A Deadly Cliche (13 page)

Olivia perched on the stool next to him. “Have your customers fled for the hills too?”

“I could only be so lucky.” He took a sip of beer. “I had a hell of a time dealing with a woman channeling Mary Poppins today. She came into the shop with one of those frilly umbrellas and started singing. At first, the moms and kids loved it, but then it quickly became clear that this lady was no Julie Andrews. In fact, she was more like Cruella De Vil.”

Olivia laughed. “You mean she didn’t fly or dance around with a pair of cartoon penguins?”

Flynn shook his head. “Oh, she danced all right. If you can imagine a fisherman in foul weather gear with his shoelaces tied together, then you can picture this lady’s moves.” He pushed his hand through his wavy hair. “I think she did at least two hundred bucks of damage.”

“Not to books, I hope.” Olivia hated the thought of broken leather spines or rent pages.

Etching designs into the icy film on his glass, Flynn said, “Luckily, no. But I have some furniture to replace. I’m heading into Raleigh tomorrow to visit with an old friend, so I’ll wait out the storm for a couple of days, pick up some new children’s chairs, and hang my ‘Open’ sign again first thing Wednesday morning.”

“She broke wooden chairs?” Olivia visualized a madwoman slamming pint-sized rockers against the floor like some frenzied heavy-metal rocker destroying his guitar.

Flynn nodded. “Yeah, she tried to mimic that
Flashdance
move in which the dancer drapes herself over the chair, pulls a chain, and is drenched with water. In this case, the chair broke with her imaginary chain pull and instead of water, she squirted herself with a sports bottle filled with I believe to be lemon-lime Gatorade.” He grimaced. “At least, I’m
really
hoping it was Gatorade.”

He chuckled and Olivia joined in.

The murmur in the dining room had increased, indicating that another party or two had been seated by a member of Olivia’s selfless waitstaff while she lingered at the bar. “Duty calls,” she told Flynn and then, while Gabe was occupied recommending cocktails to a pair of stylish young women at the other end of the bar, she added, “Maybe we could get together before Ophelia chases you out of town.”

Grinning, Flynn saluted her with his glass. “You know where I live, darling. I’ll leave the light on for you.”

Olivia collected the mayor’s drink and walked away.

The Boot Top stayed open late that night. The locals tarried at the bar until Gabe submitted to peer pressure and turned on the small television hung above a row of liquor bottles.

Men and women loitered over their whiskey and recalled other storms such as Donna, Hugo, Fran, Hazel, and Floyd. Olivia’s customers were reluctant to go home, knowing that after tomorrow morning’s church services, the town would shut down. Oyster Bay still honored the traditional blue laws and only a few eateries remained open on Sunday. The Boot Top served a weekly brunch, Grumpy’s provided breakfast and lunch, and Bagels ’n’ Beans operated until noon, at which time Wheeler promptly turned off the lights, locked the door, and spent the remainder of the day fishing.

The hurricane specialist on The Weather Channel was in his element, gesticulating at the blue screen as he pointed at rain bands, the enlarged eye, and the overall width of the circulating mass. The other reporters shared his ecstasy, their faces gleaming like polished apples as they reviewed Ophelia’s wind gusts, path, and predicted landfall.

Olivia and her Oyster Bay neighbors were hypnotized by the graphics and the commentary, but when the program switched gears and began to display footage from Floyd, Olivia told Gabe to lock up. Gathering Haviland from her office, she prepared to exit through the kitchen door.

“Do you think there’s any point in coming in Tuesday?” Michel asked. Over steaming pots, cutting boards, and sinks of dirty dishes, the kitchen staff looked at Olivia expectantly.

“No,” she answered without hesitation. “We won’t reopen until the power is restored. When the lights come on in town, The Boot Top needs to be ready to serve dinner the same night. Tomorrow we’ll offer brunch to the soggy church goers and then lock up until Ophelia’s gone.” Shouldering her purse, she gazed around the kitchen. “Be careful everyone. I don’t want the inconvenience of having to hire a new staff because you surfer types were lost to a riptide or those of you with jacked-up pickups trucks decided it would be fun to drive through flooded streets.”

One of the sous-chefs sniggered, but Michel silenced him with a glare.

