Hot meals will be served daily FREE OF CHARGE at the Mermaid Café from 12:30 P.M. until dusk from now until further notice. LITTLE BRIDGE STRONG!!!
He was right. It was fun.
Part of it was due to the fact that everyone we saw along the way—and there were people everywhere, even more than earlier, helping to clear the roads or their yards or simply taking a stroll since there was nothing else to do with no electricity or cell service or Internet, and it was too hot to remain indoors—greeted us.
Well, mainly they greeted Drew, since, as a lifelong islander, he was known to everyone.
But a few knew me as well, from the café.
Everyone raised a hand to wave a cheerful hello, then asked when I pulled over about the damage we’d seen, or shared their own storm story, and then agreed that, all in all, the hurricane had not been as bad as expected, and that—except for the bridge washing out—the island had dodged a bullet.
But most of the fun was due to Drew himself.
Oh, he was still annoying. He’d insisted on taking “roadies” from his aunt’s house, cans of beer in insulated sleeves he kept in his beloved tool kit, and that he claimed, since he wasn’t driving, were safe and even appropriate for him to drink to “replace lost electrolytes” and ward off the post-storm heat and humidity.
But he was also funny, with his dry wit and (mostly) self-deprecating humor.
And it didn’t hurt that he smelled good. Despite the heat and how closely we were forced to sit together on the scooter, he gave off the scent of clean laundry (thanks to the shirt he’d swiped from his aunt’s house) and whatever kind of deodorant he wore.
And he was infinitely helpful with the animals. The key was right where Chett had said it would be, and if it hadn’t been for Drew, I’d never have reached the cockatiels in time: the pull string to the attic door was in the ceiling, way out of my reach. I’d have needed a ladder to grab it.
Drew merely reached up a hand and pulled it down.
If we’d taken much longer to reach the cockatiels—or if it had gotten much hotter in that attic—the outcome could have been very different.
But as it was, all eight were still alive when we got there—though they weren’t exactly chirpy. They perked up considerably once we moved them back down to Chett’s apartment, which was cooler than the attic, despite not having air-conditioning. At least we could open the windows and let in a breeze.
We fed and watered the birds, as Chett had instructed, and then set off to check on the rest of the animals on our list. The dogs were the easiest to care for, as they were waiting for us, wild for attention, wanting only to be fed and let out to relieve themselves (a few had made messes indoors, but those were easily cleaned).
The cats were more difficult because several of them hid, and I insisted that it wasn’t enough only to fill their bowls with water and food. We had to put eyes on each cat, so I could reassure their owners that it was okay . . . which wasn’t easy to do in apartments with no electricity and where the windows had been boarded up. Some of the places were as dark as mausoleums, and the shyest cats—one of whom was also black—chose to hide in the shadiest reaches under the bed.
Fortunately I’d tossed Daniella’s flashlight into my “pet rescue kit,” which also included Gary’s favorite cat treats. Eventually we were able to find each cat, establish that it was well enough to leave alone for one more night, and move on. Even the tortoise seemed to be in pretty good shape.
The only one who wasn’t was me. Spending so much time in such close proximity to someone to whom I was so attracted wasn’t doing me much good. It was especially annoying when he persisted in keeping his hands to himself, regardless of my many signals that it was okay now to touch me. Why not? I probably only had twenty-four hours left in Little Bridge as “Bree,” the pink-haired Mermaid Café waitress, and not Sabrina Beckham, Judge Justine’s daughter.
Why shouldn’t he be the guy to help me enjoy it?
Except he wasn’t exactly playing along . . . probably because I, like a dummy, had blurted out to him who I really was on practically my first occasion to do so.
And he, it turned out, was no fan of Judge Justine.
Welcome to the club.
The house with the shy black cat (Smokey) was our last stop on the list, and also happened to be located on a street near the Mermaid. As we were heading from it back to the scooter, we saw a barefoot blond woman wearing only a macramé beach cover-up over a bikini top and a tiny pair of jeans shorts coming down the branch-strewn street toward us, her cell phone in one hand and a small child of indeterminate sex—also shoeless and wearing only a diaper—clutching the other.
“Hey,” the woman said to us. She was waving the cell phone high in the air, apparently searching for bars. It didn’t seem to have dawned on her that there weren’t any, and she appeared frantic about it. The child, however, was smiling at us cheerfully. “Do either of you know where the, um, Manatee Café is?”
