PROLOGUE
The storm originated as a tropical wave off the coast of Africa, but during the next forty-eight hours, it grew highly organized. As it veered west, it met with favorable, warm surface-water temperatures and low wind shear. It rapidly intensified, developing a distinct eye feature. When the sustained winds reached seventy-five miles per hour, the storm was given a name: Hurricane Noelle.
The hurricane wobbled, shifting directions and sending the experts racing back to their computers to create updated tracking cones. This, in turn, sent another group of residents into panic mode. Everyone living in the Caribbean and along the southeastern coast of the United States was stocking up on supplies and preparing for evacuation.
The only thing the experts agreed upon was that Hurricane Noelle was fast becoming an extremely powerful, Cape Verde–type hurricane, typical in August and September and potentially deadly. As the storm plowed west across the Atlantic and intensified, it was becoming possibly the most catastrophic hurricane to reach land in more than a decade.
PART ONE
* * *
EVACUATION
ONE
August 15, 2018, 7:15 a.m.
Isle of Palms, South Carolina
Tropical Storm Noelle intensifies into a hurricane in the Atlantic Ocean
Cara Rutledge rubbed her arms and looked out over the Atlantic Ocean. The mercurial sea rolled in and out in its metronome fashion, reflecting the blue-gray color of the sky. The beach was nearly empty, the vast expanse of sand scarred only by her footprints. All seemed calm. Even the golden panicles of the sea oats hung still in the pensive air. Yet she sensed a heightened tension coiling under the calm façade of the water, like some great beast rippling, lying in wait to pounce.
Cara shivered, though it wasn’t cold. She was a tall, slender woman accustomed to daily walks along the beach with her daughter, Hope. She’d spent her childhood on this beach, and had returned as an adult to make the quaint beach house, Primrose Cottage, her home. From May until October she was on the Island Turtle Team, like her mother before her. After a lifetime living beside the ocean, she felt attuned to the moods of her old friend. And today, something felt off.
The sun was shining, but thin streaks of clouds stretched from the sea toward land, eerie fingers reaching out from the incoming storm.
Cara inhaled the salty air and placed her hand against her chest. There was an unusual heaviness in the air. A moistness that tasted of rain. She was no stranger to summer storms, or the havoc they could wreak. She also knew that she was unusually skittish when it came to storms. Cara had lived through too many hurricanes not to be on guard. And yet, she didn’t want to panic. There was a wave out in the Atlantic the meteorologists were keeping an eye on, but it was August, the height of the hurricane season. There were a lot of storms that lost steam or changed direction long before they neared landfall.
She was leaving the island this afternoon to visit the mountains of North Carolina with David Wyatt and his family. It would be a welcome change of pace with the lush green foliage, cooler air, and hiking. She might even get some horseback riding in. She exhaled slowly. Yes, she thought with relief. She was working herself up over nothing. Whatever storm was coming would likely blow in and out by the time she returned. And, she thought with a hint of a smile on her face, she was bringing along with her the one thing she treasured most in the world—her daughter, Hope.
Cara turned her back on the ocean and, swinging her arms, began her trek across the beach toward home.
TWO
August 20, 6:30 a.m.
Palm Beach, Florida
72 hours till Hurricane Noelle’s expected landfall in southeastern Florida
Hannah McLain brushed away a shank of blond hair to hold the phone to her ear. The male voice at the other end of the line rattled off instructions in staccato.
“Do not forget the medals,” Angel told her in his heavily accented English. “Most important is Olympic medals. Sí? You won’t forget.”
“Yes, okay. Got them,” Hannah said as she pulled the gold and silver medals from their perch over the fireplace mantel. She tossed them into the leather duffel bag with the other awards he’d won in his fabled equestrian career.
The living room, usually bathed in southern light, today was shadowy. Outside the plate glass windows of her condo overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, an armada of silvery clouds streaked across the sky. Her television was tuned to the weather station, as it had been for the past twenty-four hours. A hurricane had developed in the Atlantic, and as of last night its path was predicted to hit southeastern Florida. Suddenly all the inhabitants of the eastern coast had shifted into emergency mode—especially those inhabitants with prize horses. The owners wouldn’t take the chance of leaving their horses to fend for themselves and were scrambling to leave the area early, a minimum of seventy-two hours before the arrival of the storm. Every owner’s nightmare was to get stuck in traffic with a trailer full of horses and a hurricane approaching.
Windows were boarded; store shelves had been stripped of essentials like milk, bottled water, and batteries; and plans were being made should the governor call for a mandatory evacuation. The arrival of the hurricane was no longer a question: now it was a matter of when and how big.
Angel was at the stable in Wellington loading up his horse. His decision to leave had come quickly, which was typical of him. He could be impulsive, but once a decision was made, he followed through with remarkable efficiency. And Javier Angel de la Cruz had very good instincts. On the phone, Angel continued listing all the things he wanted Hannah to pack up for him.
“Javi,” she said with a hint of impatience. Javier Angel de la Cruz was known as Angel by his adoring fans in the equestrian world, which made her private nickname for her lover more . . . intimate. “Stop! I can’t bring all this, and I really have to go.”
“Is okay. I know. But—”
“No más!” she exclaimed, raking her hand through her long hair. Already a huge pile of riding gear, trophies, and files was on the bed. “We can only take those few things we truly treasure. Everything else must be left behind. There’s no room in my car.”
There was a long pause. “I understand. Yes.” She could hear him suck in his breath. “You decide. I must deal with Butterhead.” He paused. “Except for medals. Bring those.”
“Of course.”
“You coming now?”
“Once I load up all your crap. . . .”
He chuckled. “Oh yes, sí, my Olympic medals son crap.”
She laughed softly, conceding the point. “I’ll be there soon. Please say you’ll be ready to go when I get there. I don’t want to get caught in too much traffic.”
“Yes. Much to do, but yes. Come now. Oh, and Hannah . . .”
She liked the way he said her name. The H was silent, so it sounded more like “Ana.” “Be nice to Max, okay? Very nice. You know he is scared of thunder. The storms, they make him crazy.”
Hannah’s smile fell as her gaze slid across the room to the giant black schnauzer lying on the tile, watching her. That dog was always staring. It was creepy. Max was Angel’s beloved dog, and for the past ten years—throughout all his tabloid-fodder relationships—that dog had been his one constant companion. Even though she and Angel had been together for nearly six months, she still had the niggling feeling that she was in second place behind the dog in Angel’s heart.