“We will take care, Ms. Limoges,” he said, issuing a formal bow. “Remember, if the waves get too high, you should climb to the top of the lighthouse.”

More sniggering. “The generator will keep the freezer and walk-in fridge running, but if there’s any perishable food beyond what’s needed for tomorrow’s brunch, feel free to take it home to your families.”

The dishwasher thanked her in Spanish and then rushed forward to open the door for her. The floodlight above the door illuminated the persistent rainfall beyond the restaurant’s walls.

Olivia and Haviland scurried to the Range Rover. The rain was deceptively gentle, like a steady and nourishing springtime drizzle. The only indication that the fury of nature was about to rend the town apart was the sickly yellow and puce tinge to the edge of the clouds.

The drive to Flynn’s bungalow was eerie. The streets were nearly deserted and the wet pavement shimmered in the otherworldly light. Olivia passed only one car on Main Street and she could see that many of the shops had closed early. Even the streetlights lining the sidewalk seemed forlorn.

Flynn’s Caribbean-style bungalow was a welcome sight. Every light was on and the house glowed with misty warmth, like a roaring fire viewed through an ice-crusted windowpane. Unfamiliar music drifted from the open front door. Olivia cocked her head. It sounded like Cuban jazz—a perfect mixture of vibrant rhythms blending with a seductive and smooth melody.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” Flynn rose from his painted wooden rocking chair to greet her with a kiss.

Olivia returned the kiss with unusual tenderness. “It was sweet of you to wait up for me. Your place looks like a beacon in the night.”

“I could hardly watch mindless television knowing you were on the way, so I decided to make it clear that I was anxiously awaiting your arrival.” He dipped a widemouthed glass in salt and poured her a margarita from a nearby pitcher. Adding a lime wedge, he placed the glass on a rattan coaster and gestured at the other rocker.

Settling into the cobalt-colored chair, Olivia signaled for Haviland to find a discreet place behind the house to take care of business. Delighted to finally be allowed a measure of freedom after being cooped up in Olivia’s office all evening, the poodle darted off the porch and disappeared into the rainy night.

Olivia and Flynn made predictions about the storm and listened to the rainfall. Haviland returned, detaching himself from the shadows, and sat on the front mat, clearly asking to be let inside. He was ready for bed, but Olivia was reticent to break the spell being woven out of night rain, tequila, and Flynn’s jazz record.

“So who’s this old friend you’re going to visit?” Olivia asked, wanting to linger on the porch a little longer.

Flynn didn’t answer. Instead, he got up, walked to her, and gently pulled her out of her chair. Pressing her against him, thigh against thigh and hip against hip, he cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “Hmm, a personal question. Are we taking our relationship to the next level?”

Olivia stiffened in his arms. “What does
that
mean?”

There was a smile in Flynn’s voice as he murmured his reply in her ear. “It means that you’ll stay for breakfast. Try it just once and see how it feels.”

Relaxing, Olivia sought his lips. They were warm and inviting. “All right,” she agreed, her voice low and deep with need. “But no stacks of pancakes or three-egg omelets. I prefer lighter fare.”

“The best I could scrounge up would be bread and jelly,” he said with a low laugh as he led Olivia inside.

 

 

The next morning, Olivia and Flynn ate toast with strawberry jam and drank coffee in front of the television. Ophelia had picked up speed overnight and was likely to make landfall just after dawn on Monday. As they watched, the program was interrupted by an emergency announcement. The screen turned cardinal red, and white letters appeared, alerting those throughout the county that the mayor was calling for voluntary evacuations.

“Wow,” Flynn breathed, his coffee cup frozen midair. “This is serious.”

Olivia carried her dishes to the kitchen. “You should get going. The roads will get crowded quickly.”

Seeing that his mistress had no leftovers for him, Haviland moved to the door and waved his tail, obviously eager to leave.

“I need to go home and feed the Captain anyway. He’s too much of a food snob to settle for toast.” Olivia gave Flynn a little smile.

He put his mug down and walked her to the door. Taking her hand he said, “Are you sure it’s safe to stay out on the Point?”

“Why? Do you want me to evacuate with you?” It had meant to be a jest, but Olivia saw a look of alarm dart across her lover’s gray eyes. Fiddling with Haviland’s collar, she turned away and gave Flynn time to decide whether he wanted to open up about his destination or keep the identity of his ‘old friend’ private.

