A Deadly Cliche (14 page)

Lying in the dark with Haviland burrowed under the covers at her feet, Olivia couldn’t push away the memories of her final night with her father. She was tired of remembering his wild eyes and raised fist, of imagining him falling overboard and his body sinking to the cold depths where no sunlight penetrated, of wondering if the fog and sea had ruined her or rescued her. But the memories wouldn’t leave her room.

Shortly after midnight, she decided that the only way she’d sleep was by downing a few fingers of Chivas Regal. She’d just poured a glass when someone knocked hard on the front door.

Olivia blinked but didn’t move, a shiver rippling up the skin of her back.

“Who’s there?” she shouted a challenge and was stunned when Chief Rawlings bellowed in reply, “It’s Sawyer! Open the door, Olivia!”

She immediately complied. “What are you—”

“Pack a bag,” he ordered, stepping in out of the rain. Turning, he used both arms, locked at the elbows, to close the door behind him. “You can’t stay here. The worst is yet to come.”

Water dripped from the chief’s regulation rain cape and boots. His face was pinched with anxiety and exhaustion and his presence filled up Olivia’s spacious kitchen as though he were ten men, not one.

“But I’m fine,” Olivia managed to protest. “Aren’t there people who need you more than me? Those living near the shore or in trailers by the river? This house was built to withstand this type of storm. I’ve got—”

Rawlings reached her in two strides. Grabbing her arm, he gave her a rough shake. “Don’t be a fool! I know you’re capable and tough and independent, but this”—he pointed out the kitchen window—“is more than even
you
can handle! Now go upstairs and pack a bag. I’m taking you with me if I have to cuff your hand to my own wrist!”

Sawyer’s eyes were blazing with filaments of jade green. He smelled of mud and coffee and wet rubber. Olivia raised her arm and touched the end of a soaked lock of his salt-and-pepper hair, catching a fresh drip between her fingertips. The chief’s face softened instantly. Seizing her hand, she thought he might pin it behind her back and make good on his threat to place her in handcuffs. Instead, he lowered his chin and kissed her palm, like a knight receiving his lady’s favor. “Please come with me. I can’t do my job when half of my mind’s on you.”

Inexplicably, Olivia now remembered that she was angry at the chief. “And where would I stay?” she asked. “With you?”

“If you’d like. I have a guest room. It’s nothing fancy, but I’ve got a generator.”

She shook her head. “I bet your place is still filled with your wife’s things. I . . . couldn’t stay there.”

Pain flashed into Rawlings’ eyes. She’d hurt him by assuming that he surrounded himself with the relics of the past.

“Then go back to Flynn’s,” the chief said through gritted teeth. “You should have stayed put at his place a little longer.”

Olivia drew back. “Have you been following me?”

Rawlings picked up his saturated cap from the counter. He wouldn’t look at her. “Last chance. Are you coming with me?”

Even though every cell in her body crackled with desire and the soft flesh on the center of her palm where Rawlings had kissed her felt molten, Olivia knew she had ruined the opportunity to reach for the man she truly wanted.

Sawyer Rawlings had driven all the way to the Point to carry her to safety. He’d interrupted the haunted musings of her past to stand drenched and weary in her kitchen and she had responded by irrevocably spoiling his noble gesture.

Not knowing how to make amends, Olivia said nothing.

By the time she realized that an apology would have been a good place to begin, Rawlings had walked out the door and into Ophelia’s aqueous embrace.

—AESOP

 

 

 

 

 

B
y Monday night, Ophelia had spent her wrath. Her winds were no longer roars, but whispers. The raindrops no longer slammed sideways against windows and rooftops, but dropped reluctantly from the sky, as though exhausted from the effort of having to detach from clouds impatient to be on their way.

It was dark by the time the world finally fell silent. Olivia stepped out onto the deck, feeling like she was in the middle of starless space. The only illumination within miles came from the lighthouse, whose beacon swept the ocean and provided an illusion of normalcy.

She couldn’t see how far up the beach the water had come, but the hiss of incoming waves sounded closer than usual. The sea was still swollen, and though it no longer seemed boiling with violent surges, it was not yet at rest.