I stared at her, thinking of all the sharp or electrified objects on which either she or her child might step, especially since she wasn’t paying any attention to where they were going.
“Do you mean the Mermaid Café?” Drew asked.
“Oh, yeah, that’s it.” The woman lowered the phone, smiling with relief. When she smiled, the child smiled even more widely, and began chattering in a language known only to itself. “Someone said they’re giving away free food, only I can’t seem to get any service on my phone to check. It’s the weirdest thing.”
Drew cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the storm knocked out cell service to the island.”
The woman seemed shocked to hear this. “Really? We didn’t even know there was going to be a storm. I didn’t have time to stock up on milk for little Josiah or anything. Do you think the café will have milk?”
I sucked in my breath to ask the woman how she could possibly not have known there was going to be a storm when news of it had been broadcast all over the radio, television, and Internet for days—even as much as a week—beforehand, but Drew cut me off, as if he’d known what I was going to say.
“The Mermaid’s right around the corner.” He pointed to make sure the woman understood. “And I’m sure they’ll have plenty of milk for Josiah. We’re headed there now. Why don’t you let my friend here give you a lift on her scooter? I’ll take Josiah.”
Without waiting for a response, Drew leaned down and scooped up the toddler. Fortunately, the child seemed pleased, shrieking delightedly as he found himself suddenly dangling in midair.
I shot Drew a quick look to let him know I wasn’t pleased about his volunteering me for taxi service—then realized, when his gaze met mine and then shifted quickly to the woman’s feet, that he’d been thinking the same thing I had: that neither mother nor child should be walking around barefoot on that hot, storm debris–strewn pavement.
“Sure,” I said, jolting my scooter off its kickstand. “I can give you a ride. It’s only around the corner. Want to hop on?”
“Oh, no.” The woman shook her long blond hair politely, but I could tell she was longing to say yes. Wherever she and her baby had come from, they’d walked a long way. “I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience.”
I climbed onto the scooter and started the engine. “It’s no inconvenience. I’m going there anyway.”
“Well . . .” The woman reluctantly climbed onto the back of the motorbike, taking the helmet I handed to her. “I guess if it really isn’t any trouble . . .”
“It’s so close,” I said, nodding at Drew, who was already halfway down the block with Josiah bouncing on his shoulders. “They’re going to beat us there if we don’t hurry.”
They did, but only because I was so shocked when I turned the corner and saw the Mermaid that I slammed on my brakes. It wasn’t because of what the storm had done to the restaurant: Drew’s expert shuttering had guaranteed it was buttoned up tight against any wind damage from Marilyn, and Ed had sandbagged, preventing any storm surge flooding from the nearby harbor.
What surprised me was the size of the crowd I saw in the street outside the café. I should have expected it—there’d just been a significant weather catastrophe, and Ed was giving away free food, after all.
But I hadn’t seen that many people in one place in Little Bridge since the Fourth of July fireworks display at the dock.
If things were this bad—if there were this many people in need of food and water on the island—where was the National Guard? Where was the Federal Emergency Management Agency? Where was the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, any of those people you always saw on television rushing in after a disaster to help those in need, and to whom, in the spirit of giving, my parents always donated money every year during the holidays? Where did all that money they sent go, if it wasn’t to the people who needed it? Were we really just on our own?
“Is everything all right?” the woman sitting behind me asked, no doubt wondering why we were just sitting there.
“Not exact—” I started to say, then realized I shouldn’t alarm my guest with my own dark thoughts, especially since she appeared to be one of the people in need. “Nope, everything’s fine.”
I pulled over to park without further comment but wondered how Ed and Lucy Hartwell and the others were doing, serving such an overwhelmingly large crowd.
The woman must have been thinking the same thing, since she said, “Wow,” as she slipped off the helmet I’d loaned her and handed it back to me. “I guess word traveled around fast about this place.”
“It sure did.” Drew came up beside us to hand the woman her still happily chattering child.
I was relieved to see that most of the people in the crowd were already holding paper plates and cups. It looked like Ed had cleaned out the freezers. I could smell the scent of grilling meat and vegetables floating on the sea breeze.
“You stay here,” I said to the woman, since I was anxious to get to the café and see what I could do to help out. “One of us will bring you back a couple of plates, and some milk for Josiah.”
“Oh, no,” the woman said, looking mortified. “I don’t want to be any more bother.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I work for the café.” I stabbed a finger in Drew’s direction. “And he’s the owner’s nephew.”
