No Judgments: A Novel (Little Bridge Island Book 1)
No Judgments: Chapter 5

Have supplies on hand to help with everything you might need before, during, and after a hurricane.

Emergency Disaster Survival Kit Basics—Food

Gas or charcoal for the grill (warning: never use a grill inside)

Manual can opener

Nonperishable foods and beverages—7–10 days per person

Drinking water—at least 1 gallon per person per day

Plastic plates, cups, and utensils

Don’t forget food/water for pets and babies!

The sun was still shining brightly when I headed out for Frank’s Food Emporium to buy my hurricane supplies—on my purple no-speed bike with its large front basket, since I wanted to save what little gas was left in my scooter—Daniella’s list tucked in my hip pocket. I’d convinced myself after the two o’clock bulletin from the National Weather Service that we probably weren’t going to get anything but a few rain bands, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.

Except that maybe the locals knew something I didn’t. As I pedaled along, I saw evidence that Little Bridge residents were preparing for an all-out weather catastrophe. Along the main thoroughfare businesses were boarding up, literally hammering boards over their plate-glass display windows. The pharmacy had already pulled down its metal gates. Only a small handwritten sign on the door indicated that it was still open.

And once inside Frank’s, I was in for a surprise: the shelves had the same barren look of shops in apocalyptic films and television shows after they’d been looted by survivors. Only this was real life.

“You’re just in time,” a familiar voice said, and I turned to see Lucy Hartwell, Drew’s aunt and the owner of the Mermaid Café, waving a bag of chips at me. “Last one. You want it?”

I felt a sudden and overwhelming longing for the chips, though they hadn’t been on my list. “Yes . . . unless you do.”

“I’ve got plenty.” She pointed down at her shopping cart. She did, indeed, have plenty. Seven, to be exact, of many varieties, including jalapeño and rippled. And over a dozen bottles of wine, as well.

She must have noticed my surprise, since she laughed and said, “I’m having a hurricane party tonight for everyone who isn’t evacuating. I take it you’re one of those, since I saw your name is still on the schedule for breakfast service tomorrow morning.”

Unlike some restaurant owners I’d met, Lucy Hartwell was hands-on, paying attention to everything that went on at the café, from the workers’ schedules to which of Little Bridge’s many local fishermen was selling the freshest yellowtail.

Part of this was due to the fact that she was related to most of her employees—and roughly half of the island’s permanent residents—by either blood or marriage; the other part was simply because of her personality. Born Lucia Paz (according to café gossip) to one of the island’s most prominent Cuban families, Lucy had apparently had her pick of suitors in her day, but for unknown reasons had settled on Ed Hartwell. Since the two had been married for over thirty years, it seemed to have been a good choice.

“Uh,” I said, surprised to hear the restaurant was still going to be open even though a Category 5 hurricane was bearing down on it. “Sure. I mean, no, I’m not evacuating.” I said this more to convince myself than Mrs. Hartwell. The store seemed so deserted. How had this happened, and so quickly? “Aren’t you?”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Hartwell said with a laugh. “Ed would never hear of it. The last time we evacuated, looters from Miami broke into the café and stole the cash register.”

I gasped. “Really? That’s terrible!”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. There was nothing in it. But they took the meat slicer, too. Now, what would anyone want with an industrial meat slicer? I always wondered. Unless they had their own restaurant. But what are the chances of that? Well, I suppose they pawned it. But, in any case, Ed’s refused to evacuate ever since, so he could keep an eye on the place. So, we’re staying, and tonight we’re having a hurricane party. And you’re coming.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Um, I’d love to.” This wasn’t a lie. Although I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, part of me was dying to come. The Hartwells’ home was legendary, one of Little Bridge’s premier estates, and I’d never before been inside. “May I bring anything?”

“Nothing,” she said tartly, “except yourself. As you can see, I have plenty. Everyone still in town is going to be there.”

“Still in town?”

“Well, everyone with children is evacuating, of course,” she said. “And well they should—it would be irresponsible of them to take the chance of staying and then having this thing turn out to be worse than what they’re reporting.”

My eyes widened. Worse than a Category 5? According to the messages my mother had left me—all seven of them—there was nothing worse than that.

“And of course,” Mrs. Hartwell went on, “anyone who lives in a home that isn’t built to code—to withstand at least Category Three winds and a storm surge of up to ten feet—ought to be getting out or at least heading for one of the local shelters now. It’s simply unthinkable not to.”

Then what was I doing?

“But do you think it’s going to be okay?” I asked, because if Lucy Hartwell said something was going to be okay, it most definitely was.

“Not at all.” She threw her head back with a laugh. “Cuba will give us some protection, of course.” This was something all locals said, I was beginning to notice, like a mantra. The high mountaintops of Cuba often interfered with hurricanes churning for the Florida Keys, slowing their intensity by one or two categories. “But we’re definitely in for a devil of a ride.”

I must have looked even more alarmed, since she let out a cackle and said, “Don’t worry! Last time this happened was Wilhelmina, and that was ages ago. We only lost power for a week or so.”

“I . . . remember,” I said, though of course all I remembered about Wilhelmina was that the gourmet pizzas at our hotel in Miami had been amazing.

“Where do you live again?” Mrs. Hartwell asked. I noticed that her mobile phone, attached to her belt like a workman’s tool, had begun to buzz, but she ignored it.

“Oh. In the Havana Plaza apartments, over on Washington.”

She nodded, clearly knowing the place. “Good, solid construction . . . will definitely hold up to hurricane-force winds. But that area is only at eight feet above sea level, so it floods. If things get bad, you’d better come to my place, sooner rather than later. I’m right up the hill from you, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Again, it was a statement, not a question.

“Oh, no.” I felt slightly horrified. Who went to their boss’s house in a hurricane? Especially when their boss was Ed Hartwell, who’d probably throw you out for using a cell phone. “Thanks, Mrs. H, but I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“What imposition?” She looked genuinely baffled. “We have a generator, we’re at twenty feet above sea level, and the house has already stood up to over two hundred years’ worth of hurricanes. Ed’s great-great-grandfather, a ship captain, built it. Now, those fellows knew how to build a house. They built them of Dade County pine. It’s extinct now, because every single one of those trees was chopped up to build houses around here and up and down the Florida Keys—some of the strongest wood known to man. You can hardly get a nail through it, so it stands up to high winds. You’ll stay with us. It will be fine.”

I couldn’t help feeling touched. I’d only worked for this woman for a few months. She hardly knew me!

And yet her generosity—and that of her otherwise sour-tempered husband—was legendary around the café. Angela had already told me that if I stayed at the job for six months, I’d be offered health benefits—with vision and dental.

“Not the best plan.” Angela, recently divorced, had moved back home with her mother and was working her way toward a business administration degree at the local community college. “But the best plan around here that anyone is offering, and that includes jobs with the city. I may keep working at the café even after I get my degree.”

Now Mrs. Hartwell was offering me a bed in her own house in the event of catastrophic flooding.

I wondered how this kind trait had entirely skipped her nephew, who—except for his generous tipping—wasn’t known for his friendliness. Then again, his uncle wasn’t exactly the pleasantest man in the world, either.

“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 replace 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.