Olivia’s house had weathered the storm, but she couldn’t stop wondering how others had fared. How were the rest of the Bayside Book Writers? And what of Dixie, who lived in a pair of doublewides haphazardly attached by a covered breezeway? She refused to think how Rawlings had spent the past twenty-four hours, pushing away the image of him standing in her kitchen like a big, wet bear.

The night passed slowly. Olivia let Haviland out to stretch his legs, but she knew the terrain had become altered in the storm and it would be unwise for her to venture forth in the dark. She continued to work the mammoth jigsaw puzzle of the Sistine Chapel, the radio her only companion.

Ophelia still held the media captive. Reports were given every fifteen minutes on the effects the weakening hurricane was having over central North Carolina and southern Virginia. Around ten P.M., a sound bite provided by a representative from the Coast Guard told of their failure to locate the fishing trawler missing since Sunday morning. “At this point, it is unlikely that any of the five men aboard were able to survive,” the man stated grimly.

Olivia looked down at the puzzle section she’d just completed. It was Michelangelo’s rendition of God dividing the waters. She stared at it a long time, her thoughts fixed on the missing fishermen. She imagined the crew members being hurled into the water, fighting for air until their lungs burned and they surrendered their last breath to the ocean. She pictured their souls being pulled from their lifeless bodies by a pair of powerful yet tender hands, lifted up, up out of the cold and the wet, beyond the rain bands and the noise of the wind.

Running her fingers over the surface of the puzzle, Olivia touched the fine cracks where the pieces met and then switched the radio to a smooth jazz station, hoping to turn her thoughts to other things. But she found the music too upbeat, almost mocking in its vivaciousness, so she turned the radio off. She completed the section showing a portrait of Daniel and decided to call for Haviland and go to bed.

“Captain!” she shouted into the night air and waited for him on the deck. The poodle loped up the stairs, his fur slick with moisture and his tongue lolling in happiness. Envying him his freedom, Olivia took him into the kitchen, dried his coat with a towel, and kissed his damp nose.

“I’ll have a major case of cabin fever if I spend another day inside,” she told him later as she folded back the duvet cover on her bed. “Tomorrow we’ll check out the cottage and then take a drive to see what’s happened to our town.”

Lying down, she curled around a spare pillow and looked out the window at the fathomless sky. “And to our friends.”

 

 

Olivia was awake at first light. She dressed quickly, brewed coffee, and ate a cereal bar and banana for breakfast.

“One of Grumpy’s Florentine omelets would sure hit the spot,” she said, feeling energized by the rays of sun tentatively lighting the horizon. Pulling on her rain boots, Olivia and Haviland walked down a soggy path through the dunes. The tide was out and the ocean was a stretched canvas of Fourth of July sparklers.

“Glad to see you back, old friend.” Olivia strode to the water’s edge and inhaled a lungful of crisp air. When she entered the cottage, her delight quickly turned to dismay as she saw the brown stains around the baseboards. In every room, water had crept in and made itself at home. The carpet in the conference room and the hardwood flooring in the remaining three rooms were ruined. It was fixable, she knew, but there was something about the possibility of rot growing on the very bones of her childhood home that brought Olivia unhappiness. She’d hardly lived a Norman Rockwell life in her sad, little room facing the sea, but it was hers all the same.

Haviland sniffed every room and retreated outside in search of less distasteful smells, for the entire structure reeked of seaweed and brackish water. “We won’t be meeting here this Saturday,” Olivia said and left the front door wide open.

After leaving the cottage, Olivia drove straight to The Boot Top. She had to park in the street, for an enormous pine tree had fallen in a diagonal across the restaurant’s paved lot.

“Could have been worse,” she murmured with relief as she walked the perimeter of the building. Other than a few missing shingles on the roof and a pair of broken hurricane shutters, the eatery was unscathed. Olivia got back in the Range Rover and turned down Main Street. It was too early in the day to need air-conditioning, so she rode with all the windows down and raised a hand in greeting to the other residents and business owners who’d made their way into town at daybreak.

