replied.
“Didn’t the radio report say the evacuation was mandatory?”
“Mandatory schmandatory.”
“Ditto,” Bert added.
Abigail had been on Chapel Isle for only a short time, yet she hated the idea of leaving.
“If you guys aren’t evacuating, why should I?”
“You’ve never been through this before,” Ruth told her. “It’s damn terrifying.”
“If it’s so terrifying, why do you stay?”
The answer was the same as Merle’s. Ruth and Bert had lived most of their lives on Chapel Isle. If they were going to die, it was going to be here, in their home.
“Denny, you make certain Abby gets on the ferry with you tomorrow, hear me?” Ruth was insistent.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You ought to get a suitcase together, hon.”
The thought of packing her bags again made Abigail’s heart cramp.
“Can we go, Denny?”
“Sure thing.”
“Don’t forget there’s the bingo tonight,” Ruth mentioned. “The last hurrah, if you’re interested. Get your mind off the hurricane.”
Denny downed the rest of his soda. “Bert, you coming?”
“Nope, I can walk. Bye, Abby,” he said with a wave.
veridical (və rid′i kəl), adj. 1. truthful; veracious. 2. corresponding to facts; not illusory; real; actual; genuine. Also, verid′ic. [1645–55; < L vēridicus (vēr(us) true + –i– –I– + –dicus speaking) + –AL1] —verid′ical′ity, n. —verid′ically, adv.
Evening seemed to be welling up from between the juniper and wax myrtle rather than filtering down from the sky. The temperature had plummeted. Denny raised the truck’s windows and cra
nked the heat.
“It’ll take a minute to get warm.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you aren’t acting fine.”
Resentment was a stopper in her throat. The fire had stolen everything from her. Now the hurricane was dictating her life. Abigail’s own desires felt insignificant.
“I’m a real good listener if you want to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Denny.”
“I know you’re new in town and we’re kinda strangers—”
“No, I’m the stranger.” Her voice began to climb. “This was an idiotic, impetuous idea. I shouldn’t have come here.”
Denny was quiet. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you shouldn’t have.”
“What?”
“If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t stay.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
“Then why’d you say it was idiotic?”
Frustrated, Abigail pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is. You want to be here or you don’t.”
“Denny, there are some things you can’t understand.”
Even in profile, eyes on the road, he looked wounded. “I might not be book smart the way some people are, but I’m smart enough to know that there are only two kinds of things in this world. Those you have a say in and those you don’t. Being smart means you can tell the difference.”
He pulled into the gravel drive and waited for Abigail to get out of the truck.
“Denny—”
“I gotta get home. Pop’s waiting on me.”
After Abigail gathered her bags from the flatbed, Denny drove off.
She watched his truck disappear around the bend. “Smooth move, Abby.”
In the dark, she could hear the ocean, though she couldn’t see it because of the plywood on the windows. The waves were bashing against the rocks, drawing attention to how close the lighthouse was to the water. Like a maidenhead on the prow of a ship, the lighthouse would have to bear the brunt of whatever came its way.
“This lighthouse has been here for ages. This isn’t the first hurricane it’s withstood.”
It was, however, Abigail’s first hurricane. She had to try to be as steadfast as the lighthouse.
With the windows boarded shut, the house was especially dark. She turned on all the lights and tuned her radio in to the latest weather update. Amelia was churning along the coast, wreaking havoc on Miami. The reporter described horizontal rain and palm trees fanning to and fro. Meanwhile, Abigail unpacked a miniarsenal of flashlights, spare batteries, and bottled water onto the dining-room table.
“Ready or not.”
She switched off the radio. She’d heard enough. Abigail would pack her suitcase and depart on the morning ferry. The hurricane was one of those things she didn’t have a say in. That made her feel trapped.
Not as trapped as Nat Rhone must feel.
She tried to put him out of her mind. She wouldn’t have a say in what happened to Nat either.
Once she’d filled her duffel bag with a few days’ worth of clothes, Abigail found herself meandering aimlessly through the house. She paced the bedroom and wandered to the study, memorizing the rooms in case she didn’t see them again.
The romance novel she’d been reading was splayed open on the bookcase. Her pulse quickened. She hadn’t put it there.
Then Abigail recalled that Nat had set the book on the shelf as they were moving the furniture. She thought of him in his cell and the parable of his life. His parents had died, leaving him alone and adrift, and what befell him seemed to be a tragedy of his own creation. Abigail had been left too. What were Nat Rhone’s chances after such a start in life? What were hers?
She would be gone the next day and the lighthouse would weather the storm without her, yet she would always be weathering her own storm, the gales that her grief would bring, the tidal rushes of tears, the surge of memories, and the rain of everyday reality without her husband and son. It was a storm she would have to wait out no matter where she was. Where she wanted to be was Chapel Isle.
Abigail picked up the romance novel, sat at the desk, and let the book carry her away.
