I stared at her. Flooding?
“But every hurricane’s different,” Daniella went on. “Some are rain events, some are wind. You just never know. If it’s only wind, you’re golden in this place.”
“I think,” I said, getting up, “I’ll just go check my messages.”
“Yeah.” Daniella nodded. “You should. Also, you should probably go to the store and buy some supplies before they run out, just in case. Like bottled water. And food for Gary. And alcohol. I have a list the Red Cross gave us to hand out to people. Alcohol’s not on it, of course, but I wouldn’t even go through a tropical storm without tequila, let alone a hurricane.”
I took the paper she plucked from the top of her dresser. Many of the things we already had—canned goods, bread, a manual can opener. But others—flashlight, batteries—it had never occurred to me to purchase. Daniella must have read my expression since she laughed and said, “I have all that stuff in the closet by the kitchen. Bought it for the last storm that headed our way, then never used it because it veered out to sea. You just might want to buy fresh batteries. But you’re welcome to the rest of the stuff.”
I felt relief wash over me. “Thanks, Dani. You’re a lifesaver. Literally!” Suddenly overwhelmed by how lucky I was to have found a roommate—and friend—like her, merely by answering an ad, I added, “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” she said, and opened her arms to give me one of her “Dani hugs,” which she handed out frequently at the hospital (but never, she’d informed me, to the “drunk frat boys during spring break.” Even Dani had her limits).
And then she was gone. Her last words to me were to be sure to look after her sourdough starter—Daniella was an avid baker—that she’d inherited from her grandmother, but which would spoil in the fridge if the power went out.
I swore I would.
She’d barely been out of the apartment for five minutes before I became convinced that I was never going to see her again.
Chapter Four
If your community calls for a mandatory evacuation, heed the warning.
I was being ridiculous. The reason I felt so down was because the apartment seemed so dark and lonely after Dani left. She was such a bright and energetic force.
Also it was literally dark, since Sonny Petrovich had come around outside and begun to shutter the windows with large stainless steel planks, each one of which had to be drilled into place along runners that were secured onto the walls of the apartment building with a number of long screws.
I kept the Weather Channel on for company as I ate lunch—leftover chicken salad from the café—though it was hard to hear over Sonny’s drilling.
I soon regretted it. Not the salad, the news.
Because according to the news, everyone who lived in South Florida who did not immediately evacuate from the area was going to die.
Not only die, but die in a variety of ways, most likely from drowning in the tidal surge Hurricane Marilyn was bringing with it, and also from the destructive force of its 170-mile-per-hour winds.
The forecasters couldn’t be sure, since there was no power or communication in Saint Martin or the Virgin Islands or anywhere else Hurricane Marilyn had already struck, but they were predicting that hundreds in the storm’s apocalyptic path were probably already dead, and that those who did not get out of its way now would soon be dead as well.
Since this seemed like information I could do without, I switched off the television and opened my laptop. I had dozens of emails and social media messages from friends and relatives wondering if it was true that I had not evacuated and if so, why not. My phone was the same way, only with text messages and voice mails.
Most of them were from my mother. Each held a note of mounting hysteria. Classic Justine Beckham:
I think you should know that the governor of Florida has just issued a statement that anyone who doesn’t evacuate from your area had better write their Social Security number on their arm so that their bodies can be identified after the storm.
My mom had always known how to lay on the drama. It was one of the reasons her radio show was number one in her time slot, even though it was about legal advice.
I don’t know what you’re thinking turning down Caleb’s generous offer. I know you’re angry with him, but what happened wasn’t his fault. Kyle was drunk—did you know he’s in rehab now? You can’t hold Caleb responsible for the actions of his friends. You of all people should know this, considering you went to law school—not, of course, that you bothered to finish.
Wow, Justine. Way to turn the knife.
That was interesting about Kyle, though. I hadn’t known he’d gone to rehab. That was big. Huge, even.
Although it didn’t change anything, it actually made me feel a little better. If Kyle was in rehab, it meant he couldn’t come after me again. I’d sleep even better now, knowing this, despite the coming storm.
I wondered why Caleb hadn’t mentioned it, although it didn’t take a genius to know why: because then he’d have to admit his friend wasn’t perfect after all, and that he’d been wrong to say I’d “overreacted” about what had happened.
Unfortunately, my mother went on:
And I know you think you don’t need to listen to me anymore after that ridiculous genealogy test. But there are some bonds that are stronger than DNA, Sabrina. What about the fact that I carried you around in my womb for nine months, and breast-fed you for six? Do those things count for nothing?
I hit delete without listening to the rest. I’d heard enough. I loved my mother—and I did consider her my mother, even if we weren’t genetically related. She was the woman who’d given birth to me and raised me.
But sometimes she was a little much.
Since it was hard to concentrate on anything with all the drilling going on outside—and the throbbing going on in my head now that I’d listened to Justine’s messages—I decided to go to the store to buy the supplies Daniella had recommended.
So, after carefully checking that Sonny was not right outside my bathroom window—he was a sweet boy, and not at all the Peeping Tom type, but I didn’t want to flagrantly strip in front of him—I showered, washing the smell of bacon from my shoulder-length pink hair (it had been blond for most of my life, but on impulse I’d asked Daniella to help me dye it: new life, new hair), then changed from my work clothes into shorts and a T-shirt, and finally opened the front door to my apartment.
Sonny was carefully drilling a precut steel shutter to the front window of my apartment. The sunshine poured brightly into the front courtyard—my apartment was one of three other identical two-bedrooms, all built in Spanish-style stucco around a single decoratively tiled courtyard, in the center of which grew a large frangipani tree, currently in full bloom.
Gary, who could not resist any opportunity to both lounge in the sun and greet a visitor, darted past me to fling himself against Sonny’s bare legs.
“Oh, hi, Bree.” Sonny bent down to stroke Gary’s ears. “Did you hear about the new version of Battlefront? They just put a new edition out this week. I’m already up to level sixty-eight.”
“No,” I said. “I can’t say I knew about that. I’m more concerned about this hurricane. Do you think it’s going to hit us?”