the fluctuating voice of one on the cusp of puberty.
“Wind gusts of one hundred eleven to one hundred thirty miles per hour,” he recited with a distant look on his young face. “Likelihood of structural damage to wooden structures, loss of immature trees and a few big ones too, flooding to structures along the coast, and damage from floating debris to structures near storm surge or flooded rivers. Power outages are definite, lasting from three to nine days depending on level of isolation. Estimated total cost is four hundred million. Expect a tax hike this year.” Upon finishing, he returned his gaze to the menu.
“You are
While his wife argued with their daughter over the perils of caffeinated beverages on the developing teenage body, the mayor begged Olivia to get him a dirty martini. Relieved to escape the argument brewing between the females at the table, Olivia sent a waitress to collect the rest of the family’s orders.
At the bar, Olivia asked Gabe for the mayor’s drink. “He’ll be wanting several of those by this time Monday night,” a familiar voice said. Olivia turned and smiled at Flynn, remarkably pleased to see him. She knew that Flynn’s charm could help her set aside all thoughts of Rawlings and the man’s continued silence.
Flynn regularly stopped by The Boot Top for a drink after work and managed to visit Olivia’s restaurant without ever behaving as though his presence bore the slightest connection to her. Olivia liked that about him. He could sit and chat with Gabe and the other patrons and then casually ask her to join him for a round. When she was too busy or not in the mood to comply, he was neither offended nor ruffled by the rejection. Yet he never failed to request her company and Olivia was flattered by his persistence.
Flynn took in her form-fitting black sheath dress and necklace made of amber and turquoise and toasted her with a frosted beer mug. “You’re looking lovely this evening.”
Olivia perched on the stool next to him. “Have your customers fled for the hills too?”
“I could only be so lucky.” He took a sip of beer. “I had a hell of a time dealing with a woman channeling Mary Poppins today. She came into the shop with one of those frilly umbrellas and started singing. At first, the moms and kids loved it, but then it quickly became clear that this lady was no Julie Andrews. In fact, she was more like Cruella De Vil.”
Olivia laughed. “You mean she didn’t fly or dance around with a pair of cartoon penguins?”
Flynn shook his head. “Oh, she danced all right. If you can imagine a fisherman in foul weather gear with his shoelaces tied together, then you can picture this lady’s moves.” He pushed his hand through his wavy hair. “I think she did at least two hundred bucks of damage.”
“Not to books, I hope.” Olivia hated the thought of broken leather spines or rent pages.
Etching designs into the icy film on his glass, Flynn said, “Luckily, no. But I have some furniture to replace. I’m heading into Raleigh tomorrow to visit with an old friend, so I’ll wait out the storm for a couple of days, pick up some new children’s chairs, and hang my ‘Open’ sign again first thing Wednesday morning.”
“She broke wooden chairs?” Olivia visualized a madwoman slamming pint-sized rockers against the floor like some frenzied heavy-metal rocker destroying his guitar.
Flynn nodded. “Yeah, she tried to mimic that
He chuckled and Olivia joined in.
The murmur in the dining room had increased, indicating that another party or two had been seated by a member of Olivia’s selfless waitstaff while she lingered at the bar. “Duty calls,” she told Flynn and then, while Gabe was occupied recommending cocktails to a pair of stylish young women at the other end of the bar, she added, “Maybe we could get together before Ophelia chases you out of town.”
Grinning, Flynn saluted her with his glass. “You know where I live, darling. I’ll leave the light on for you.”
Olivia collected the mayor’s drink and walked away.
The Boot Top stayed open late that night. The locals tarried at the bar until Gabe submitted to peer pressure and turned on the small television hung above a row of liquor bottles.