The woman turned suddenly tear-filled eyes in Drew’s direction, then reached out to grasp his hand.
“Oh, bless you,” she cried. “Bless you for doing this. You are just the kindest, sweetest man.” She kissed the hand she’d seized, then clutched it to her heart, possibly by accident, but also maybe on purpose, giving Drew a pretty thorough feel of her bikini-clad breasts.
I glared at her while, above her bowed head, Drew grinned at me, one eyebrow cocked mischievously, obviously enjoying my discomfort.
“I really am the kindest and the sweetest,” he said. “Also the handsomest.”
“Well, we have to go now,” I said, taking Drew by the arm and physically propelling him away from the woman. “But we’ll be back.”
“One of us will,” Drew assured her with a wink. “Probably not me.”
“Oh.” The woman looked crestfallen, even as several other women rushed up to her, each bearing items of food and clothing that had already been donated that they wanted to give to her and her child.
“What was that?” I demanded, as I dragged him through the crowd toward the café. “I’m the one who actually works here and gave her the scooter ride. Why didn’t she kiss my hand?”
“Do you want me to go back there and ask her?” Drew froze, grabbed my wrist, and began to drag me back toward the woman. “You’re right, this is gender inequality.”
I dug my heels in. “Stop it. This isn’t funny.”
“You’re being jealous is sort of funny.”
“I’m not jealous!”
“You’re completely jealous.”
“I’m embarrassed for my sex, is all. That woman was throwing herself at you. Also, how could she not have known a storm was coming? She has a child! It’s her job to know.”
“Hey, I thought we weren’t judging people.” He was moving again, just more slowly, and unfortunately, he’d let go of my wrist. “Isn’t that what you told your mom? Why is it not all right to judge bad pet parents but all right to judge bad child parents?”
I scowled. “You’re right. It’s not. Everybody is just trying to do their best, I guess. Do you think that woman is trying to do her best?”
He nodded. “I do. She reminded me of my sister—Nevaeh’s mom, Andrea—a little.” Then, seeing my glance, he added quickly, “Not the kissing my hand part. But the not having her shit together part.”
I didn’t say anything right away, because I was too stunned to think of anything to say except one thing. Until finally, I could keep it to myself no longer: “Your parents named you Andrew and your sister Andrea?”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yeah, they did. But is that something you should really be commenting on, considering your parents named you after a type of cheese?”
I snorted. “My name’s not Brie. It’s Sabrina. My mom named me after the title character in her favorite movie, which is almost as bad as being named for a cheese, because it’s a movie about a chauffeur’s daughter who falls in love with the son of the wealthy family her dad works for.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well, nothing, I guess, except that—”
“Bree!”
The cry came from Angela, who was working behind the line of fold-out tables that had been set up in front of the café. Without power, and therefore no air-conditioning, it was too hot to serve food from inside the building, so Ed had set up a line of grills and coolers just outside the door. In front of them, Angela, Mrs. Hartwell, Nevaeh, and the rest of the staff worked at folding tables beneath hastily set-up beach umbrellas to serve what looked like half the town the contents of the café’s now nonfunctioning freezers.
“Hey.” I hurried up to greet Angela. “How did your mom’s place weather the storm?”
“Good. We lost a few roof tiles and a tree or two, but otherwise, it wasn’t nearly as bad as we were expecting.” Her face was shining from the heat, but I expected mine was looking worse, considering all the beds I’d had to crawl under looking for people’s cats. “What’s going on over there?” She nodded toward Drew, who was standing by one of the barbecues, observing his uncle’s grilling technique. “I saw you two pull up together, along with Mary Jane Peters.”
“You know that woman? We ran into her on the street. She didn’t even know a storm was coming.”
“Yeah, that makes sense. She’s one of those ditzy yoga moms. Doesn’t believe in vaccinations or television or public school.”
“Oh, that explains it. I thought she was on drugs.”
Angela shrugged. “No, just vegan. Lets the kid have dairy, though, if it’s organic.”
“Yeah, that makes sense, she’s looking for milk.”
Angela sighed. “We’ve got some that hasn’t gone bad yet. I’ll give it to her. But you still haven’t told me what the deal is with you and Lover Boy over there.”
I felt myself blush, but fortunately there was no way Angela or anyone else was going to be able to tell, since the sun was beginning to sink in the west and turning everything and everyone pink with its fiery rays.
