“How’s the knee this morning?” He glances up at me as he places a small china sugar bowl and an elegant china creamer on the coffee table. I take a seat beside Béatrice on the couch as he passes me my Earl Grey, already stirred, exactly how I like it.
“It’s fine. Sore kneecap, but fine otherwise. Enough about me. Why did this poor girl feel she had to come and work here in the storm?”
“It’s my only job. I need it,” I hear her say firmly, and when I turn to her, I see fear in her eyes.
I look away, taken aback. I’ve never felt what I see in her eyes in my life. I’m trying to come up with a screenplay to sell so I can get my writing career back on track, but I know I have a backup plan if that goes awry. My mom will lend me money, or I’ll get a smaller condo, or I could take some contract business writing work for a while. This girl doesn’t look like she has options. She looks malnourished, tired, and alone. What’s her story?
As she stirs cream into her tea, Tripp hands her a plate of crumpets with jam, then sits back in what I’m now coming to think of as “his” recliner. “We still have no power, but I used my camping BioEase Kettlepot to boil the water. I even warmed the crumpets in there.
Ah, so that’s how he did it. He is such an adept scientist, chef, and woodsman. Remind me to always take him with me in a crisis.
Holy three-sixty, Hannah! I’ve come a long way from trying to manipulate and kick him out of this place! Mom was right: the heart knows what it wants and best of luck to any brain that gets in its way.
“Béatrice and I met once before.” Tripp looks at me, reaches down to give his loyal friend Coffee a chin scratch, and then, as though reading my mind, proceeds to answer all of my questions about our house guest. “I practiced my French with her. I was a little rough around the edges, because it’s been a while since I’ve spoken it, but a little English from her, a few French words from me… we managed to make it work.
“She’s from the Côte d’Ivoire and came here to work with her mother when she was eleven. They fled their country at the height of the civil war there, but soon after, her mother died of kidney disease. Béatrice somehow managed to hide from social services, stayed in her house along the shore, and found work with the tourists. She’s been unemployed for a while but got this job at the start of this year.
“She’s very sweet, and she said she’s doing fine, but I’m concerned about her,” he says. “She came to clean just the other day. She doesn’t have to be here again.” He turns to her, now that she has finished her crumpets and is sipping some tea.
“Béatrice, is your power off as well? Do you have heat?”
“The heat is on… rawwk! On the street.” Jughead starts singing loudly, flapping his wings. Béatrice may not be fluent in English, but she definitely knows this is funny. She starts chuckling and coughing into a napkin.
Jughead picked that one up from me, I must confess. I have a slight obsession with early 80’s tunes. Poor boy, stuck back in time. I do prefer his singing to his swearing, though. He hasn’t called out angry curse words in a couple days. I think he’s happier in this environment, with Tripp and I looking after him, and with Coffee for company, although she tends to think she’s the boss of him.
Nineteen
Hannah
I get up quickly, walk over to his cage and feed him a few pieces of papaya and mango. I know he must feel cooped up in there, but there’s no way I’m letting him fly around the room. Even when I clean the cage, I don’t let him out. I don’t want to risk losing him. Not with conditions being what they are outside.
“Jughead is incorrect. I have no heat, but is ok,” Beatrice explains. “I have small wood stove. I placed another set of sandbags along shore late last night. Was very cold job, but I got it done…” She smiles at us, and I want to wrap my arms around her and give her a hug. Sandbagging, all alone, in this weather?
“The waters are still rising? No one’s come to help? You could lose your home.”
“No one knows I’m there, I don’t think, no.” She looks down at her lap. It’s true, if the girl has been trying to avoid the government putting her in foster care, she wouldn’t want them discovering her situation.
“But you’re eighteen now, right? It’s okay. I’m going to call some people.” Tripp gets up and heads to the kitchen, and then I hear him sighing. “That is, if my phone isn’t dead, I can call some people.”
