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