“There’s no deal. He’s helping me feed all the pets that people have left behind and can’t get back to on account of the bridge being out.”
“Ooooh.” Angela grinned. “I bet he is. And I bet he’s only doing it out of the goodness of his heart, not because he wants to get into your bed. Everyone knows Drew Hartwell is a real Boy Scout.”
“Shut up. He is.”
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve made out with him twice, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. Although admittedly this pesky hurricane thing keeps getting in the way.”
Angela grinned, obviously wanting to know more, but then was distracted by something happening at the table in front of her. “Marquise, no. It’s one serving of chicken or steak or fish per person per plate. They can’t have all three at once. If they want more, they can come back through the line for more once they’ve finished.”
Marquise—Angela’s handsome young nephew who often helped out at the café when we were shorthanded but couldn’t work full-time because of his position as quarterback on the Little Bridge High School football team—looked frustrated. “But this gentleman here asked for chicken and fish,” he hissed. “Look at him! I’m not going to deny the man!”
Angela leaned forward to deal with the dissatisfied customer, who already had a plate piled high with corn bread, Caesar salad, black beans and rice, and a baked potato.
“Sir,” she said. “We’re happily giving away all this free food today on account of the storm. But we have to make sure we have enough for everyone. We’re serving chicken, fish, or steak. But you can only have one protein at a time.”
“But—” The gentleman, who appeared from the weathered condition of his skin to have spent a great deal of time at sea, opened his mouth to protest, revealing a past lacking in proper dental care.
“If you finish your plate and are still hungry, of course you can come back for more. But for now, it’s one serving of chicken or fish or steak per person per plate.”
The old sailor looked resigned. “Then chicken, I guess.”
Marquise delicately placed a chicken leg, thigh, and breast on his plate. “Enjoy, sir. Don’t forget, there’s key lime pie for dessert.”
The old sailor grinned toothlessly before moving on. “God bless ya, son!”
Nevaeh, who was standing beside Marquise, looked up at him from beneath her heavily made-up eyelashes and said, “You handled that really well.”
Katie Hartwell, also standing nearby, hurried to add, “I think so, too.”
Marquise looked confused but pleased. “Uh, thanks.”
“Are you going to stick around?” Angela asked me. “We could really use your help, especially with cleanup. The trash cans are already overflowing, so people are just piling their plates wherever.”
“Sure. I’ll go inside and grab some trash bags.”
“No!” Mrs. Hartwell appeared as if from nowhere. “I’ll do that. Bree, why don’t you take over my spot, handing out key limeade?”
I knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t want me taking on menial tasks anymore because I was Judge Justine’s daughter. It didn’t matter that I’d already spent months mopping floors and cleaning the bathrooms. “Mrs. Hartwell, it’s all right. I’m fine with trash duty.”
“No, no, dear, I want to get out there anyway. I need to talk to some of these people, see if they need—”
“And stand in the hot sun?” Drew was suddenly by her side. “Why don’t you let me and Bree handle the trash, Lu, and you keep serving folks the drinks. You okay with that, Bree?”
I smiled at him. The sinking sun glinted on the fine hairs on his arms, bleached gold by all the time he spent outdoors. “I’m fine with that.”
We’d fetched Mary Jane Peters and her son a couple of plates of food, along with some milk, and were moving through the crowd with our large garbage bags, collecting people’s trash, when a man riding a horse—truly, a handsome, well-fed pinto—suddenly clattered into the parking lot.
“Uh-oh,” Drew said, eyeing the tall man in the dark green uniform sitting astride the horse. “It’s the cops.”
I watched in some alarm as Sheriff Hartwell dismounted from his horse and began approaching the café. “What’s he doing here? Do you think someone saw us breaking in to people’s houses to feed their pets and thought we were robbing them and turned us in?”
Drew, smiling, looked down at me. “You really are a Fresh Water, aren’t you?”
Flushing, I grasped my trash bag. “Well, you never know. What we’re doing isn’t exactly legal.”
“It is if you have permission from the home owners.” He saw the look on my face, then asked, “You did have permission from all the homeowners, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “Of course.” I mean, I’d had permission from Chett, who’d assured me that all of the homeowners were friends of his . . . how else could he have known what sort of pets they owned and how to break into their houses?
