Hurricane House Read Free Page B

part.
    When she began to sing, John said, “Wow, you have a spectacular voice.”
    Ellen continued to sing, though she noticed he’d passed up the BP station and headed toward the rest area. Get ready to jump, she told herself.
     
     
    Chapter Three
     
    Maeva Larson, Gerry, Alabama
         The radar showed Hurricane Donald spinning in the Gulf of Mexico as a blond meteorologist reported, “...Category Five, expected to make landfall along Florida’s Panhandle. Warnings in effect for Panama City all the way west to Pensacola Beach...”
    Upset by the weather report, I ignored the ringing landline until I glanced at the Caller ID and saw Kari Ann’s number. “Hi, sis. What’s up?”
    “I’m seeing the Perfect Storm on Doppler. Edie’s in the Atlantic and Donald’s in the Gulf, fixing to mate and form a super ‘cane. We’ll have to board up the townhouses for sure.”
    We?” As if my sister out in Idaho would magically appear for the occasion. “I’ll call Jim. I refuse to drive to Dolphin in this storm.”
    “I don’t blame you. You must be exhausted.”
    I had no time for a therapy session from my psychotherapist sister. “I don’t mean to cut you off, sis, but I need to catch Jim in time to board up our places. Let me call you later. Love you.”
    Kari Ann and I hired Jim Grayson after we fired Prestige Rentals, a company that rented to the teenagers who trashed our two townhouses. Jim could fix anything. He had good references, plenty of leasing experience, three rentals of his own on Paradise Isle, meaning he kept a close eye on incoming storms. Most importantly, he meticulously screened every renter and refused teenagers unaccompanied by adults.
    We paid him twenty percent for his trouble, extra for handyman chores. This time I was prepared to pay him double the usual if he’d help me out. Regardless, I had no intention of driving down to Dolphin in this storm. I’d been away from home too much lately and I had a long list of chores I needed to do. The basket in the washer/dryer room overflowed with my dirty clothes. A clean pile of laundry, that needed folding, covered the beige sofa in the living room, where my ever-expanding rock collection dwarfed the coffee table.
    My obsession with stones began when Adam gave me the two Amethysts. (Wedged together, they formed a heart.) I’m now somewhat of an expert on stone power.
    The bloodstones (heliotropes) are among my favorites. The most famous member of the jasper family, they have the power to heal, according to legend. Heliotropes were formed during the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. His blood spilled on the earth, turning the earth to bloodstone. Hence the definition: “the healing stone.” Sadly, none of my rocks cured my heartache after Adam was killed.
    I shook my head to dislodge the memory as I surveyed my jumbled mass of gems. If my parents were alive, they would feel embarrassed for me.
    They had taken such pride in their home. My dad—Eric Larson—designed and built the four-bedroom split on six acres of farmland and pines. It offered a tranquil view of Lake Gerry, three miles outside a town where seven thousand people still believed in the golden rule. I could not imagine living anywhere else.
    “Yup,” Jim answered on the third ring.
    “Hi, Jim. Maeva Larson. How are you?”
    “Under the gun. What can I do you for?”
    “I need you to board up our townhouses.”
    “Can’t, lovely lady. I’m shittin’ and getting’.”
    I thought I’d misunderstood him. “What’d you say?” “I’m getting the hell out before that hurricane blows me out.”
    “I can appreciate your concern, Jim, but there’s been no evacuation yet, has there?”
    “Not that I’ve heard.”
    “And no one knows for sure where this thing is aiming. Even if the hurricane aims for Dolphin, it won’t make landfall for several hours, which should give you plenty of time to get out if you take the evacuation route over the Bay Bridge. But of course, you