Bay Books had seven employees—three full-time and four by the hour. All hands were on deck as Bruce barked orders and helped them haul books upstairs to the second floor, where they were stacked on the floor. The tables and chairs in the small café were shoved to the side to make room. Two part-timers, both young men, were sent down to Noelle’s store to move her beloved antiques.
A fire marshal stopped by at 8:30 and said to Bruce, “You’re only four feet above sea level so you can expect some flooding.” The harbor was six blocks to the west, the beach a mile to the east.
“You know there’s a mandatory evacuation order,” he said.
“I’m not leaving,” Bruce said.
The fire marshal took his name, phone number, and Noelle’s contact information, then hurried to the store next door. At 9:00, Bruce gathered his employees and told them to grab their valuables and leave the island. Everyone vanished, except for Nick Sutton, who seemed to relish the idea of riding out a major hurricane. He was adamant in his refusal to evacuate.
The shelves of Bruce’s office on the first floor were lined with valuable first editions. Bruce told Nick to continue to box them and deliver them to his home four blocks away. Bruce left and drove to the home of Myra and Leigh, who were frantically throwing clothes and dogs into their old station wagon.
“Where should we go, Bruce?” Myra asked, soaked with sweat and visibly frightened.
“Get on Interstate 10 and head toward Pensacola. I’ll check on the house after the storm.”
“You’re not leaving?” Leigh asked.
“No, I can’t. I’m going to watch the store and check on things. I’ll be fine.”
“Then we’re staying too,” Myra said without conviction.
“No, you’re not. It could be ugly—lots of trees down, some flooding, no power for days. Y’all get out of here and find a hotel room somewhere. I’ll call as soon as the phones start working again.”
“You’re not worried?” Leigh asked.
“Of course I’m worried. But I’ll be okay.” He helped them load all the bottled water in the house, a box of liquor, three sacks of food, and ten pounds of dog food. He practically shoved them into the car and waved them goodbye. Both were in tears as they began their escape.
He called Amy, who was already on the road and over the bridge. Her husband had an aunt in Macon, Georgia, and that would be their first stop. Bruce promised to check on their home after the storm and call. He tried to drive to the beach but the police were blocking all eastbound traffic. Mercer was not answering her phone.
Tessa had built the beach cottage thirty years earlier. As a child, Mercer had spent her summers there, far away from her warring parents. Larry had always been around to tend to the cottage, and bicker with Tessa about the gardening, and bring fruits and vegetables from his garden. He was a native of the island and would never leave, not even for a threat like Leo.
He arrived early that morning with eight sheets of used plywood, drills, and hammers, and he and Thomas boarded the windows and doors as Mercer hurriedly packed the car. Larry was adamant that they leave as soon as possible. The ground floor of the cottage was eighteen feet above sea level and there were two hundred feet of dunes for protection. He was confident the surge wouldn’t reach the cottage but was worried about the wind.
Tessa had died in a storm, and Mercer wasn’t about to stay behind. At 11:00, she hugged Larry goodbye and left with Thomas at the wheel, his yellow Labrador perched between them on the console. It took an hour to get to the bridge, and as they inched across it and looked down at the choppy and forbidding waters of the Camino River, the sky darkened and the rains began.
With his rare books secured in a new walk-in vault next to his bedroom, Bruce tried to relax. If that could be possible. The storm hysteria on cable was impossible to ignore and it was frightening to watch Leo tighten his eye in real time and keep it locked on the island. Bruce and Nick Sutton ate sandwiches on the veranda and watched it rain. The housekeeper had been frightened away and had already called from Tallahassee.
Bruce’s collection was worth far more than the inventory at his store, or the art on his walls, or the pricey antiques Noelle peddled to her high-end clientele. With his prized editions secured, a chunk of his net worth was safe from any catastrophe—fire, flood, wind, theft. The biggest chunk was buried offshore and no one but Noelle knew about it.
Bay Books was closed and locked tight, as were all downtown stores, restaurants, and coffee shops. No one was interested in shopping or dining out. Main Street was deserted except for the police in yellow rain gear. There was little crime on the island during a normal day. Potential looters lived elsewhere. The biggest fears were rising waters and glass breakage.
