“Now, Lu.” Ed had come in from the dining room and was as matter-of-fact about his nephew’s reckless choice as he was about everything else. “The boy will be fine.”

“He won’t.” Mrs. Hartwell sounded as close to tears as I’d ever heard her. “He’s going to die out there.”

“Unlikely. He’s got a boat. Worse comes to worst, he’ll get himself and those dogs of his into it and ride out the storm there.”

Understandably, this did not seem to comfort the anxious woman.

“He’s got nothing! No generator, no landline, no satellite phone—”

“He’s got his wits.” Ed walked over to the counter to check on the ropa vieja his wife was cooking for dinner, the ingredients for which had all gone into a slow cooker. The smell that emanated from it when Ed lifted the lid was so appetizing, my mouth almost watered. “Mmm, now that’s going to be delicious, Lu.”

His wife ignored this compliment. “He’s going to die.”

“He’s been through lots of these storms before, Aunt Lucy,” Nevaeh said. She’d come into the kitchen as well to see what all the fuss was about, and now she wrapped a comforting arm around her aunt’s waist. “He’ll know just what to do. Uncle Drew always does.”

Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe he knew just what to do when it came to construction and hauling motorbikes.

When it came to matters of the heart, however, not so much.

Then again, I was no champ in that department, either.

It was just then that it happened: a flash of lightning so strong—accompanied by a boom of thunder at the same time, indicating that a storm cell was directly over us—that the lights flickered, then went out.

Nevaeh and Katie screamed as if their throats were being slit. The parrot, in the living room, joined them.

“No worries, no worries.” Ed puttered toward the counter, where a powerful-looking flashlight sat. It was still daytime, but the thick clouds overhead coupled with the tightly closed shutter over every window had made the house as dark inside as if it were dusk. “I had the propane in the generator topped off this morning, so we should be—”

There was a groaning sound—like a powerful boat engine starting up—and suddenly the lights flickered on again. That sound—the groaning—had apparently been the sound of the Hartwells’ generator springing to life, as it was programmed to do the minute the city’s electric grid failed. Fueled by the thousand-gallon propane tank Drew had mentioned, the Hartwell house was now being powered by its generator.

“Oh, thank God,” I heard Nevaeh cry. She’d run into the living room to check on the television. “But the cable’s completely out!”

“Yep.” Ed didn’t look particularly surprised. “Can’t believe it lasted as long as it did.”

The island’s cable television service was the source of most of the jeers in the “Cheers and Jeers” section of the newspaper. It seemed to go out weekly, even when the weather was fair, and when it was foul, forget about it. Satellite dish service was worse, because any amount of rain, even up the island chain, could knock it out. Many of my customers could predict when rain was on its way based solely on the amount of pixilation on their television screens.

Nevaeh, her face pale, came back into the kitchen, waving her cell phone in the air.

“The Internet isn’t working!”

Mrs. Hartwell managed a smile. “I’m sure you girls can live without the Internet for a few days.”

“A few days?” Katie looked as panic stricken as if someone had suggested she live without oxygen.

“You do know that some of us lived almost our entire lives without the Internet?” Mrs. Hartwell seemed amused. “I managed to graduate from high school and college without ever using it once.”

Nevaeh’s eyes widened. “How did you even have a social life, let alone do homework?”

“It was called the library.” Mrs. Hartwell didn’t look so amused anymore. “And we used something called a telephone to contact one another. You know, if you girls are bored, I’ve got a cake that needs fixing.”

Nevaeh smiled apologetically at her great-aunt. “Sorry, Aunt Lu. Of course we’ll come help you. Katie, come on, let’s go wash our hands.”

Katie followed her friend, her gaze never wavering from her phone screen. “You know, Nevaeh, there’s still cell service. I just got a text from Madison.”

Once the two girls had left the room, I smiled at Mrs. Hartwell, who was gazing after her great-niece with a look of half-concern, half-adoration.

“Are Katie’s parents worried about her being out in this weather?” I asked. Wind was sucking at the wooden shutters that covered the living room windows, causing them to creak. The walls of the house itself seemed to be swaying slightly—but Mrs. H had warned me this would happen. The house had been built to do this.

“The sheriff? Oh, no.” Mrs. Hartwell waved a hand dismissively. “He asked if she could stay here. She didn’t want to stay with him over at the high school. And who can blame her, with her dad working, and her best friend and cousin here?”

It dawned on me, slowly, that Katie was a Hartwell, too—Sheriff Hartwell’s daughter. Was everyone in this town related, by blood or marriage, to the Hartwells?

“Wasn’t there something here in the kitchen you wanted my help with?” I asked brightly. Not that I actually felt like helping. I felt like screaming, like Mrs. H had done when she’d received Drew’s text.

But since they’d been so gracious as to house me, it seemed like the least I could do.

And a project seemed like a good way to keep my mind off what was happening outside.

“Oh. Yes, actually. If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

Which was how I found myself, a half hour later, standing at the kitchen counter, using a hand mixer to stir up a batch of what Drew’s aunt called “hurricane dip.”

“It’s so addictive,” she explained to me. “You really can’t have it in the house anytime except during a hurricane. Otherwise you’d be eating it all day long.”

I believed her . . . and also knew why this wouldn’t be the best thing, at least for anyone who cared about their health, since the sole ingredients for “hurricane dip” were mayonnaise, sour cream, and cream cheese, along with “about half a bottle” of barbecue sauce.

My job was to mix all of these ingredients together until they were a light orange color, making sure there were no lumps—difficult to do, considering the cream cheese.

I tried not to ask myself why mixing together a lot of heart-attack-inducing ingredients seemed to be the job for which Drew’s aunt felt I was most suited. I did have other skills beyond food preparation . . .

But none that would be particularly useful under these circumstances. Law school didn’t exactly prepare one for a hurricane, at least not a literal one. All of that cerebral stuff was as handy in this situation as my mom deemed art to be.

The only bright spot that I could see about my being pigeonholed into the role of resident dip maker was that Nevaeh and Katie had it a lot worse. They were being forced to make the lemon pudding cake of which Drew had spoken so disparagingly, and which involved a package of yellow cake mix combined with—what else?—a package of lemon pudding.