As soon as I said it, I realized the words were true. My family had weathered every hurricane that had been thrown at us. My mother had even been born during Hazel. With common sense precautions, Eileen and I had nothing to fear—even if the gusting winds did blame me for my failures. I shivered, but after days of random chills I hardly noticed. Unfortunately, Eileen did.
“Mom, look. Whatever it is, you need to talk to someone.” I patted her cheek and this time she batted my hand away. “I’m not a baby! But if you need a grown-up, go find one! What about Miss Hester? She’s the oldest person we know.”
What about Miss Hester . . . ?! Could she possibly know anything about this? Hadn’t my grandmother warned me about men like him—not about Sal specifically? And Cara had met another man like him. What was it that Miss Hester had said . . . ? Something about Wilmington’s secrets . . .
“Leeni, you really are a super-genius.” I kissed the top of her head, quick and hard, before she could object. “It’s almost closing time and I doubt anyone’ll come in, but just text me if they do. I’ll be right next door!” I grabbed my cell, paused long enough to make sure she had hers, then dashed outside.
The air was oppressive, with just one fitful gust shoving my chest as I reached the flower shop. In my hurry, I smudged the glass pane on the old door, leaving fingerprints on the etched calligraphy. Bell’s Blossoms was one of Wilmington’s oldest florists, having been started by Miss Hester’s father, Willson Bell in 1919. Her family had lived here almost as long as my mother’s had.
“Miss Hester?” Stepping inside was as refreshing as walking in a spring rain. The air was cool and delicious with green and floral scents, and when the door shut behind me, it cordoned off the pressure I’d been feeling. In an instant, I felt both relaxed and recharged, ready to accomplish something—anything. But the captain’s chair behind the counter was empty. “Miss Hester . . . ?”
“Coming, coming!” I heard her call from the back room, and a second later she popped into view, swiping wet hands across her rumpled chambray shirt and navy polyester pants, white hair slightly frizzy in its side-swept braid. She looked pink-cheeked and windblown, as if she’d been walking around outside. Which, she might have been. She was the youngest eighty-something person I knew.
“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed when she saw me. “I’ve been thinking about you, young lady!”
I blinked, distracted from offering a greeting. “You have?”
“You betchya.” She’d finished drying her hands on her shirt and gestured to the front window as she walked out. “How ‘bout this little storm? Someone hasn’t been keeping their secrets like they should have.” She shook one gnarled finger at me, “I’ve been hoping it wasn’t you.”
“Me?” What did my secrets have to do with the weather? “No, I just wanted to ask you . . . well, when we were talking the other day, you mentioned . . . ” Shit. I should’ve thought this through before rushing over here. She’d already planted one hand on her hip and was tapping her foot. “The other day you said . . . you seem to be aware of . . . things . . . that I’m only guessing at . . . ”
“Oh, good Lord, child. Spit it out!” She went around the counter and settled herself up on the tall chair while I fished around for a coherent question.
“What do you know about my secrets?” It was a start. If my grandmother had—
“Not much. Madeline shut me out before you were born.” She tipped her head to the side. “Next?”
I frowned as I joined her at the counter. “Why? You used to be friends . . . ?”
The humor left her face. “We were always friends. I don’t have a simple answer.” She seemed uncomfortable for a moment, but then her eyes narrowed. “This isn’t what you want to know.”
It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about her falling out with Mimi, and she was right, I didn’t care about family history right now.
“I thought you might be able to help me with a problem. A friend’s problem. I can’t really talk about it,” I ventured a smile, “but you could say it’s a secret, sort of. I don’t know what to do, and I thought . . . what did you mean about Wilmington’s secrets? And Mimi’s?”
Her lips pursed, and I had the feeling she was weighing me.
“It’s just . . . maybe if I knew a little more, it might help my friend . . . ? Maybe not, but—”
“Madeline didn’t like people talking behind her back.”
“But she’s not here, and if she was, I’d ask her.”
“No you wouldn’t, girl,” she snapped.
“I-I wouldn’t?”
“No one ever asked Madeline anything and expected an answer. It was one of her gifts.”
Good point. But still . . . wait. “One of her gifts?”
“Your mother was a gift.” Her pointed gaze had become all blue-eyed innocence.
“Mmm . . . would you rather talk about my mother?”
“Not today.” She glanced out the window and then back at me. The innocent look was gone, and I couldn’t read this new expression. She was more mercurial than the weather!
“Are you worried about the storm? You’ll stay with your son, won’t you?”
She nodded. “He’s on his way down from Jacksonville now. I was tidying up in case those forecaster fools are wrong as usual.”
“Do you need any help?” Southern upbringing at its finest. Sure, I’d betray a friend to protect my daughter, but I wasn’t raised to let an elderly lady fend for herself.
“No, honey. John will finish up.” Her wrinkled cheeks lifted in a surprisingly cheery smile, “Did I ever tell you he was adopted?”
“No, ma’am . . . ?”
“Do you know what his name means?”
“Um, yes, ma’am . . . ? Gift from God.”
“That’s right. All babies are gifts, but sometimes God has other people deliver His gifts.” She chortled, “No pun intended!”
I laughed a little—politely, I hoped—but wondered how to get her back to the subject we’d been dancing around.
“Miss Hester,” I gave her my
