“Thanks,” I heard Drew say, from the living room. “And then you better start getting your stuff together. Yours and whatever you need for Gary, here.”

I popped back out from the kitchen, two cold bottles of beer in my hands, not sure I’d heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your stuff,” Drew said pleasantly, reaching out to take one of the bottles from me. “You should start getting some stuff together. Because I’m taking you back home with me.”

Chapter Thirteen

Time: 1:36 P.M.

Temperature: 84ºF

Wind Speed: 24 MPH

Wind Gust: 44 MPH

Precipitation: 0.3 in.

He tugged on the beer, since I still hadn’t released it.

“For the hurricane?” He raised his dark eyebrows. “My aunt Lucy said she told you. You obviously can’t stay here.”

“What?” I released the bottle but continued to stare up at him in shock. “Yes, I can. Of course I can stay here. You cleared the tree out of the way. Why can’t I stay here?”

“The tree’s just the beginning of your problems.” Drew twisted the cap off his beer. “The storm hasn’t even started yet and you already almost got trapped in here. Imagine what will happen when the rain and storm surge come. This apartment building is in the flood zone. Why do you think all of your neighbors have left?”

I looked past him, through the partially open door, where Gary had sneaked out into the courtyard and was cautiously sniffing at the fallen limbs of his former shade tree. “Okay,” I said. “I can see your point. But I don’t need to stay with your aunt. I told you I have a place to stay, over at the Cascabel, with—”

“I thought we went through this already.” Drew shook his head in disbelief. “You’re not staying at that hotel. Despite what people say, it isn’t safe. You want to take your cat somewhere that isn’t safe?”

That stung. “No. Of course not.”

“Then go get your stuff. I’m taking you to my aunt’s house.” He swigged from the beer. “And hurry up. I want to get back to my place and let the dogs out for a run before the next rain band hits.”

God. Was there ever anyone bossier in all of human existence—except for my mother, of course?

What made it worse was that he was right. Mrs. Hartwell’s offer seemed like a much more sensible choice than sharing a room with Patrick and Bill and their three dogs and George Foreman grill at the hotel, or even hunkering down at the high school, which I’d also been considering. And I had long ago given up on the idea of driving up to Coral Gables to stay with Daniella, given the gasoline situation.

So I went into my bedroom and quickly began throwing things into an overnight bag . . . at least until I heard Drew call curiously from the living room, “Hey, who did all these paintings?”

My heart sank. Suddenly I remembered something else I’d done the night before, something besides leave my bra draped across the middle of the living room floor.

“Uh, no one.” My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I darted from the bedroom, hoping to mitigate whatever damage was already done.

But it was too late. I’d forgotten that last night, after talking to my mother, I’d taken out every painting I’d done since arriving in Little Bridge, and laid them out in a half-sentimental, half-proud display across the coffee table, as if to remind myself that my stay on the island hadn’t been a total waste of time.

Now Drew Hartwell was standing over the coffee table, looking down at them—twenty-four in all, twenty-five if you included the one I hadn’t finished—with his beer forgotten in one hand, a professorial air about him . . . if professors ever went around in half-open linen shirts, cargo shorts, and Timberlands.

Noticing I was hesitating in the entranceway, he glanced at me with those too bright blue eyes.

“No one?” he asked. “No one painted two dozen little cloudscapes and left them in your living room?”

“Okay, fine.” I was still flushing. “I painted them. It’s . . . it’s a hobby.”

He whistled, looking back down at the watercolors. “Impressive work for a hobby. You’re pretty good.”

My pride felt pricked. Pretty good?

Because I knew they were better than pretty good. Or at least, better than average. I’d always loved painting, and because I’d loved it, I’d practiced. All the time. Practicing makes most people good at anything, whether they have a natural talent for it or not.

And I had natural talent. That’s what every art teacher I’d ever had had told me.

“Thanks,” I said, keeping my pride in check. “I like to paint. I don’t know about the subject matter . . . clouds. It’s a little clichéd. But painting them relaxes me.”

“You did this one by the dock.” He pointed at one of the paintings that showed a little more foreground than the others. None of them were larger than six by four inches, but in some I managed to work in a little seascape in addition to sky. “The dock outside the café?”

“Yes.” I was still embarrassed. I’d wanted to be an art major in college, but my mother especially had discouraged it. “How will you possibly be able to support yourself with an art degree?” she’d asked. “What kind of job will you be able to get, after college?”

She’d been right, of course. So I’d majored in history, since it was a degree everyone said would help you excel in law school.

Not true in my case.

“Anything with a sky-to-ocean view is popular with tourists,” Drew said, still looking down at my watercolors. “And these are small enough to fit into a carry-on suitcase. You could easily sell these around here. For a lot.”

“Thanks,” I said again, and this time I wasn’t just being polite. “But I kind of want to hang on to them. I liked . . . making them.”

“I understand.”

And for the first time, I thought he actually might. After all, he was a carpenter. He restored historic homes and was making one for himself. He loved making things with his hands, just like I did.

“You didn’t inherit this kind of talent from Judge Justine,” he said, nodding toward the paintings. “Unless there’s something about her I really don’t know. Was your dad artistic?”

Remembering my dad, and how he’d made sure that we showed up on the dock—the same dock from which I’d made most of these paintings—to watch the sunset every night when we were in Little Bridge, I felt myself becoming emotional.

“No.” I ducked my head, so he wouldn’t see that my eyes had suddenly filled with tears. “Neither of my parents was artistic.”

My egg donor mother, though. She’d included a few drawing samples in her application—along with multiple photos, making it easy to see that it was from her I’d inherited my small frame, blond hair, and brown eyes—no doubt in order to make it stand out to a discriminating couple like my parents.

It had worked.

I wasn’t about to tell any of this to Drew Hartwell, however.

“I better finish getting my stuff together before Ed gets back,” I said, instead.

“Oh.” Drew glanced down at his enormous dive watch. “Yeah. Sure.”