Even though Brontë was determined to enjoy the vacation, Sharon was making it difficult. She was a slob. Her clothing and shoes were strewn all over the small room. She hogged the bathroom and used all the hot water and took all the towels. She’d stayed out all night the previous night partying without Brontë. And she’d nearly cleaned out the minibar already, despite the fact that Brontë had pointed out that it would be charged to Brontë’s credit card since the room was in her name.
“This place is a total roach motel,” Sharon said, tossing her suitcase onto the bed and throwing clothing onto the floor until she uncovered her pink bikini. “You should have asked them to upgrade you to the penthouse.”
“The radio station gave me the vacation. I couldn’t exactly demand anything.”
“I would have demanded a room larger than a closet!” Sharon stripped off her sundress and began to change.
Brontë went back to her guidebook, ignoring Sharon’s incessant complaining. So the resort was a little on the . . . rundown side. Seaturtle Cay in the Bahamas was still a win in Brontë’s eyes. It was free, for starters. She hadn’t spent a dime on travel or the hotel, thanks to the radio station. Which was a good thing, seeing as how she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Mostly, it was just nice to get away from work. The beaches were gorgeous, and she’d seen a few advertisements for fun excursions like parasailing and snorkeling.
It just had to stop raining.
Brontë glanced out the window at the gray, gloomy skies and pouring rain. She sighed and flipped to the back of the guidebook, wondering if it included a list of rainy weather events.
Sharon finished adjusting her bikini and then glared out the window. “We’re not going to get one day of sunshine, are we?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a weatherman,” Brontë said without looking up, her voice as cheerful as possible. “Maybe you should go to the bar and see if anyone there has a weather report.”
“Now that sounds like a great idea.” Sharon put on a pair of enormous hoop earrings, slid into her sandals, and waved at Brontë. “I’ll be back soon. You want anything?”
Some peace and quiet? “I’m good.”
As soon as she was gone, Brontë exhaled in relief and stretched out on the bed. She grabbed a pair of earbuds and turned her music up to blot out the sound of her neighbors having sex—again. Brontë picked up her guidebook and flipped back to the beginning. A vacation was a vacation was a vacation, and she was going to enjoy this one, damn it. She turned a page. Swimming with stingrays. Huh. Maybe she’d try that. She glanced at the angry, cloudy sky again.
Just as soon as it was sunny.
***
A hand roughly jarred her awake from her nap. “Brontë! Ohmigod. Brontë! Wake up!”
She jerked up, tugging out the earbuds, only to see Sharon looming over her bed.
The other woman looked frazzled. “Did you not hear the loudspeakers?”
“Mmm? Loudspeakers?” Sure enough, there was a low tone echoing over and over. As she cocked her head to try to distinguish the sound, Brontë heard a voice chime in over the loudspeaker.
“Please make your way to the bus loading area,” it said, calm and smooth. “All guests will be transported to the evacuation site as soon as possible. Please remain calm and do not panic. There is plenty of time to evacuate the area prior to the hurricane. Refunds will not be issued. Guests will be given a voucher for a future visit.”
“Hurricane?” Brontë repeated slowly, as if trying to make the word register in her mind. “Are you serious?”
“Hurricane Latonya,” Sharon said, moving to her bed and throwing her suitcase onto the mattress. “Category three currently and heading toward category four or five. They’re evacuating this entire stupid island.”
A hurricane? It seemed ridiculous. Brontë had seen something about it on the news. Something like “not heading anywhere near the Bahamas.” The news was apparently a big fat liar.
She sat up in bed, alert. “Where do we go?”
“We’re all going to be shuttled over to a nearby cruise ship and taken back to the mainland.” Looking stressed, Sharon pulled a pair of jean shorts on over her bikini. “This whole vacation has been doomed.”
Brontë believed in making lemonade out of lemons as much as the next person, but she was starting to agree with Sharon. “I can’t believe the hurricane’s heading this way.”