Cara saw the fear in his eyes that she was sure mirrored her own. She swallowed hard.
“Ain’t no house worth that,” he added for good measure. “You might just want to turn around and head back up north while you can.”
Cara stared into his pale eyes and asked herself again if she didn’t want to give up and head back to the mountains. Maybe the flat tire was a warning—a sign from above telling them not to go forward. Cara wasn’t one to run, however. Her mother used to say her middle name should’ve been Stubborn.
“Thanks,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”
Bobby looked at her like she was nuts, then just shook his head in a not-my-business manner and turned to the printer that was pumping out her receipt. When he handed the paper to her, however, his eyes were filled with concern.
“Tell you what. I’ll see what I can do to get you outta here a little quicker. There isn’t a hotel room for miles.”
He turned and walked off before she could thank him.
The back office was a sorry, airless place with a sagging leather sofa, a row of metal chairs, old greasy magazines on a chipped faux-wood table, and a Mr. Coffee machine that was turned off, the pot rimmed with dried coffee. Most of the chairs were occupied by sunken-eyed travelers in the same predicament she was in, waiting for their cars to be repaired so they could get back on the road. True to his word, the serviceman did his best to push them through, but it still took three hours of waiting. Time was of the essence. Each hour’s delay getting there was an hour closer to the hurricane’s arrival.
Back on the road at last, Cara was more eager than ever to reach the beach house. They kept the news on, conversation stopping whenever a weather update came on.
The sun was already lowering by the time they reached the Connector to Isle of Palms. She’d crossed this span countless times in her life. She’d grown up in Charleston, and her family had their summer house on Isle of Palms. Back in the day, they’d crossed the old, narrow Grace Memorial Bridge from Charleston and traveled through the sleepy town of Mount Pleasant to the swing bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway and the wetlands to Sullivan’s Island. There wasn’t a direct route to Isle of Palms. They had to drive across Sullivan’s, then cross the bridge over Breach Inlet to reach Isle of Palms. Sometime they’d come by boat. But usually Mama packed up a cooler and bags of food and they’d motor to the small beach house facing the ocean.
Cara well remembered the debate about building the long expanse of Highway 517. They’d called it the Connector because it linked Isle of Palms directly to the mainland without visitors having to cross Sullivan’s Island. Some of the islanders had fought against the Connector because they liked the fact that their island was harder to get to than Sullivan’s Island, and argued that its inaccessibility would keep more people away. With Wild Dunes Resort at the northern tip of the island, that effort was already a lost cause. Still, after the terrible destruction on the island during Hurricane Hugo in 1989, it was clear that the islanders needed a safe means to flee. By 1993 the 3.84-mile highway with its fixed-span bridge connecting Mount Pleasant with Isle of Palms was complete.
Cara looked out the window as they made their way across. They were one of a mere handful of cars coming to the island. Everyone else was heading off-island, their cars packed to the gills with belongings, some pulling boats. The tourists were long gone. These were the die-hard residents who’d waited to see what the storm was going to do before deciding at the last moment to heed the evacuation warning.
Her gaze skimmed the wetlands below. The tide was rushing in, filling the mudflats. The tips of the cordgrass were beginning to turn golden, a first sign of approaching fall. The big car glided higher up the Connector to reach the apex. No matter the season, no matter the time of day, Cara’s breath hitched at the sudden sight of the great Atlantic Ocean looming before her. The expanse of sea meeting the horizon in a line that seemed to stretch out to infinity never failed to fill her with awe.
It was the sky that dictated the color of the mercurial sea. On sunny days, the water shimmered a brilliant blue. When gray clouds filled the sky, the sea reflected its stormy colors. It seemed incongruous today to see a dull gray-blue ocean reflecting the sky. One wouldn’t guess a hurricane was advancing toward them, save for the telltale gray cirrus clouds that streaked across the sky, forerunners of the ominous armada sailing in its inexorable path. Still, all one had to do to see signs of what was to come was to look at the sea and the way the water roiled in haphazard currents, small whitecaps forming.
Every time she reached this point, her heart opened to the welcome of the island—until now. For the first time, the island didn’t feel welcoming. It felt threatening. Instinctively, she reached across the front seat to clasp David’s arm.
David turned his head quickly, his eyes scanning her face. “We’re going to be all right,” he reassured her, moving his hand to squeeze hers. “We’ll be gone before the storm hits.”
Cara asked herself for the hundredth time why she’d felt the need to return to this precarious barrier island just as a hurricane threatened and everyone else was leaving. But she knew the answer. It was because of the beach house. Her beloved Primrose Cottage.
When at last they reached the beach house, her little cottage seemed so small and helpless sitting on a small dune facing a turbulent sea. What hope did it have against the impending fury of the storm looming from the ocean? This little house held so many of her childhood memories. Only the good ones.
Nestled between the large vintage Victorian of her dearest friends, Flo and Emmi, on the left and a larger contemporary mansion on its right, Primrose Cottage was a slight glimpse of the past. When it was built, this street had been oceanfront and all the small houses sat behind a line of large dunes. Old-timers knew that the job of dunes was to act as a barricade against waves and tidal surge. Today most of the vintage cottages were gone, cleared away to make room for the mansions that created a pastel wall blocking the view of the ocean. Cara’s mother, Lovie Rutledge, had shaken her head in wonder why, after the devastation of Hurricane Hugo, they would mow the dunes down to build bigger houses even closer to the sea.
Primrose Cottage had been Lovie’s sanctuary, a place where she could escape the pressures of Charleston society—and her husband—to spend quality time with her children and, later, her grandchildren. In her lifetime, Lovie had loved and protected the island’s sea turtles and this beach house. On her death, Cara had gladly assumed that responsibility. And she’d tried her best. She was here now, wasn’t she?
Cara felt a sudden shiver of apprehension. Though the beach house had withstood countless storms for more than eighty years, could it withstand what was predicted to be the fiercest one of all?
She stepped out of the car, and immediately the heavy humidity descended on them, thick and wet. Her pale-blue cotton shirt began to cling to her breasts and felt like a blanket around her back. David rounded the car to grab their two small bags from the trunk of his Range Rover. They hadn’t packed much—this was a quick trip. Cara grabbed the cooler, and together they headed single-file toward the front porch, their feet crunching loudly in the gravel.
Cara dug into her purse and handed David the front door key. As he opened the door, she walked to the railing and gazed up at the twilight sky. She saw a few gulls struggling in the brisk wind. Many of the local birds had already flown from the path of the oncoming storm. Instinct was a powerful survival tool. There was an eerie silence on the island—no bird calls, no bursts of laughter from the beach, no cars passing on the road. Not even a dog barked.