“I have a portable power bank,” I call to him. “That should help.” I haven’t used the power bank on my own phone yet and suddenly realize Mom may be worrying about me. I haven’t texted her since I arrived here. Come to think of it, I haven’t even checked to see if Good Nights has responded to my complaint. And yet, it doesn’t matter anymore. This is surreal. A couple days ago I was miserable about having to share my space with Tripp. Now, I don’t want to leave.
“Of course, you brought a power bank, Princess,” he calls back playfully. “Uh,” I hear him add a second later, “can I take back the teasing? I think I’m going to need that.”
“You bet,” I call back, smiling to myself. Two days ago, who on earth would have thought he’d actually ask me for my help?
“I must go clean now.” Beatrice starts to get up.
“What? You’re kidding, right? We have to save your home! This one is solid and on a hill. We don’t mind a few dust bunnies. I’ll clean it later if I have to. Let’s go sandbag.”
“You?” She looks at me, glances down at my knee, then looks back up into my eyes.
I think I’ve just offered to clean toilets on my vacation for this young girl. I’m not used to this version of me. I like her, but I’m not used to her.
I give her a smile, then take her by the shoulder, leading her to the kitchen where we can join forces with Tripp. I’m limping this morning, but not as badly as yesterday. The Advil and slow movement seem to be helping. Mom always told me I was a terrible patient, but I can’t just lie on the couch all day. I desperately want to help this girl, so I hope Tripp doesn’t veto my choice to go with them.
When we reach the kitchen, Tripp is on the phone, probably on its last bit of battery juice. A few seconds later he finishes his call and hands it to me.
“You go plug this one and your own phone into the power pack, and Béa and I will start making some sandwiches with whatever’s still cool in the fridge. We’re going to work up some hunger out there.”
I love how this man moves right into action, and that he’s involved me without hesitation. Doug used to exclude me from so many parts of his life. I never felt like we were a team. I nod, and as I slowly turn to go, he takes me by the waist and turns me back to look at him.
“You sure this isn’t too much for you? I don’t want that knee getting any worse.”
“I’m probably not going to be the greatest help to you with moving the sandbags around, but I can at least tie the things and serve up food. Don’t worry.”
Béatrice has her back to us, already buttering some bread, but it’s not the privacy I seek. Suddenly, this rather large house feels crowded. I wish I could grab Tripp by his biceps, nestle my face into that beard, kiss his full lips. I’m going to be dreaming about that the entire time we’re working out along the shore.
“Rawk? Can you feel it? Burning, burning, burning.” Jughead’s singing my favorite 80’s tune again. Coffee pokes her head around the kitchen door and barks at him, and he goes quiet. As I walk away, I hear Tripp chuckling, then explaining to Béatrice how Jughead’s moved on from angry curse words to cheesy 80’s classics.
Once I’ve butt-scootched my way up the stairs, I plug both phones in the power bank on the oak dresser, then head to my bathroom and take a couple ibuprofen out of my toiletries case. I take them with water, setting aside a few more to put in my jeans’ pocket for later, then sit on my bed, pull up my nightshirt, and inspect my knee.
The swelling has gone dow
n a little, but the side of it feels heavy, as though weighed down with a rock inside it, and painful with every movement. I can’t let Tripp know. He’ll focus on getting me better, maybe even getting me to a hospital on the mainland, when all I really want is to stay here with him and help this sweet girl. I can’t stop picturing that anxious look in her dark brown eyes, over and over in my mind; and now that Tripp has told me her story, I can’t forget that she’s hiding years of fear and loneliness behind that friendly smile.
It’s a struggle, but I manage to carefully pull on my jeans and an old white t-shirt that I don’t mind getting dirty. I look in the mirror and begin to brush my hair when I hear a familiar yet jarring tone.
Chirrrp. Chirrrp. Chirrrrp.