The most noticeable difference between the business district before and after the storm was the sheer amount of debris covering the streets and sidewalks. Branches, leaves, pieces of wood, cardboard, and paper were strewn about in clumps. The debris, the lack of electricity, and the shell-shocked looks on the faces of the few pedestrians she passed gave the town a foreign air, as though it belonged in a Third World country.

Slowing her pace even further, Olivia could see that dozens of storefront windows had been shattered, including the ones belonging to her favorite boutique, Palmetto’s. Rain had drenched the display featuring a rainbow of knit shirts and had knocked the mannequins flat. Olivia glanced at the neighboring retailers and saw that many of their signs were crooked or had fallen to the sidewalk, splintering into nonsensical words.

It was apparent that several cars had been parked on Main Street during the storm and most had fresh spiderweb cracks in the windshields or dents that still bore the imprint of a heavy bough. The morning’s radio report included the news that federal aid for storm cleanup had been promised, but Olivia knew that Ophelia was going to empty the town’s coffers. Oyster Bay had less than a week to reinstate itself as the picture of a seaside utopia in time for the kickoff of the Cardboard Regatta.

After making cursory inspections of her other properties, Olivia continued past the town limits and pulled in front of Dixie’s trailer complex. She found her friend barking orders at a good-looking boy of about ten and a sullen teenage girl.

“Yours?” Olivia asked with a smile when the children stomped off.

Dixie nodded. “Yep. Those are two of the tall ones. There’s two little ones ’round here somewhere, but Grumpy’s probably got them doin’ somethin’ unpleasant. He’s pretty ticked ’cause they snuck out to ride on a friend’s ATV when the eye was passin’ over and had us worried half to death.” She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the wrecked laundry lines and dog kennel. “Thor’s pooped in the house three times since the damned storm began. That dog is a wimp.” Dixie reached out and touched Haviland’s flank. “He doesn’t have your fine manners either, Captain.”

Haviland flashed her a toothy smile.

“Well, it looks like you and your clan are okay,” Olivia said. “I’m sending Michel on a road trip to Costco. I thought I’d see if you were in need of supplies.”

“Filet mignon, lobster tail, Vicodin,” Dixie joked. “Actually, we’re good. We had to bring home a ton of food from the diner ’cause it was gonna go bad.” She raised an eyebrow. “My stars, you
have
gotten soft, ’Livia. I’ve known you for years, but you’ve never been to my place. Now, ten minutes after a hurricane’s passed through, here you are.” She dusted off her shirt. “You’d best say somethin’ nasty or I’m gonna have to tell folks that you do have a heart.”

Olivia scowled. “I’ll just tell Michel to pick up some staples. Milk, eggs, bread, some birth control pills.”

Dixie laughed until she sank down on the stoop. “I really don’t have twelve kids, you know!” she shouted as Olivia drove off.

On the way to Michel’s, Olivia was surprised to see several power trucks heading into town. When she passed a trio of tree-removal trucks, she suddenly realized that without power, none of the eateries or grocery stores would be open. Where were these workers going to get food? And there wouldn’t be much of a community cleanup effort if those volunteering were distracted by hunger. Yet who could make hundreds of meals without electricity?

“Michel,” she said aloud.

Her chef’s ruddy features paled when she outlined her idea. “You’re insane! I’ve always thought you might be, but now I’m certain of it!”

Olivia ignored his protests. “Call the rest of the staff. Two men can take care of the tree in our parking lot and you can organize the shopping trip. I’ll round up some warm bodies to assemble sandwiches. Imagine being able to boss around all the people you’ve cooked for in the past. It’s your fantasy come true. They’ll finally see how hard you work and learn to appreciate your skill.” She could see the idea appealed to her chef. “We can do this.”

“For free?” Michel was astounded.

“Yes, for free. If you want to cook for a full house of paying customers this weekend, then we need to pitch in now.” Seeing that Michel wasn’t convinced, she added, “Maybe Laurel will be available to help in the kitchen. I’m sure she could use a lesson in the fine art of sandwich construction.”

Michel looked offended. “You jest, but there
is
an art to making sandwiches. One must begin with the right bread. A croissant or a crisp baguette—”