Beyond the Storm: Quilts of Love Series (17 page)

Once he’d gone, heart heavy, Justin stood and held his arms open to Abigail. Sharing his grief, she slipped naturally into his embrace. Pressing his cheek against the top of her head, they held each other and mourned the stranger’s wife and boys.

Every now and then, a car or truck would rattle and limp by on a bent frame or ruptured tires. Lumber stuck—like toothpicks in a sandwich—from the grills and doors. The windshields and windows were broken, the auto bodies dented and twisted and looking as if they should be impossible to drive. More than once they were offered a ride and, though they turned them down, Justin was struck by the generous, compassionate hearts of the good folks of Rawston.

A dog came limping up to them at one point, whining, his tail wagging, body wriggling. When Abigail tried to pet him, the dog skittered away, then looked back at her and whimpered.

“Come here, honey,” Abigail crooned to the dog. To Justin, she said, “I think he might be hurt. He doesn’t want me to touch him, poor thing.” As she spoke gentle words of comfort, the dog continued to repeat the pattern.

“You know . . .” Justin cocked his head and regarded the dog, “I think he’s trying to get us to follow him.” He scratched his chin. “Come on. Let’s see what he wants.” The dog bounded off, barking, then stopping and wriggling and waiting as they picked their way through the rubble after him. Then, off he’d go again, sniffing and pausing to yip until he stopped and started barking loud and insistently. Though his paws were sore and bleeding, he scratched at the ruins and then ducked his head, poking it into the rubble.

He was licking someone’s face. Justin and Abigail helped each other to the dog with anxious steps and joined the animal in its frenzied digging. Bit by bit, they worked together, pulling lumber and sheetrock and metal off the pile until they eventually exposed the bodies of an elderly woman and what must have been her husband. The dog licked their faces, whining and then looking back and forth at Justin and Abigail. Justin reached in and touched the woman first, and then the man.

“Gone,” he whispered.

Stricken, they stood and attempted to get the dog to follow them away from the bodies. But the animal hunkered down against the woman and his tail-wagging slowed and then stopped as he watched them walk away. Again, tears poured down Abigail’s cheeks, and Justin welled up as they moved on through the chaos.

That night, they helped dig a family out of a basement, prayed with a terrified mother over her missing children, loaded a badly wounded man onto a battered pickup truck, carried two small children for parents already loaded down with twin toddlers, administered crude first aid when and wherever it was needed, and did their best to bolster spirits. They kept an eye out for Danny but hoped that the fact that they hadn’t seen him yet meant he was already at the hospital with Jen.

The hours flew by. The horror mounted. And their bond grew.

Once Selma arrived home and had Robbie settled, she rushed off to get Elsa into bed. Heather watched the elderly woman in awe. She had more energy than a nuclear power plant. Heather had tried to lend a hand, only to be told, “I haven’t had the pleasure of putting a baby to bed for ages. You go sit a spell. Git, git git!” Heather had only lived a quarter of Selma’s years but felt as if she could drop into bed and sleep for a month.

While Bob Ray and Guadalupe gathered towels and sheets, Heather wandered through the house, looking at framed pictures of Selma’s family that spanned at least five decades displayed on the top of the piano and hanging on the walls.

Would she and Bob Ray ever leave such a beautiful legacy? Tonight, they’d made a good start. As her gaze roved the generations, she had to wonder where all these people were now. She was pretty sure her husband, Clyde, had died, but the rest of them? Where were they tonight? Were they safe? Were they worried about their mother?

Bob Ray and Selma’s voices drifted up the stairs and Heather met them in the living room. “. . . back when we lived in Topeka. That was in 1966. This storm reminds me a lot of that one. Hello, honey,” she said to Heather. “I was just telling your hubby about the Topeka tornado of ’66. We were all hiding in the bathroom. All eight of us, if you can imagine that. My junior-high-aged kids were crammed in the tub, the high-school kids in the shower, and Clyde and me were wedged between the toilet and the vanity. And just like that scene in the Wizard of Oz, the tornado tore the house off the foundation, all but the bathroom, and sent it spinning two miles east. Aside from being showered with toilet water and a lot of glass and mud and debris, we all crawled out just fine. So, that’s why we have such a great shelter now. Clyde felt that no Midwestern American family should be without some place to hide when El Diablo—that’s Spanish for the devil—hit.”

“Where are your children now, Selma?” Heather asked, curiously.

Fingers shaking with a palsy born of old age, Selma pointed out each of her children to Heather. “Julie is a widow in Montana. She’ll be a great-grandma any day now. Called to check up on me already. Mary is also a grandma in upstate New York, nursing her disabled hubby. I’ll call her later today. Cathy is in Thailand, where she and her husband are missionaries. She probably doesn’t know about the storm yet. Lorna is in an Oregon nursing home with Parkinson’s disease, and her children are nearby. And Tommy is a bush pilot in Alaska. And my Paul . . . passed away nearly two decades ago. They all moved away from the Midwest for various reasons. They are all grandparents now and in their sixties. They will all call— as will their children—and try to convince me to move later today.” Pride and love for each image shone in her eyes, and she lovingly dusted the frames with her fingertips.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you, honey. And I don’t think it’s a sin to agree.”

