She blows out a breath, her brows still knitted with confusion. Pulling the phone out of her pocket, she says, “It doesn’t really work.”
I program my number into hers, then send myself a text from her phone so I have it stored in mine. “Texts do, but they take a little longer. If you three run into an emergency, you can shoot me a text and I’ll be here as soon as I can. Do you have access to a generator? It’s gonna get hot soon and that baby and your grandma will need cool air.”
“No, not yet, but I—”
“If you don’t have one by tomorrow, I’ll have one delivered here. Is there anything else you need?”
“No, I think we’re okay. But you don’t have to go to the trouble. I planned to get one as soon as I could.”
“I’ll take care of it. Keep your phone and the police scanner nearby. I put in the numbers for the station if you need to get ahold of me and can’t get to me with my cell.”
“You don’t have to go to all this trouble.”
I shoulder my kit and head back through the house without answering. I’m not sure I can without spewing a ton of nasty thoughts and I’m not the sort to pop off without considering my words. Her footsteps follow close behind and I can feel the anxious waves of energy emanating off of her at my back.
“I’m sorry,” she says when I reach the door.
I jerk my head in answer. I have nothing else left in me to say. Nothing nice anyway.
Chapter Eight
Avery
True to his word, a generator magically appears on my porch the following day. The only note with it are instructions on how to set it up safely. Apparently several people have already been killed by having the exhaust blow into their homes and causing them to slowly asphyxiate. The generator also runs on gas so there were an additional five cans of gas lined up like neat little soldiers.
I didn’t plan to run the generator constantly, mostly through the hottest part of the afternoon because there was no telling how long the electricity would be down. From what reports I’d heard over the police scanner and the spotty connections I’d made on my phone I’d gleaned power lines were down from Mexico Beach to Tallahassee. It would take months of repairs and thousands of linemen from all over the country to repair the catastrophic damage.
You know your shit has gone sideways when the aftermath of a hurricane is easier to deal with than the wreck of your personal life.
In the long days that follow, I spend most of my time trying to get the front yard in some semblance of order. I learn through the patchwork communication grapevine that there will be debris pickups on certain days of the week if the community puts the debris on the side of the road. When I’m not taking care of Grandma Rosie or tending to the baby, I’m hauling limbs and logs to the ever-growing pile by the road. I borrow a spare chainsaw from Tom and after a quick lesson, get to work cutting down some of the more manageable felled limbs. There are a few monsters I don’t know what I’ll do with, probably pay someone to remove at some point, but that’ll have to be put off until later.
It’s a lot of work, but it keeps my mind off of Walker and gives me something to do since most roads are still closed unless you’re getting food from the various distribution locations or getting gas for your generator. There’s even a curfew for our town to discourage looters. Someone had tried to open our front door a few days after the storm, but our automatic porch flood lights scared them away. It’s the only time I’ve ever wished I had a gun in the house, but thankfully I haven’t had to resort to that.
All in all, it could be so much worse. The only tree that fell on the house was an immature magnolia and it didn’t cause any structural damage. I was able to get it cut down for the most part. There’s still the base of it sticking out at an angle across the yard, but at least it’s not on the roof. The others that were blown down were in the back yard and out of the way. Most of the damage to the house was the window that was broken and some of the tin that was pulled up by the wind. Truthfully, we got lucky.
So, so lucky.
I’ve seen pictures of homes in our area that were completely wiped away. Roofs ripped completely off. Trees spearing through living rooms, through cars. That’s not to mention the homes on the coast where the hurricane made landfall. The whole community of Mexico Beach…there aren’t words to describe the devastation. My family and I have spent many summers swimming at Mexico and Panama City Beach. To many Floridians in the Panhandle, they’re as ingrained in your blood as choosing a side in the Florida / Florida State rivalry. Seeing the pictures of entire tracts of homes simply wiped away…there’s no way to explain the hole it leaves. I can’t imagine how that would feel to the people who live there. Lived there.
It’s hard enough seeing images from my own town. Entire forests wiped out. Whole landscapes marred for the foreseeable future. The world I grew up in has forever been changed. My daughter will never know the Florida I grew up in and there’s a bracing somberness to accepting that.
About two weeks after the storm, when I’m certain Walker has completely written me off, I wake up to the sound of a chainsaw close by. It’s not an uncommon occurrence at this point—the chorus of chainsaws is almost comforting now—but this one sounds like it’s right outside my door. It wakes the baby, too, so I nurse her back to a contented state and entertain her with a few toys clipped to a bouncer. She’s more awake these days, so I try to tire her out a bit before I put her back to sleep.
While she’s distracted, I take care of Grandma Rosie, getting her fed and making sure she takes all of her medication. Once that’s done, I can finally investigate the source of the sound, which has now moved to the backyard. Hesitantly, I open the door and find a shirtless, sweaty Walker cutting down the fallen trees crisscrossing the property.
Stunned, a little confused, and a whole lot turned on, all I can do is watch as he works. The strong patchwork of muscles covering his back flex and contract with every movement. The sheen of sweat emphasizes each curve and bulge. He pauses to drink from a water bottle and uses the remnants to spray over his body, making him look like a real-life Chippendale’s commercial. The sight of the water makes me realize my throat has gone dry and if it weren’t for that, I’d be drooling.
Turning, he spots me standing on the back porch ogling him. The chainsaw cuts off, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. I swallow back my apprehension and put a damper on the raging hormones that had roared to life the moment they saw him.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a neutral tone, my voice raised to cover the distance.
He lifts the chainsaw in a gesture toward the tree. “Cutting down this tree for you.”
I lift a brow. “I can see that. I guess the more appropriate question would be why are you cutting it down?”
“Because I had the time and the ability. Are you complaining about it?” There’s a hard twist to his mouth I haven’t seen before. So he hasn’t forgiven me yet, not that I thought he would. He has a right to be bitter, mad, disappointed or maybe all of the above.
“No, I’m just wondering why. You don’t have to do these things for us.”