Fiction, as a form, was not that different from the dictionary. Every feeling and fact, even the etymology of emotion, could be found between the letters of A and Z. Alphabetization acted as the plot, and each word was a character with its own personality. Despite the absence of rising action, a climax, or a denouement, the dictionary told an honest tale.
The same might not have been said about the romance novel Abigail was reading. She took pleasure in polishing it off nonetheless. The hero won his battle, the villain got his comeuppance, the star-crossed lovers had their stars uncrossed, and those who were intended to live happily ever after did. Though happily ever after wasn’t in the dictionary, Abigail chose to believe the concept wasn’t reserved solely for fiction.
“Congratulations, Heiress,” she said, pushing back from the new desk. “Same to you, Captain. Have fun sailing the high seas together.”
The house had grown so cold that Abigail could see her breath. She was starving but in no mood to start a fire. The bingo hall at the fire station would be warm, and Denny would be there. She needed to apologize to him.
“And they have hot dogs. Junk food is better than no food.”
With the keys in the front door, the phone flashed in her peripheral vision. Abigail had been meaning to call her parents. They were probably beside themselves with worry. She felt terrible for putting them through that. It was selfish. But she hated being grilled about how she was faring. She wanted to be normal again, and if that wasn’t going to happen, then she wanted to be left alone.
Her parents were relieved when she phoned them. They’d heard about the hurricane on the news and were concerned for her safety. Abigail spent the next half hour guaranteeing them that she wasn’t in danger and that she was being evacuated to a shelter to wait out the storm. What she omitted from the conversation was the state of the lighthouse and its former—or not so former—occupant. Instead, she waxed on about the pristine beaches and the charm of the town.
She could tell that her parents would have preferred to have her home. Her mother questioned if she was eating well. Abigail lied and said she was. Her father made her promise to call more often. Abigail agreed, and that wasn’t a lie. After hanging up, she had to admit the anticipation of the phone call was far worse than the call itself. She crossed her fingers that the same would be true of the hurricane.
The fire station’s hall was full, the vibe festive, as if the next day were the Fourth of July, not a mandatory evacuation. Abigail saw Ruth sitting close to the bingo board. She had an entire folding table papered with cards.
“Couldn’t resist coming to bingo,” Abigail told her.
Ruth removed her purse from the chair beside her. “Who can? Had a hunch you’d show. I set aside some cards for you.”
The man with the suspenders Abigail had bumped into at Merle’s store that afternoon took his position at the microphone and ceremoniously welcomed everyone to the game.
“This here Hurricane Amelia might be bigger than us and faster than us, but she can’t out-bingo us,” he declared, rousing a cheer from the crowd.
“Keep those cards warm for me for a minute,” Abigail said to Ruth. “There’s something I have to do.”
Denny was standing with his father, waiting in line to order food.
“This is on me,” she told the girl behind the counter.
“That’s okay,” Denny said, still hurt. “I can get my own.”
“Denny, please. I apologize for what I said.”
“What’s going on, Denny?” his father asked gruffly.
“It’s no big deal, Pop.”
“If it’s no big deal, then pay the gal what you owe her and let’s get to our table. Game’s fixin’ to start.”
“Denny, I really am
sorry. The least I can do is treat you to a hot dog. You too, Mr. Meloch.”
Denny’s father was so taken aback that he blushed.
“How about some sodas?”
“Whadaya say, Pop?”
“Hold on. What’s this about?” his father demanded.
“It’s about your son giving me the smartest piece of advice I’ve ever heard.”
It was Denny’s turn to blush. “You mean that, Abby?”
“Yes, I do. I’d pay close attention to that son of yours, Mr. Meloch. He could teach you a lot.” The perennially stern man was reduced to a perplexed silence that made Denny grin.
“Mustard and relish?” Abigail asked.
“Why not?” Mr. Meloch shrugged.
She left Denny and his father to eat their dinner while she took a hot dog of her own to Ruth’s table. Famished, she finished half of it before reaching her seat.
“Watch you don’t take off some of your fingers,” Ruth cautioned. “You’ll need ’em to mark these bingo cards.”
Between bites, Abigail said, “I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Me, I’ve been carbo-loading like this bingo game is a marathon. I’m primed for a win. I can tell the cards are hot. Tonight’s my night.”
Five minutes later a teenage boy shouted, “Bingo.”
“That’s it. I’m not talking about the cards anymore. I’m jinxing myself. No more bingo talk.”
The caller started the next game and Ruth went mum.
“How about another topic?” Abigail suggested.
“Be my guest.”
Though Sheriff Larner had sworn her to secrecy, she recounted the story of Hank Scokes’s death in Ruth’s ear, stunning her to the point that she stopped playing altogether.
“You can’t tell anyone, Ruth. Not a soul.”
“Hand to God, I won’t.”
“I only told you because I feel certain Nat had nothing to do with it. I don’t know how to make Larner see that he’s wrong about him.”
“I don’t think Nat did it either, but it’s not my place to say why.”
“I don’t understand.”
She signaled for Abigail to lower her voice. “Hank came to me in confidence. Told me private information. Very private.”