They’d made it to the hallway and Selma pressed a load of towels into her arms. “These are for you guys, sweetie. Your bed is made up and there are plenty of pillows. Guadalupe is making sandwiches if you are hungry, so stop by the kitchen and pick up a plate on your way by.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Tully.” Heather smiled, her voice choked with gratitude. “Your home is just perfect.”

“Call me Selma, darling girl. Everyone does. And thank you. I was just telling Bob Ray here that Clyde designed it for our family himself.”

“He did an awesome job.” Heather’s eyes swept the wonderful, lived-in, cozy home with envy. She’d grown up in designer mausoleums, but this cheerful, comfy nest filled with the history of happiness was what Heather dreamed of for her family.

“Thank you, honey. It’s a regular bunker. The bedrooms are all in the basement where it’s safe, if the storm comes back, so sleep tight. If the storm kicks up again, there is a trap door in the laundry room, that goes down an additional 8 feet for a 10x10 storm shelter, stocked with canned food, a first aid kit, lanterns, sleeping bags, water, and a safe that holds some of the more important stuff. If Clyde could see us all here now, he’d be so proud and happy. I’m just thrilled to have you here with me. Stay. Stay just as long as you need, forever is okay with me.”

Bob Ray laughed and while they chatted for another few minutes, his gaze traveled to the pictures on the wall. “Selma? Isn’t that my dad?”

Selma adjusted her glasses. “Yes. That’s him. Standing there with Paul. They were never apart. In life,” she said and sighed, “and in death.”

Bob Ray nodded. Heather wondered exactly what they were talking about, but would ask tomorrow, when she’d be awake enough to understand.

“I have collected a bunch of bathrobes over the years,” Selma said as she turned back to the bathroom linen closet. She pulled out two, one for her and one for Bob Ray. “I got a ten-pack of toothbrushes at the dollar store so pick your favorite colors. The toothpaste and deodorant and lotions and stuff are in the med cabinet. Toss your dirty clothes in the bathroom hamper, and I’ll get a load going while you clean up.”

The backs of Heather’s eyes burned with love as she watched her big muscular husband hug and kiss the tiny Selma on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said his voice raw with emotion. “You have always been there for me.”

“Oh, honey. I’m glad to do it. Your dad was special and a big part of my life.”

“I know.” Bob Ray sniffed and swiped at his eyes. “Everyone tells me I missed out on knowing him.”

“You’re a lot like him, Bob Ray. He was a wonderful man. He’d have been a real good daddy to you, if he’d had the chance.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I have a TV dish, if you want to catch the news, up here in the living room and down in your rooms. I always keep plenty of food in the house during storm season, so eat up. There’s milk in the refrigerator for Robbie and cereal in the pantry. I’m headed back out now to pick up my niece and her new friend. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Rawston’s crown jewel, her charming Old Town, as rumored, had been leveled, breaking what was left of Abigail’s heart. It was a disaster. So much so that, without street signs and buildings to guide her as landmarks, Abigail wasn’t sure where her home even was. When they finally came upon what they decided must be her building, she and Justin could only stand in the moonlight and stare. The entire second story of her salon had sailed away, as had her apartment, her furniture, all of the personal belongings she’d amassed over the last half-dozen years. The first floor had pretty much exploded and only the innermost bathroom was upright. Her staircase listed dangerously and led nowhere.

Beauty supplies were strewn everywhere and her chairs and shampoo bowls and the lobby furniture she’d so lovingly refinished had been shredded. In the lobby now was a Toyota Corolla, its lights on high beam, illuminating the mess. Abigail clutched Justin’s arm with one hand and her heart with the other, trying to register, to comprehend the fact that her business and home were really, truly gone. All that work. Scattered. Shattered.

“Oh, man,” Justin breathed as he took it all in at her side. “Unbelievable.”

“I know,” Abigail murmured, dazed. She had never felt so completely violated. She had nothing now. Not even a piece of ID to say who she was. After several minutes spent soaking it all in, she found a plastic bag in the rubble and began to load a few intact things from the salon. A bottle of shampoo that hadn’t broken, a brush, some soap and other supplies, her beloved shears, a piece of the material she’d made her curtains from.

“Don’t go any farther in,” Justin warned as she rooted among her broken shelving units to see what the storm had spared. “All of the support beams for the second floor are gone, and your remaining walls aren’t looking too sturdy.”

As if to drive his point home, a wall crashed with a kawhomp, sending dust and debris scattering. Abigail quickly backed away from the building and sighed in defeat. “I guess we can go now.”

Selma’s Quilty Pleasures had fared no better. When they arrived, there was some movement coming from inside the quilt shop debris. Had someone been in there and become trapped? Clutching her plastic bag, Abigail ran after Justin to see if she could help. When she got to his side, he held up a finger, silently cautioning her to be quiet as he picked up a broken 2x4 that was lying in the street.

“Looters,” he whispered, “probably looking for cash.” As they stood and listened to their hushed conversation, it became clear that Justin was right.

“No, not that. Only grab small stuff we can hock on eBay. Look for the cash register.”

Stealthily moving toward the thieves, Justin finally made it close enough to confront them face-to-face. There were two men and a woman. They jumped at the sound of his voice. “Hi, there. Can I help you?” Justin asked, shouldering the board.

Guiltily, they backed away. “We . . . we . . . we’re looking for survivors?”