Four blocks away, where the stately Victorians had been on display for a century, the fear was falling trees. Some of the oaks had been around for three hundred years, and every house was shaded by thick limbs draped with Spanish moss. The trees were stately, historic, a source of great pride, but in a few hours they would become dangerous.
As Nick returned to the table with a Heineken, Bruce poured another glass of white wine and looked at his checklist. He said, “It might be a good idea if you stay here for the fun. I have no experience with hurricanes but it seems as though the buddy system will be safer. Wind, water, falling limbs, no power—it’ll be better to have two of us.”
Nick nodded but wasn’t convinced. “How much food do you have?”
“For two people, enough for a week. I have a small generator that will run the basics for a few days. I’ll fill the cans with gas. Are you on your bike?”
“Always.”
“Okay. Take my Tahoe to your grandparents’ home and load up all the food and water you can find. Fill the tank with gas. And hurry.”
“You got some beer?” Nick asked. The college boy.
“The wine cellar is stocked with plenty of beer, booze, and wine. We need to round up some water. Does your grandfather have a chain saw?”
“Yes. I’ll bring it back.”
“A plan. Let’s hustle.”
Nick left and Bruce finished the bottle of wine. He tried to nap in a hammock but the wind picked up and made too much noise. There were three bathtubs in the house and he ran them full. He moved the patio furniture inside and locked all windows and doors. His checklist included the names of thirty-one people—employees, friends, and, of course, his writers. Of the whole group, five were staying behind, including Bob Cobb and Nelson Kerr. Myra and Leigh were puttering along in heavy traffic on I-10, sipping rum, soothing their dogs, and listening to one of their raunchy romance novels on tape. They giggled like a couple of drunks. Amy and her family were already in Macon. Jay Arklerood, the poet, was headed to Miami. Andy Adam had fled early, partly out of fear that his fragile sobriety could not survive the chaos of a deadly hurricane. Bob Cobb was tucked into his condo with a woman. Nelson Kerr was sitting on a pier in a rain suit watching the waves churn and enjoying the excitement, for the moment. His condo was not far from Bob’s and they planned to keep in touch when Leo rolled in.
His winds were 155 miles an hour, on the verge of rising to a Category 5, with projections of catastrophic damage and loss of life. He was also moving faster, almost fifteen miles an hour due west, with landfall now predicted at 10:30 p.m. at the heart of the island. By 4:00 p.m., the rains were torrential as the outer bands settled in with gusts strong enough to snap branches. Debris flew and scattered across the streets. At 5:30, a policeman knocked on Bruce’s door and asked what the hell he was doing at home. Bruce explained that he had already checked with the authorities and was staying put. He asked about his neighbors and was told that everyone had left.
When Nick returned around 6:00, the island suddenly got very dark. The sky turned black as thick clouds swirled violently not far above them.
Bruce hooked up his small generator and switched off all circuits except for the outlets in the den and kitchen. No other electricity was in use. They had plenty of flashlights and batteries. Dinner was steaks on the grill and frozen French fries with a bottle of pinot noir.
At 7:00 p.m., with the winds howling at eighty miles an hour, Bruce called the gang for the last time. Myra and Leigh were in a motel in Pensacola with their five dogs, who were causing trouble because they were nervous and barking. Amy was high and dry in Macon. Jay was staying with a friend in Miami. Andy Adam was at his mother’s in Charlotte. All were worried about their homes and about Bruce’s safety. They were glued to their televisions, and the predictions grew more ominous by the hour. Bruce assured everyone that he and Nick were safe and well prepared. He promised to check on their property as soon as possible and call when cell service was restored. Good night and God bless.
According to the state disaster chief, the most vulnerable section of the island was a half-mile stretch of beach known as Pauley’s Sound. It was on the far north end, near the Hilton, and, like most of the oceanfront, had been heavily developed with clusters of condos, old and new cottages, mom-and-pop motels, beachside bars and cafés, and tall modern hotels. The Sound was only a few feet above sea level and there were no dunes to protect it from a surge. Both Bob Cobb and Nelson Kerr lived there in a gated development known as Marsh Grove. Bruce called them last. Bob and his lady were hunkered down for the night. He seemed nonchalant and had obviously been drinking. Nelson Kerr was sitting in the dark and wishing he had fled too. Bruce invited him to hustle over to his house where things would certainly be safer, but Nelson said the police had closed all the streets. Trees and power lines were already down and the rain was falling in sheets.
