“Oh, perfect!” Patrick straightened, and Gary promptly rolled back onto his feet and went after their toes again. “Well, we have to go finish delivering these.” He indicated the Jell-O shots. “It’s important to keep up people’s spirits during these trying times.”

“I understand,” I said. “Thanks again.”

When they were gone, I made sure Gary was well stocked with food and water, checked out my reflection one last time in the mirror to make sure Patrick was right about the dress, swallowed the Jell-O shot, then got on my bike. I’d decided it would be best to bike rather than take my scooter to Mrs. Hartwell’s party since I knew I had to continue to conserve fuel. Plus, I would be consuming alcohol.

Fortunately I only lived directly down the hill from the Hartwells. As I pedaled by the boarded-up homes of my neighborhood, not a single car or pedestrian passed me. It was as if I lived in a ghost town. Over my head, fast-moving purple clouds were beginning to pile up, flashing brilliant fuchsia with heat lightning here and there behind the trees. The storm was still too far out to sea for this to be one of the “rain bands” the meteorologists kept warning us about, though the wind had picked up significantly.

After locking my bike to an ornamental streetlamp close to Mrs. Hartwell’s house, I pulled the bottle of champagne I’d brought along as a house gift from the basket of my bike and climbed the long flight of white wooden steps to the Hartwells’ wide porch. Fans swung lazily overhead as I pressed the old-fashioned brass buzzer bell beside the Victorian door and heard a corresponding ring inside the house—along with the steady rhythm of salsa music and loud conversation.

Nothing happened. No one had heard me. Behind me, far off in the distance, thunder rumbled. Maybe that hadn’t been heat lightning after all. Maybe the meteorologists had been wrong, and the first of Marilyn’s rain bands was coming sooner than they’d predicted.

There was a large window in the front door, but it was covered by a lace curtain, so I couldn’t see what was behind it. I could, however, hear laughter. People were having a good time, despite the impending threat.

Encouraged, I laid my hand on the door handle, and let myself in.

I found myself in a long entrance hallway filled with dark-stained wood and an elaborate crystal chandelier. A strong scent of pine hit me. That must be the extinct wood the house was made of that Mrs. H had mentioned.

The home clearly hadn’t been renovated much since the day it had been constructed by the original Captain Hartwell, but that’s because it didn’t need it—unless you were someone who was into modern décor, which I wasn’t, necessarily.

The walls were wainscoted and wallpapered in traditionally nautical patterns and colors, pale blue with crisp white stripes or shells, the furniture heavy but comfortable looking, the original wood floors carpeted here and there with Persian throw rugs. Gold-framed portraits of ancient Hartwell ancestors lined the walls, the ship captains and their wives glaring down at me sternly in their dark frock coats and gowns, in which they must have been quite uncomfortable, considering the subtropical heat.

There was about as little Floridian as you could imagine in the Hartwells’ home, except for a large parrot cage that I passed in the living room on my way toward the back of the house, from which I could hear the music. The parrot greeted me with a cheerful “Hello, Joe!” as I made my way past.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

The house was dark, thanks to all the windows being shuttered in anticipation of the storm . . .

. . . at least until I followed the cheerful flow of music and voices past the old-fashioned and ornate dining room, and then onto a wide, wraparound back deck, which opened onto a vast backyard and pool area, lit by tiki torches.

“Bree?” asked a deep, all too familiar voice.

Chapter Seven

Time: 8:10 P.M.

Temperature: 80ºF

Wind Speed: 9 MPH

Wind Gust: 20 MPH

Precipitation: 0.0 in.

He’d changed out of the beat-up T-shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the day into a soft blue chambray button-down and a pair of chinos so faded they looked almost white.

“What are you doing here?” Drew Hartwell demanded.

This didn’t seem like the most welcoming way to greet a guest, even one he hadn’t been expecting, so I didn’t think I could be blamed for bristling.

“Uh,” I said, hoisting up the bottle of champagne I’d brought along. “It’s a party? Your aunt invited me? I don’t know. Are Fresh Waters not welcome, or something? Should I leave?”

He blinked those impossibly blue eyes like someone who was just waking up from a particularly bad dream and shook his head.

“But,” he said. It was difficult to hear him due to all the laughter and conversation coming from the people in the yard, and the salsa music playing merrily from the outdoor speakers above us. “I thought you were evacuating.”

“No. I said I wasn’t evacuating. Remember, we had a whole conversation about the frustrations of family?”

He shook his head again. His pupils weren’t particularly dilated, so I didn’t think he was high on anything.

But his eyebrows were constricted, and he definitely wasn’t smiling. He seemed genuinely concerned.

“Have you even been listening to the weather reports?” he demanded. “Do you know how bad this storm is?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Do you?”

“I live here.”

“Well, so do I.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life. I know about hurricanes. And this isn’t one anyone should mess around with.”

“You mean like someone who lives on the beach?” I blinked up at him, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “The beach everyone is warning people to evacuate?”

It was at that exact moment that I was hit by a slim, sweet-smelling rocket that came racing toward me out of the darkness of the yard, wrapping a sweaty arm around my neck.

“You came!” Nevaeh planted a kiss on my cheek. “I knew it! I knew you’d come!”

“Oof,” I said, as she crashed into me. “Of course I came. What else was I going to do tonight? I’m surprised you’re here. Didn’t you have a hot date?”

Nevaeh’s lack of hot dates (her aunt said she was too young to date and forbade her seeing any of the many young men who constantly hung around the café, thirsting for her) was a steady source of humor between us.

“No,” Nevaeh said, pretending to pout. “But what about you?” She backed away, eyeing my dress. “You look so pretty! You could have had a date tonight if you wore this more often. Why haven’t I ever seen you in this before?”

“Well, I thought about wearing it to mop the floors at the café. But then I decided it wasn’t formal enough. Where can I put this?” I waved the bottle of champagne. Drew, I noticed, had drifted away, probably to whichever section of the party had been reserved for hot brooding bachelors who were building their own beach houses.

“I told you not to bring anything.” Mrs. Hartwell was standing right behind her niece, looking stern.

“I’m glad she didn’t listen to you!” Nevaeh eagerly snatched the bottle out of my hands.