I watched with a drumming heart as Sheriff Hartwell strode closer and closer . . . and finally walked right past us, with a nod of greeting in Drew’s direction, and right up to Ed, who was still working the grills he’d set up, a green bandanna wrapped around his forehead to keep sweat from dripping into the food.
“Hey, there, Ed,” I overheard the sheriff say. “Nice little operation you got running here.”
“Well,” Ed said, modestly, “I gotta get rid of all this meat before it goes bad. Shoulda installed a generator here when I had the chance. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I understand.” The sheriff sounded sympathetic. “Thing is, I’m gonna need you to shut all this down by sunset. I’m issuing an island-wide curfew from dusk to dawn. I’ve told my people to arrest anyone they find out of doors, no questions asked.”
Ed whistled, low and long, and Drew, who’d clearly overheard as well, raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve got a lot of people here who are far from home right now, Sheriff,” Drew said. “Word got around fast about what Ed was doing here, and people came here from as far away as Ramrod Key.”
“I know that.” The sheriff scratched his chin. “But there’s still an hour till sunset. That’s plenty of time for them to get back home.”
Drew looked out over the crowd, who were happily eating and drinking. Someone had brought out a ukulele and was playing it. Several people had broken out bottles of beer, and even, by the smell wafting toward us, some herbal refreshment, despite the presence of the sheriff, who didn’t seem inclined to investigate.
“Maybe it’s for the best, Ed,” Drew said to his uncle. “The rest of that meat will keep for tomorrow.”
Ed looked down at his coolers. “True. And some people will need it even more then.”
“Yes.” The sheriff looked up. A lone helicopter—the first one I’d seen all day—was flying by, low and slow.
“Is that FEMA?” I asked, hopefully, thinking maybe, finally, someone from the national or even state government was paying attention to us.
The sheriff shook his head. “Sorry. No. That up there is Channel Seven out of Miami. Been buzzing around all afternoon, getting pictures for the evening news. I’m not particularly worried about looters myself, but the media’s playing up the angle, and getting the folks who are stuck on the other side of the bridge all fired up about it. Curfew’s the only way I could think of to keep everybody happy.”
Ed nodded. “Makes sense. Okay, lemme cook off the last of this meat here and then you can let people know we have to shut down for the night.”
Which is what they did—not that anyone was too happy about it. Katie Hartwell in particular expressed a few harsh words to her father when she found out her time as a volunteer working at the side of Marquise Fairweather was ending. I myself overheard her tell her father that he was “ruining everything” and that she was “never coming home.”
Mrs. Hartwell, however, told the sheriff not to lose heart, and that it was probably better for Katie to continue staying with the Hartwells anyway during this time of crisis, since her father was going to be so busy.
I was stooping over, helping Mrs. Hartwell store the leftover corn bread on rolling racks, when Drew approached me and said, “Well?”
I squinted up at him. I had on my sunglasses, but the sun was lower than ever, and he was standing with his back to the light, so I couldn’t make out his features and had no idea what he wanted. “Well, what?”
“Well, when are you taking me back to my place?”
I stared up at him, dumbfounded. “I have to help clean this all up. Can’t you snag a ride with the sheriff, or somebody?”
“On the back of his horse? No, I can’t snag a ride with the sheriff. What are you talking about?”
I rose, brushing the crumbs from my hands. “That’s not his only mode of transportation. I’ve seen him driving around in a giant SUV.”
“That’s never going to get around that yacht sitting in the middle of my road. Listen, we have to go. Do you know how long it’s been since my dogs have been out? They’ve probably trashed my place by now.”
“Drew.” I glanced around. I could sense that Angela and quite a few other people nearby were eavesdropping on our conversation. There wasn’t anything else to do. “I’d love to drive you. But I have to get home, too. I haven’t seen my cat all day—”
“Your cat?” Now that I was no longer stooping, I could see into Drew’s face. He was wearing an expression of incredulity. “What are you worrying about that cat of yours for? He’s living in the lap of luxury over there. He’s got AC and those two girls fawning over him, feeding him tuna and doing photo shoots of him. Whereas my dogs are alone, cooped up in a house with no air or food or—”
“Fine.” I glanced around but saw that everyone was busily working to put things away, and not listening to our conversation at all. Or pretending not to, at least. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
“Good. Great. I mean, really, it seems like the least you could do since I let you use my hatchet, and I’m also the kindest, sweetest, handsomest—”
I couldn’t help grinning at him. He really was the worst. Or the best, depending on how you looked at it.