By 8:00 p.m., the sustained winds were over a hundred miles an hour and howled with a roar so loud and constant that Bruce and Nick had trouble sitting still. With flashlights, they roamed the downstairs, looking cautiously through windows to gauge the damage, to see if limbs had fallen, to see if rainwater was flooding the street. They would sit for a moment in the den and try to enjoy a taste of bourbon, then a gust would blow through and rattle the house. Or they’d hear a crack in the distance.
The cracking sounds were the worst. With the first two, neither Bruce nor Nick was certain what was happening. Then they realized that wind was snapping off thick limbs, which sounded like nearby shotgun blasts. With each one they flinched and eased carefully toward a window.
For the past fifteen years Bruce had owned the Marchbanks House, an 1890 Victorian built the old way and designed to withstand hurricanes. At the moment he wasn’t worried about losing a roof or a porch, but there were two ancient oaks on the property with limbs large enough to do serious damage.
In the midst of the storm, as if the howling, rattling, and cracking were not enough, an odd cadence emerged. The roar was constant and slowly rising, and every minute or so a band of even stronger gusts swept through, as if to warn that heavier action was still out there over the water and not far behind. The gusts passed, the storm returned to its steady noise and strength, and Bruce and Nick took a sip of bourbon and hoped there would be no more gusts. Then a limb cracked and they peeked out the windows.
Just after 9:00, the power lines gave way and began to snap. The island was pitch black as the storm grew louder.
After two hours of getting battered by winds over a hundred miles per hour, the boys had had enough. Bruce thought about an attempt at humor with something like “Well, I guess we should’ve left,” but why bother? The eye was still two hours away and the winds had not reached their peak. The street was solid water from the rain and the surge had yet to arrive. Bruce was certain the ground floor of Bay Books was taking water.
But for the moment he and Nick were dry and safe. There was little they could do until morning. At 10:30 p.m., the projected time for the arrival of the eye, Bruce was certain that the house was about to shear off its foundation and crash into Dr. Bagwell’s across the street. Its floors and ceilings vibrated and the walls were literally shaking. The great fear was that a limb might crash through the den and open up the house to torrents of rain and more wind. They would be forced to flee and seek shelter, but where? There was no place to go.
It was almost 11:00 when the winds stopped and the night became perfectly still. Bruce and Nick stepped outside and waded to the street, where they looked at the sky and saw stars. A TV expert said that Leo’s eye would pass in about twenty minutes, and Bruce was tempted to take a look at downtown and check on his store. But again, why bother? He couldn’t stop the flooding. The cleanup would begin in the morning. He had plenty of insurance coverage.
They walked down the street, wading in ankle-deep water, and did not see another person, not another light. Evidently the policeman had been right—all of his neighbors had the good sense to leave. In the darkness it was impossible to see where all those limbs had landed, but there was debris everywhere.
The tranquility, along with the bourbon, settled their nerves, if only for a moment. As the minutes passed, a gentle wind arrived from the west and reminded them that the storm was only half over.
Leo’s two-week reign of terror climaxed officially at 10:57 p.m. Eastern Standard Time when the center of his eye came ashore along the northern tip of Camino Island. True to form, he wiggled a bit at the end, moved to the north, and stalled just long enough to maintain a Category 4 ranking, with top winds at 145 miles per hour, almost reaching the rare status as a Cat 5 at 156 miles an hour. Not that it really mattered. Eleven miles per hour mean little in such a powerful storm, and long before and long after the eye came and went its winds battered the island. Old cottages built decades earlier were blown off their stilts. Newer ones hung on but lost windows, doors, roofs, decks. The top storm surge around the eye was fifteen feet in some areas, enough to flood hundreds of cottages, homes, motels, and stores. Main Street was under four feet of water, and some of the older homes in the historic section took in water for the first time in history.
Along the ocean, all boardwalks and piers were gone. Inland, limbs and entire trees blocked streets and driveways. Parking lots were covered with roof shingles, garbage, more jagged tree limbs. In the docks and harbors, boats of all sizes were strewn about like scattered firewood.
