“Please,” I said, holding up a palm to stop Mrs. Hartwell. “I really couldn’t. I have a rescue cat, and he just had oral surgery—”
Lucy Hartwell made another face.
“Oh, never mind about that. We love animals. Do you have any idea how many strays Nevaeh has volunteered to foster from the shelter? A parrot, a pair of rabbits, and a tortoise. And don’t even get me started on those three mangy mutts of Drew’s. Your cat will be fine. We’ll find a nice private room for you, and the two of you will be snug as bugs.”
So her nephew would be riding out the hurricane at his uncle’s house, too? Interesting.
Well, it made sense. On the news they’d emphasized that those living on or near the shore would be given first priority in hurricane shelters, as they’d be most at risk of Marilyn’s dangerous tidal surge and wind. Drew Hartwell, with his half-finished beach house, would fall into that category.
But of course he wouldn’t go to a shelter when he could stay in his ancestral mansion.
“I really couldn’t,” I said firmly. “I already have a place. A . . . a hotel room, in Coral Gables, with my roommate. She’s a nurse and got evacuated there by the city.”
Mrs. Hartwell raised her eyebrows. “And when are you going there?”
“As soon as the café closes for the storm,” I said. “I didn’t want to leave you short staffed. My roommate left me her car to drive up.” This last part, at least, wasn’t exactly a lie.
Mrs. Hartwell continued to look skeptical, but said, lifting her buzzing phone, “Well, all right. Stop by tonight around eight for the party. You know where I live, right?”
Everyone knew where the Hartwells lived, but Mrs. Hartwell went on as if she didn’t know this. “Top of Flagler Hill, white house with the blue shutters. You can’t miss it.”
Of course not. Mrs. Hartwell’s home was a gorgeous and stately mansion on the top of the highest point of the island, a hill referred to as “Flagler Hill,” after the builder of South Florida’s first (and only) railroad, Henry Flagler. The railroad had been destroyed in 1935 by one of the fiercest (though unnamed) hurricanes in American history and had never been reconstructed. Hundreds of lives were lost.
But that had been in the days before Doppler radar, advanced warning, and hurricane shelters.
“I’ll be there, Mrs. H,” I promised.
“Lucy,” she corrected me as she finally answered her buzzing phone.
“Lucy.” But it didn’t sound right in my mouth. She was as much Mrs. Hartwell as her husband was Ed. I simply couldn’t think of her any other way.
“Oh, hi, Joanne,” Mrs. Hartwell said, pushing her cart along. I was forgotten, for the time being. “Yes, eight tonight. What can you bring? Nothing except yourself.”
Even though Mrs. Hartwell—Lucy—had said not to bring anything to her party, I shopped with it in mind, selecting even more food than I’d planned to from what few selections remained on the shelves. Who knew? Maybe I’d be invited to a lot of hurricane parties over the next few days. I wanted to contribute my fair share.
That’s how I ended up back home with an odd assortment of the suggested canned goods from Daniella’s list in addition to Sonny’s orange soda and Sour Patch Kids (he was embarrassingly grateful), plus a vast array of charcuterie (apparently not many hurricane shoppers were looking for chianti-flavored salami), plus gourmet crackers, cheeses, and spreads. I might die during Hurricane Marilyn, but I’d definitely go out in style.
Plus I’d snagged the alcohol that Daniella had suggested (vodka, not tequila, since I’d never had a head for tequila), as well as a few bottles of champagne and a great many cans of cat food for Gary—as many as could fit into my bike basket, plus dangle in canvas totes over my handlebars. I didn’t want Gary to go hungry, and who knew how long the grocery store would remain open? Even as I was leaving, I saw the owner’s sons stacking plywood outside, getting ready to board it up.
What did remain open, however, were most of Little Bridge’s many bars. My friend and fellow Mermaid coworker Angela waved to me from the beachside seating area of one as I rode by.
“Girlfriend! See you at the Hartwells’ tonight!” she shouted excitedly, a cocktail in her hand.
“Yes, you will!” I shouted back at her.
This hurricane thing, I thought as I motored home, just might be fun.
It’s almost laughable how wrong I turned out to be.
Chapter Six
Listen to local radio, read local papers, and tune in to social media from official sources before, during, and after the storm for important information.
Nearly the entirety of the news coverage that night was devoted to the approaching storm. Marilyn had grown so large that the width of its cone of uncertainty encompassed the entire state of Florida, which meant that people wishing to evacuate its path had to leave the state completely. Sonny and his mother were not going to be much safer in Orlando than they’d have been in Little Bridge.
But with fuel growing scarcer, and freeways already jammed, escape was mostly an impossibility. Images were shown of long lines of cars at the few still open gas stations, and of grocery store shelves emptied of food and bottled water.
A few ubiquitous shots were thrown in of homes and businesses with their windows boarded up (Go Away Marilyn was spray-painted on a few of the plywood barriers), and of course of the now emptied beaches from Key West to Miami. News journalists interviewed Florida residents (none from Little Bridge) who confessed to being a little nervous because there was nowhere they could go “to escape the wrath of this fierce storm” (the reporter’s words, not theirs).
I’ll admit it was hard to take any of this very seriously when just outside my door it was such a beautiful, balmy evening, the sky streaked with tie-dye washes of pink and blue and lavender as the sun slid beneath the sea. A mockingbird had recently taken up residency in the top branches of our building’s frangipani, and he periodically burst into enthusiastic song, hoping to lure a mate, while somewhere nearby someone who’d yet to evacuate was barbecuing. I could smell the tantalizing scent of grilled meat every time I opened my front door.
But the constant pings of text messages from my phone kept me grounded, reminding me of the oncoming threat:
From Caleb:
They’re closing the Little Bridge airport to commercial air traffic tomorrow morning at 8AM. I can still arrange for a plane to be there anytime before that if you change your mind. I know you think I don’t care, Sabrina, but I do. We can still be friends, at least. Call me.
From my best friend and college roommate, Mira, who was spending the year abroad in Paris:
What is this I hear about you not evacuating Hurricane Marilyn and riding out the hurricane by yourself??? Have you lost your mind? I love you, but you’re insane. You know my aunt lives in Tampa if you need a place to hunker down in an emergency. And she loves cats. Call me. Luv u.
From Dani:
You need to get here ASAP. My room is huge, with a full minibar AND almost all the guys from the firehouse in Islamorada are staying at the SAME HOTEL. One of them is buying me shots at the bar at this very moment. In fact, I think there’s a fire right now. In my pants. Get in my car and get here SOON!!!