Sally’s parents’ place? In Oklahoma? Confusion assaults me. “You mean, y’all aren’t in town?” I frown, not liking the sudden tightness in my gut. “Is Iris with you?”
“No, it’s just me and Sally. Iris stayed back so she wouldn’t miss production,” Ramon says in a rush. “But she’s staying at her director’s place for the storm. She’ll be okay.”
My stomach cinches even tighter. I know from our day spent hiking that Iris’s director is someone named Jonathan. She’d said he’s young and he’s a decent guy. It irked me then, and it irks me even more now.
I try to let this news wash over me and remind myself of the facts. It’s not my place to be jealous. Iris likes her director. She’s safe.
I want to know why Sally and Ramon aren’t with her, but I don’t ask. I do wonder why he’s telling me this. “Is there something you need?”
“Yeah. I fucked up.” I can almost hear him cringing over the phone. “My head was all over the place before we left this morning. I didn’t even think about picking up all that crap outside. Would it be too much to ask you to help us out?”
Damn. I should have trusted my gut and put away all that stuff outside Iris's house when I had the chance. “Yeah, no problem,” I say instead. “I’ll do it in the morning. I’m headed back to my place for the night, but I’ll be riding out the storm at my uncle’s. I’ll get it done before the weather gets bad.”
Ramon lets out a relieved breath. “Thanks, man. You’re a life-saver.” I hear Sally’s voice in the background, saying something I don’t catch. “Oh, yeah. There’s a spare key hooked under the top porch step on the right hand side. You can use that to get in the house and open the garage to put stuff away.”
“Got it,” I say, picturing the spot. “I’ll lock up and put the key back when I’m done.”
“Thanks again. I owe you one.”
I want to tell him he doesn’t owe me anything because I won’t be doing it for him. I’ll be doing it for Iris.
The whistling of wind through the boarded up skylight is my wake-up call Saturday morning. Usually, this space is full of natural light, but with the side windows and skylight boarded up, the tiny house feels like a mausoleum. I sit up in bed and take in the gloom and the eerie shriek of the wind. I switch on the reading lamp and climb down from my sleeping loft to check the weather.
Wind buffets the right side of the house, but I don’t hear rain. When I open the door, the draft catches me off guard and sucks the door closed again. I chuckle at myself for spooking, but I’m damn glad I have somewhere else to stay tonight. It’ll be rough out here.
I built this house, and I expect it to hold together, but I’m not taking any chances with wind or flooding rain.
Turning the knob a second time, I’m ready for the wind’s tug-o-war, and heave the door open. My ears were right. It’s not raining. The porch is dry, so I know I didn’t sleep through any outer bands, but I have no desire to be caught in any of them on the two-lane highway back to Lafayette. The sky is leaden, and the rain will start hitting soon.
I decide on a quick shower before tossing everything I can’t live without for a day or two into a bag and putting it in my truck. To be on the safe side, I disconnect the propane tank and store it in Paula’s barn. Then I line up the plywood I cut to fit the door, snap in the Z-clips, and test the hold of my makeshift storm window. It’s solid, and a quick check of the two side windows proves that nothing came loose during the night.
I set the sandbags outside the door and think about Iris and her deck of cards. “I have them, so I won’t need them,” I say aloud. Then I take one more look at my little shoebox of a house and send up a prayer that it’s still standing and water-tight when I return in a day or two.
The drive to Iris’s takes about twenty-five minutes, and in those minutes, the skies go from leaden to iron gray with the approach of an outer rain band. The