Though virtually everyone had fled, some of the few who stayed behind did not survive. At sunrise, the first siren could be heard wailing across the island.
Bruce slept for two hours on a sofa in the den and awoke with cobwebs and a stiff back. The wind was gone, the house was quiet and dark, the storm was over. He walked to a window and saw the first hint of sunlight. He put on rubber boots and walked outside where he waded through six inches of water and looked at his house from across the street. A few squares of slate were missing from the roof and a third-floor gutter had been ripped off, but the house was in remarkable shape. All of the heavy oak limbs that he had worried about were still where they should have been. Four doors down to the west, the floodwaters had made it all the way to the Keegan home but had stopped at the front steps.
He reached into a pocket and removed a cigar. Why not have a smoke? He clipped and lit it, and for a long time stood in muddy water in the middle of Sixth Street as the sky lightened and morning arrived. The clouds were thinning, the sun was rising, the day would be hot and humid, and there was no electricity to cool things. There were no sounds and not another human in sight. He walked south along Sixth to Ash and the water disappeared. The asphalt on Ash was visible. A door opened and Mr. Chester Finley walked onto his porch and said good morning.
“Had a little wind, didn’t we?” he said with a smile. He was holding a bottle of water.
“Just a little. You guys okay?” Bruce asked.
“We’re fine. The Dodsons took a hit but they’re not here.”
“Smart folks. I’m around if you need some help.” Bruce walked around the corner and gawked at the Dodsons’ pretty Victorian. A huge limb had sheared off from an oak in their backyard and literally cut the house in half. He walked on and stopped in front of the Vicker House, 1867, purchased by Myra and Leigh thirteen years earlier. They had painted it pink with royal blue trim, and it had survived well enough. A limb had crashed through a front window and Bruce suspected there was substantial water damage. He and Nick could handle the cleanup with the chain saw. That might be their first project.
As he was returning to Sixth Street, he heard the unmistakable thumping of a helicopter. He stopped and listened as it grew closer, and soon enough a Navy Seahawk came into view, flying low to survey the aftermath. Rescuers in uniforms had arrived, and that was a welcome thought. The chopper flew away and minutes later another one buzzed downtown. It was smaller, with the gaudy paint job of a news station.
Mercer and Thomas sipped coffee in bed and waited for the first reports. They were in a motel near Dothan, Alabama, one that had waived the No Pets rule and allowed them and the dog to check in after dark. The traffic had been brutal and they had been forced to keep driving west to find a room. The cable stations had blacked out shortly after 10:00 p.m. when the winds became too strong, but by 6:00 a.m. they were up and running. Not long after sunrise a helicopter ran a live shot along the beach as an excited reporter on board tried to describe the damage. A large condo building was gutted. Another had partially collapsed. Roofs were missing. Some of the smaller beach houses were almost flattened. The empty parking lots were littered with debris. Naval vessels were unloading near Main Beach, the busiest place on normal days. Mercer could not catch a glimpse of Tessa’s cottage, but there was little doubt it had been damaged. Inland, thousands of trees were down, with streets blocked by limbs and entire trees. A church steeple had been toppled.
Near the center of Santa Rosa, the streets were under water that appeared to be about knee deep. Rescue crews in boats were moving slowly about. One man waved at the helicopter. The screen cut to a reporter on the ground who quickly recapped his heroic efforts to remain outdoors all night as his crew grappled with their camera. He said that emergency management expected the island to be without electricity for at least a week. The National Guard had already arrived. The island was virtually deserted but they had just received the first report of a fatality up at Pauley’s Sound; more later. The bridge was closed and would be examined for damage.
It was obvious the island was a mess and would remain so for weeks or months. Mercer and Thomas had no desire to rush back into the rubble and they couldn’t get to the cottage anyway. Larry was there, she hoped, and he would do the best he could. Nor did they wish to hang around a motel when Mercer’s apartment in Oxford was only six hours away.
Thomas left to find breakfast and something for the dog. Mercer got in the shower, worried about Larry but happy not to be on the island, happy that the book tour was over, though the ending was not exactly what she had wanted, and happy most of all to be going home. She and Thomas had been living out of their luggage for two months.