Facetime call from Jillian! the screen reads. It sounds like a canary that swallowed an old Internet dial up server, or a vibrator, or both. Either way, the canary is growing increasingly agitated.
I haven’t thought about networking or connecting to the outside world for nearly two days now. It’s weird. When I first got here, all I could think about was tweeting out my problems to strangers, telling everyone what I was doing, and then contacting Good Nights for a refund. Then, our service got disrupted, our lights went out, and Tripp and I connected with one another. I haven’t missed the outside world for one second since he carried me over to that dinner table.
I grab my phone, sit on the bed and slide the button to accept the call. Jill’s grinning face lights up my screen.
“Hannah Storm. You live and breathe!”
“I do. I’m sorry. I’m fine. We had no power, no cell service. This means it’s back! I hope you weren’t too worried.”
Jill is lying on a crisp white hotel bed, her phone attached to some fancy clip on the bedside table. “I wasn’t too bad, since you told me you were seeking adventure, but I didn’t expect you to pull a total Huck Finn. Your Mom and a few other people are having mild panic attacks. I can text her right after this if you want, but you should Facetime her next.”
“Can you tell her I’m fine? I’ll get in touch, but I can’t right now.”
“It’s two a.m. here in L.A., same in Burnaby. Maybe wait a little.” She chuckles. “I have to be on set early today, then we’re breaking for a bit. Why are you up before noon on vacation?”
“I’m heading out to help make and stack sandbags.”
“Stack sand what?” Jill raises one eyebrow. “I’m going to start calling you Huck! What kind of writer’s retreat actually puts you to work outdoors? I thought you writers just sat around, waxing poetic and sipping wine.”
“Nice, real nice.” I chuckle, shaking my head at her with a disapproving look. “There’s a bad flood here, but Tripp Wilson, the guy I’m living with, is awesome at outdoorsy stuff, so he’s going to show me how to save someone’s home on the shore using sandbags.”
“The guy you’re living with? And he’s a hero, too? How much can one BFF miss in just three days? I had to check my weather app for your area to get a clue.” Jill looks amused, but perplexed.
“I texted you and my mom about him—who he is, how he’s building an aviary here on the island, didn’t you two get it? Good Nights flubbed up, in a major way, booking us both for the same dates. But it’s turned out… more than okay…” I smile at her.
“Oh my God. You’re thumping thighs with him!”
“Stop it!” I giggle. “Not yet.” I smirk.
“Well, when the bedroom rodeo begins, be sure to saddle up!” She’s snort-laughing now.
“Jill. It’s not like that. He’s different. It’s different.”
Jill looks at me and bites her lower lip.
“Oh, wow. So this is serious? I didn’t think… after Doug… wow. I’m so happy for you.”
“Well, I’m not sure he’s ready, and I’m not sure I want to be the first one after… after he lost his wife in the London bombing.”
Jill is shocked into silence for half a second. “Woah. Yea, that’s rough. Fine line. He’ll let you know. Just have fun for now! So, I guess you’re staying…”
“I really want to. Plus, the bridge is out, so I’m kind of stuck here…”
“About that.” I can’t read her expression now. It’s weird, an unfamiliar look on someone so familiar to me. “Uh… Doug got a little worried when I mentioned to him that you were in the flooded area of France. He might be, um, like… looking into rescuing you or something?”
“What the… why were you even talking to him? Why?” I sit up straighter, my shoulders tense. I can feel my cheeks flushing red with anger.
“I’m sorry, sweetie, he’s here in LA. He’s a producer on our show now! I’ve seen him every day for the last week. He asks about you. I think he misses you.”
“Well, he should have thought about that when he was bonking the brunette.”
She looks down at her lap, unable to look me in the eyes. “I really do think he regrets that. Maybe you should give him another chance. I mean, ten whole years together. And the public misses you. Did you know there’s a hashtag, to get you back together?”
“Because hashtags are more powerful than free will, right?” I snicker. Now I really don’t miss the outside world.
