Stone Cove Island Read Free

but it’s mostly research and whatever anyone else doesn’t want to do. I was coming back this weekend to see my parents anyway, so I thought I’d stay in case it turned out to be big.”
    We both took in the mangled shore. It was big.
    “I feel bad,” he said. “I almost feel like I willed it. Looking for a story.”
    “Weather’s not that mystical,” I said, mostly to myself. “It’s just weather. This just happened. It’s not like we asked for it.”
    “Huh. You haven’t changed. That’s nice.” I felt a weird flutter as he said it. I didn’t know he thought of me as being any particular way. It was uncomfortable, the compliment amid the destruction.
    “Yeah, well, I’m still here,” I said quickly. “Things don’t change that much. You’re the one who left for the big city, right?”
    “True,” he said. He looked at me a minute, like he was going to say something else. “Should we go see what’s going on? Nancy and Greg have probably set up a war room down there.”
    “Or at least they’ll have some coffee.” I’d been drinking coffee, black, since I was twelve and hanging around my dad’s construction sites. My mom didn’t know about it until much later. Of course she disapproved. My feet were wet. My nerves felt raw. I realized right then I was actually dying for some coffee.
    “That sounds good,” he agreed.
    We turned and headed back up the street to the Picnic Basket. Slowly people were starting to come out to take in the damage. On the steps of the Congregational Church, Mrs. Walker, the minister’s wife, was sweeping uselessly at huge fallen roof tiles and wood fragments from the steeple. Lexy Morgan and her father were bailing water out of his candy and souvenir shop. Charlie and I pausedat the surreal lake of floating jawbreakers and Atomic Fireballs and offered to help. Mr. Morgan shook his head, too upset and too focused to talk. Mrs. Hilliard, my history teacher, stood in the middle of the street, staring at her car. It had been flattened under a giant maple tree, and now was an accordion of red metal and spiderwebbed glass. She looked confused, as if she’d just awakened from a dream, as if she weren’t sure what she was looking at was real. I knew the feeling. I couldn’t shake it.
    Nobody even noticed when we entered the Picnic Basket. The stove was unlit, but Greg was toasting bagels in a toaster oven and there was a huge pot of coffee brewing, both plugged into the portable generator. Nancy was at her computer, finding out everything she could about the storm. She called out headlines to the dozen or so people huddled around her.
    “No prediction of how long to restore ferry! Freak softball-sized hail across the border in New Hampshire! Coast guard expects delays of supplies and building materials to island residents in region! Lady Gaga plans Martha’s Vineyard storm victim fund-raiser with Diane Sawyer and Carly Simon.”
    She snickered at that last one. A few others grumbled. Stone Cove Island’s rivalry with Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket goes back a long way. Locals insist our island has a more low-key, discreet reputation, but a lot of people feel jealous of the glitzier image of the other two. When the president vacations in Nantucket, islanders here make a big point of saying how thankful they are for the peace and quiet of Stone Cove.
    “Nancy, what about the power?” called Jim McNeil, the mechanic in town.
    “Thursday at the earliest, they’re saying.”
    That was three days from now. I could see everyone mentally calculating their supplies: water, canned food, batteries, extra blankets. So far the weather had been warm for October, but at this time of year, it could be below freezing tomorrow. I’d heard my mother worrying about that just last night, and wondering if we had enough firewood on hand. Greg looked up from his bagel station and nodded at us.
    “Charlie, Eliza, you okay? Everybody good at home?”
    “We’re fine, Greg. Thanks,” I