Although, as long as you were a fan of lemon (which I was), how bad could it be?

“That looks done,” Mrs. Hartwell said, peering into the bowl I was holding. “Let’s try it and see.”

She plunged a chip—the “ruffled kind” were the best for this particular dip, she’d informed me—into the contents of the bowl and then brought the chip and dip to her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes, something I’d noticed she did often while eating. “Perfection.”

“Really?”

I wasn’t sure how anything made up of so many different condiments could be any good, so I grabbed a chip and tasted it, too.

I was surprised by the tangy flavor explosion in my mouth. “Oh my God.”

Mrs. Hartwell grinned at me. “You see? That’s why we can only have it around during hurricanes. Otherwise we’d all be the size of trucks. Well, I already am.” She patted her pleasantly curved belly. “But I don’t need to be getting any bigger, or I’d have to go to Miami to buy all new clothes.” There was no place to buy clothes in Little Bridge, except expensive boutiques that no locals could afford, and a Kmart on the outskirts of town. “Throw some plastic wrap on that and put it in the fridge so it can set, and then go rest up awhile. You deserve it.”

“We should eat soon,” Ed announced, wandering back into the kitchen. “The real heavy stuff is going to start coming down in an hour or so.”

His wife nodded and began filling a pot of water. I looked at him questioningly. “How do you know when the heavy stuff is going to get here? The cable is out, and there’s no Internet.”

He sent me a withering glance, then held up a small metal box. “Radio. Ever heard of it before?”

“Oh. Of course.” I flushed with embarrassment, remembering I hadn’t told him who my mother was.

But it seemed better not to, for a variety of reasons. Not everyone was a fan of Judge Justine. I didn’t know how Ed and Lucy Hartwell would feel about her.

“What kind of radio do you have?” I asked.

Ed, excited to show off his gadget, set his battery-operated shortwave radio on the counter and turned up the volume so I could appreciate the sound quality.

“Oh, Ed, no,” Mrs. Hartwell exclaimed as she rinsed the rice. “I don’t want to hear those two idiots. We were having such a nice peaceful time—”

I have no idea how anyone could describe this situation as peaceful, given how powerfully the wind outside was blowing. The shutters on the windows were all shaking, and the special pine the house was made of, despite its reputation for being so strong, was doing a bit of creaking as well.

But this apparently did not alarm the Hartwells at all.

“They aren’t idiots.” Ed sounded offended. “They are professional radio journalists who are risking their lives to stay on the air over there at the airport after everyone else has evacuated in order to bring us the weather—”

Aunt Lu snorted. “Risking their lives! They’re in a bomb shelter. The only way they’ll be risking their lives is if their broadcasting antenna blows down and one of them is stupid enough to go outside to try to repair it, which I wouldn’t be surprised to—”

“Shhhh.” Ed turned up the volume of his radio.

The voices of two men filled the kitchen.

“We’ve just clocked a wind gust of a hundred and eleven miles an hour,” one of the men—who later identified himself as Wayne the Toad Licker—said. “That definitely puts us at a Cat Three.”

“It does, Wayne,” said his cohost, whose call sign I subsequently learned was Fred the Head. “But do we want to depend on mere technical instruments? Wouldn’t we get a more accurate reading if you went out there and . . . you know?”

“No, Fred. I won’t do it.”

“You swore on the Conch Republic flag that you would!”

“Fred, I’m not a masochist. I’m not going out there.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of Little Bridge, if you’re just tuning in and wondering what my esteemed colleague and I are discussing, it’s the fact that Wayne lost a bet, and as the loser he is supposed to go out into the parking lot of our station here and attempt to measure the winds of Hurricane Marilyn by spitting into them. And yet here he is, reneging on our—”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Mrs. Hartwell burst out. “This is the silliest, most revolting thing I’ve ever heard. Turn it off.”

Ed only turned up the volume. “Now, Lu,” he said gravely. “These gentlemen are providing a valuable service to the community. Everyone who’s listening is having their mind kept off the storm, which is what we all need right now.” He glanced at me. “Wouldn’t you say so?”

I didn’t want to get into the middle of my employers’ marital squabble. Besides which, I was beginning to worry. The airport was less than a mile from Sandy Point Beach, where Drew was building his house. If the winds there were already up to Category 3 strength and the eye of the storm wasn’t even on us, was it remotely safe for him to be there? It didn’t seem like it.

“I mean, they seem dumb,” I said of Fred the Head and Wayne the Toad Licker. “But entertaining.”

“And informative.” Ed took a small notebook and pen from his shirtfront pocket and began jotting something down. “So, if it’s seven o’clock now, and the winds are already at over a hundred miles per hour, that means the eye should pass over at around—”

Mrs. Hartwell snapped, “Oh, for pity’s sake, Ed. I don’t want to hear it! Our nephew could be dying out there and you’re standing there estimating exactly what time it’s going to happen!”

Ed shrugged, still calculating. “I’m sorry, but it’s better to be prepared for these things.”

“Girls!” Mrs. Hartwell spun around and called to the teenagers. “Girls, come help set the table. We’re going to eat dinner soon. Although to be honest,” she turned to say to me, “I don’t think I could eat a bite, I’m so worried. You?”

“Um.” I suddenly thought of something. “Hold on a minute. I think I have just the thing.”

Chapter Seventeen

Time: 7:18 P.M.

Temperature: 77ºF

Wind Speed: 65 MPH

Wind Gust: 115 MPH

Precipitation: 3.3 in.

Oh, how thoughtful. I haven’t seen one of those in years. The girls will love it.”

That’s what Mrs. Hartwell said when I dug out my cheese ball and offered to serve it as an appetizer, since I thought it might cheer her up.

It did. Neither Nevaeh nor Katie had ever seen such a thing before, and after obediently setting the massive dining room table, as Mrs. Hartwell had asked, with her best silverware and china, they dug into the unfamiliar treat, gushing over it as enthusiastically as if I’d made it myself.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Nevaeh declared, shoveling port wine cheese spread into her mouth.

“Me, too!” Katie had bits of cracker stuck in her braces.

“Lu never lets me eat this stuff,” Ed said, slicing off about a third of the cheese ball for himself. “She says it’s bad for my cholesterol. Hey, where’s the hurricane dip?”