Several seconds passed and she could sense a gulf widening between them. In that stretch of silence, they’d each taken a step away from one another.

Olivia was ready to go. She pasted on a carefree smile and said, “I’ll be fine. See you soon.” She watched Flynn relax and reach for an umbrella.

“Let me accompany you to your car. It’s raining buckets. Geysers. Veritable tsunamis.”

Waving off the umbrella, Olivia gave Flynn a peck on the cheek and left without looking back. Pulling the hood of her raincoat over her hair, she tried to avoid the deeper puddles polka-dotting the road, poignantly aware that whatever progress she and Flynn had made last night had been lost. The look on his face when she mentioned accompanying him to Raleigh told of secrets Flynn wanted to preserve. If he had truly wanted to let her in, he would have spoken up, but the moment had passed and he’d been returned to bearing the label of casual lover.

“It’s better this way. Less complicated,” Olivia told her rain-speckled reflection in the rearview mirror.

She vowed to never wake up in Flynn’s bed again.

 

 

At home, Olivia fed Haviland and printed out Millay’s chapter, intending to save the critique work as a means of entertainment during the inevitable power outage.

The rain had increased in tempo since Olivia’s return. No longer the gentle and steady precipitation of last night, it fell in a disharmonious staccato. By early afternoon, the wind gained a voice, fluttering like heavy curtains in accompaniment to the rain. By four o’clock, however, it dominated the noise of the ocean and begun to rush around the sides of the house and over the roof like a low-flying airplane, growling and hissing. Soon, Olivia knew, it would sound less like an angry witch outsmarted by a fairy book child and more like the enraged howl of Jack’s giant.

As the afternoon waned, Olivia’s lights flickered several times but did not go out. She kept near the television, watching in awestruck fascination as the storm hurtled toward the North Carolina coast. The recommendation to evacuate continued throughout the day and Olivia received several calls from her staff at The Boot Top as well as from members of the Bayside Book Writers asking after her welfare. The person she wanted to hear from most, however, did not call.

For dinner, Olivia ate beef stew and fresh bread slathered with butter, then returned to the sofa with a glass of red wine. She had to turn the volume of the television higher in order to compete with the clamor of the rain-laden wind. A sodden journalist reported live from the Outer Banks where widespread power outages had occurred minutes before their broadcast. Hearing the news, Olivia checked the placement of her battery-powered lamps.

“It won’t be long now,” she told an anxious Haviland.

She also had her raincoat, hat, and waders waiting by the front door in preparation to start the small generator hidden behind a wooden screen on the side of the house. It could only power the refrigerator and the kitchen lights, but Olivia planned to run an extension cord from the outlet behind the fridge to the countertop, ensuring the continued use of her coffee machine.

“Ophelia may huff and puff and try to blow the house down, but nothing will stop me from having coffee,” Olivia had declared to Haviland earlier that weekend.

She also had a waterproof radio and TV unit to switch on once her main set went dark, but the little emergency television had a tiny screen and a flimsy antenna and Olivia doubted it would be of much good. Still, she turned it on and flipped between the three available stations until she was able to get a grainy picture of an anchorwoman’s face. Shortly afterward, a powerful burst of wind shook the walls from roof to foundation and the house fell into a state of semi-darkness.

“I’ll be right back,” Olivia spoke soothingly to her agitated poodle. “I need to start the generator.”

Outside, the sky had a surreal, white gray glow, as though Ophelia were exhaling wet smoke. Even dressed in her foul-weather gear, rain pelted Olivia’s face and crept under her collar. The wind was nearly strong enough to knock her flat, and when she had to use both hands to grab the wooden screen surrounding the generator to regain her balance, a strong gust snatched her hat away.

“Damn!” Olivia tried to shout as she yanked on the generator’s pull start, but her words were stolen before they could even leave her mouth. The generator roared into life and Olivia felt an exaggerated sense of triumph.

Her smugness was short-lived, however, for when she climbed into bed, she found it impossible to sleep. Ophelia pounded on every surface with fists of wind and water. It didn’t help that the last report Olivia had seen on her tiny television in the kitchen had been of a missing fishing boat and the plight of its five-man crew.