Twenty
Hannah
“It’s hashtag Douannah. It was trending a few days ago. People are tweeting about where you’ve gone physically and in film. They want you back. They want the two of you back! Maybe you should give him another chance.”
“Hashtag Douannah? Another chance? Jill, are you doing drugs? What the hell!” I can’t believe she’s talking like this. She always hated him! She said he was a phony. What’s going on? I want to take this phone and smash it in pieces against the old oak headboard.
“He’s an excellent producer, and people make mistakes. You could have your entire life back again—your career, your connections, a billion-dollar home, if you just opened up your mind…”
“I don’t want that life back!” I stand up and start pacing the room. “Damnit, Jillian. He got to you. I don’t know how, but somehow, he got to you. Hollywood got to you.” I hate hearing these words coming out of my mouth, because they’re directed at my best friend, but I can’t help but feel that they’re true.
She sighs and rolls onto her back. “He hasn’t gotten to me. He made me the head writer on this project, Hani! He’s really so very brilliant. Have you forgotten that? I think maybe if you just met with him, well, he says you two could co-produce this show. Just think about it. Maybe not to get back with him, but at least so you can work in TV again? Don’t you want that?”
I exhale, trying to gather my thoughts. “I don’t know exactly what I want right now, but I do know what I don’t want. I don’t want him. You tell him I don’t need rescuing!”
Her image starts flickering, and then her face freezes on the screen, stuck in an expression halfway between confusion and regret.
“Jill? Can you hear me? Did you hear that?” Nothing. There’s no sound, and now the screen has gone black. We lost the call. Crap!
“Power’s back. Everything okay?” Tripp’s standing in the doorframe, a quizzical expression on his face. I’d mistakenly left the door open.
“Yeah, I noticed that. I’m fine, thanks.” I turn away, trying not to look ruffled. “I’ll leave this phone here, and we can take yours. It’s at eighty percent already.” I turn off my phone and leave it on the dresser. I do not want any more calls from Jill! Then, I unplug Tripp’s phone from the powerpack and turn back around. Maybe if I look at his face and get lost in those eyes, I’ll calm down a little.
“Great. I’ll make those calls now. Gather the troops.”
“How do you know who to contact?” I ask.
“Spidey senses.” He smiles and drifts over to me. He hands me the godawful “slicker” and then, as if on second thought, takes my hand and places it in the left arm of th
e jacket. He helps me put it on, then slips the blue hood over my head and gently pulls my hair out, raking it with his fingers. Our lips are inches apart. I’m dying here. Dying. He could do this all day. Stroke my hair, stare into my eyes. I would never complain.
“Can I do this?” he asks quietly, his lips moving closer to mine. I lift my chin and close my eyes, anticipating a heavenly moment.
“All done!” Béatrice appears at the door with a wicker basket, and we break apart. “I find so cute picnic basket. We make work, fun time!” She grins at us while Tripp runs his fingers through his hair, sighs, and backs away from me.
Arghh! I moan inside my mind. We were so close! I’ll have to be satisfied with hot daydreams, for now, while I shovel sand along the flooded shores, wearing a slicker that makes me look like a big blueberry.
“Aussi, un autre chose,” Béatrice smiles.
Her optimism is infectious; I can’t but help smile back at my new friend as we make our way downstairs.
“My friends, the ones I had in Côte d’Ivoire? They call me Béa. You save my house—you save me. You call me Béa.”
Twenty-one
Tripp
Béa lives in a tiny white cottage with dark green shutters, twenty minutes west of our rental home. It’s about five large-man-sized steps from the shore; I know this because for the last half hour, I’ve been carrying heavy sandbags from the mound of sand that was her garden by her door, across the lawn, over to the water’s edge.
The rising waves have already worn down so much of Béa’s shoreline, I’m afraid the war is already over, but I can’t tell the women this. Not yet. I have to at least give this a fighting try.
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