Men and women loitered over their whiskey and recalled other storms such as Donna, Hugo, Fran, Hazel, and Floyd. Olivia’s customers were reluctant to go home, knowing that after tomorrow morning’s church services, the town would shut down. Oyster Bay still honored the traditional blue laws and only a few eateries remained open on Sunday. The Boot Top served a weekly brunch, Grumpy’s provided breakfast and lunch, and Bagels ’n’ Beans operated until noon, at which time Wheeler promptly turned off the lights, locked the door, and spent the remainder of the day fishing.
The hurricane specialist on The Weather Channel was in his element, gesticulating at the blue screen as he pointed at rain bands, the enlarged eye, and the overall width of the circulating mass. The other reporters shared his ecstasy, their faces gleaming like polished apples as they reviewed Ophelia’s wind gusts, path, and predicted landfall.
Olivia and her Oyster Bay neighbors were hypnotized by the graphics and the commentary, but when the program switched gears and began to display footage from Floyd, Olivia told Gabe to lock up. Gathering Haviland from her office, she prepared to exit through the kitchen door.
“Do you think there’s any point in coming in Tuesday?” Michel asked. Over steaming pots, cutting boards, and sinks of dirty dishes, the kitchen staff looked at Olivia expectantly.
“No,” she answered without hesitation. “We won’t reopen until the power is restored. When the lights come on in town, The Boot Top needs to be ready to serve dinner the same night. Tomorrow we’ll offer brunch to the soggy church goers and then lock up until Ophelia’s gone.” Shouldering her purse, she gazed around the kitchen. “Be careful everyone. I don’t want the inconvenience of having to hire a new staff because you surfer types were lost to a riptide or those of you with jacked-up pickups trucks decided it would be fun to drive through flooded streets.”
One of the sous-chefs sniggered, but Michel silenced him with a glare.
“We will take care, Ms. Limoges,” he said, issuing a formal bow. “Remember, if the waves get too high, you should climb to the top of the lighthouse.”
More sniggering. “The generator will keep the freezer and walk-in fridge running, but if there’s any perishable food beyond what’s needed for tomorrow’s brunch, feel free to take it home to your families.”
The dishwasher thanked her in Spanish and then rushed forward to open the door for her. The floodlight above the door illuminated the persistent rainfall beyond the restaurant’s walls.
Olivia and Haviland scurried to the Range Rover. The rain was deceptively gentle, like a steady and nourishing springtime drizzle. The only indication that the fury of nature was about to rend the town apart was the sickly yellow and puce tinge to the edge of the clouds.
The drive to Flynn’s bungalow was eerie. The streets were nearly deserted and the wet pavement shimmered in the otherworldly light. Olivia passed only one car on Main Street and she could see that many of the shops had closed early. Even the streetlights lining the sidewalk seemed forlorn.
Flynn’s Caribbean-style bungalow was a welcome sight. Every light was on and the house glowed with misty warmth, like a roaring fire viewed through an ice-crusted windowpane. Unfamiliar music drifted from the open front door. Olivia cocked her head. It sounded like Cuban jazz—a perfect mixture of vibrant rhythms blending with a seductive and smooth melody.
“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Flynn rose from his painted wooden rocking chair to greet her with a kiss.
Olivia returned the kiss with unusual tenderness. “It was sweet of you to wait up for me. Your place looks like a beacon in the night.”
“I could hardly watch mindless television knowing you were on the way, so I decided to make it clear that I was anxiously awaiting your arrival.” He dipped a widemouthed glass in salt and poured her a margarita from a nearby pitcher. Adding a lime wedge, he placed the glass on a rattan coaster and gestured at the other rocker.
Settling into the cobalt-colored chair, Olivia signaled for Haviland to find a discreet place behind the house to take care of business. Delighted to finally be allowed a measure of freedom after being cooped up in Olivia’s office all evening, the poodle darted off the porch and disappeared into the rainy night.
Olivia and Flynn made predictions about the storm and listened to the rainfall. Haviland returned, detaching himself from the shadows, and sat on the front mat, clearly asking to be let inside. He was ready for bed, but Olivia was reticent to break the spell being woven out of night rain, tequila, and Flynn’s jazz record.
