“Don’t go there,” said Grace. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel. “It’s too horrid to consider.”
“But it could happen.”
“It’s not the wind I’m most fearful of,” said Rebecca. “It’s the flooding.”
“It’s climate change,” said Grace.
“It’s not just the hurricanes,” Gerta said. She spoke loudly so they could hear in the backseat. “With climate change, all the storms will become more intense. Winter freezes, scorching heat, drought . . . In Europe, my family tells me of the bitter winters.”
Cornelia twisted her lips and asked, “Is it really as bad as they’re saying? Haven’t there been horrific storms for years? We just had a one-hundred-year flood. A hundred years,” she repeated for emphasis.
“Except the one-hundred-year floods are happening every few years now,” said Rebecca.
Caroline seemed on the verge of tears as she stared at her cell phone. “My calls won’t go through to my mother. She’s in Fort Myers.”
“It’s mayhem down there now. The lines must be down,” said Cornelia.
“My parents are in assisted living.” Caroline’s slender frame seemed to fold into itself, her usually sweet expression worried. “I’m frantic,” she confessed. “The facility didn’t move them out. They claim they have a great hurricane facility. But how secure is it really? My mother says she’s fine, but she always puts on a strong face. And my poor daddy, he doesn’t know if it’s sunny or raining anymore.” Caroline wrung her hands. “I wanted to go down to get them once it looked like it was hitting the coast, but it was too late.”
“Don’t you worry, honey,” Cornelia told her, patting her hands. “They’re on the Gulf side. Besides, those folks know what they’re doing. That’s their job. They’ll be fine. We all will.” She paused. “I just hope it peters out some as it goes over land. Y’all know I have a house on Isle of Palms,” she said with worry in her voice. She picked up a piece of paper and began to fan herself as she looked out the window. “I hope it survives.” Her voice grew wistful. “We were planning on a family Christmas there this year. With the new grandbaby.”
“You still might,” Grace said consolingly. “My condo is in Palm Beach . . .” She shrugged, indicating good luck with that.
Cornelia’s smile was wobbly. “I’m glad we have each other. We just have to take care of each other and anyone else we can.”
“Makes me feel good we’re helping with the horses,” said Rebecca.
Grace added, “And pray.”
Caroline laughed shakily. “I’m praying real hard!”
“Me too,” said Cornelia.
Gerta listened in silence, staring out the windshield. She couldn’t give voice to all that she had at stake with this hurricane. Her entire breeding facility—her life’s work—was in the crosshairs. She was accustomed to facing problems and solving them, getting things done. But in the face of nature, there was nothing she could do but wait. She had no control. It was a feeling she eschewed. She didn’t like being helpless.
“I’ll be honest,” Gerta ventured in a lowered voice. She turned to look out at the countryside whizzing by. Trees. So many trees. “I am generally not one for praying. But perhaps . . .” She released a short, self-conscious laugh. “Perhaps I should start.”
Caroline reached over from the backseat to touch Gerta’s shoulder. “I’m with you, my friend.”
Gerta sucked in a breath, feeling exposed—yet a half-smile played at her lips. Caroline had said “my friend.” At times like this, that word meant so much.
A silence settled on the group as each considered what the aftermath of the Category Five hurricane could mean to them personally. And to their loved ones.
* * *
At last they reached the cloverleaf in the highway that provided them with a vista of the equestrian center. It spread out over some fifteen hundred acres in the mountains of North Carolina. Here, the 2018 World Equestrian Games had been hosted, a triumph for the United States equestrian world. It was complete with a six-thousand-seat outdoor stadium, multiple event rings, a separate sports center, and a covered arena—not to mention five hundred horse stalls. It was in these that the desperate owners fleeing the hurricane could house their evacuated horses.
When Grace’s car approached the large wood-gated entrance to the equestrian center, there was already a line of cars towing horse trailers checking in and heading to the stalls. As they drove in, Grace gave Gerta a quick tour of the facility. Gerta had been to equestrian facilities all over the world, and the Palm Beach International Equestrian Center in Wellington was superb, so she was not inclined to be impressed—but she had to admit that indeed she was as Grace wound past the numerous handsome buildings. The scope and vision of the equestrian center gave her pause.
Grace parked in the lot nearest the stables. Gerta pushed open the passenger door and, with a bit of a struggle, rose to a stand. She forced a smile as her prosthesis chafed against her still-tender skin. Early as it was, the air was already heavy with humidity. Like the other women, Gerta wore jeans and an old chambray shirt, prepared to get dirty. Boots were de rigueur—only a fool would wear tennis shoes or, worse, flip-flops when working with horses. She wiped a bead of sweat from over her lip.
“I’d expected it to be cooler in the mountains,” she said with a hint of accusation.
“Oh, it’s the oncoming hurricane,” answered Cornelia, almost apologetically. “We’re expecting rain tonight. I can feel it in the air like a bubble about to pop!”
“And climate change,” chirped Grace again.
Caroline laughed and said, “Honey, it’s just August in the South.”
Grace and the other women talked among themselves as they walked ahead. Gerta held back at the entrance and removed her sunglasses as she perused the large building housing the horse stalls. It surprised her how barnlike the stables actually were. Too often show stalls were rickety and industrial. Gerta stepped inside and lifted her hawkish nose. One couldn’t hide the smells of a badly run stable—urine alone could be pervasive. She sniffed, and caught a whiff of the unmistakable scents of pine shavings, leather, and horseflesh. All smells she welcomed. Well done, she thought approvingly.
“Welcome!” Katherine hurried from across the barn, her hand extended in greeting. She was a petite woman and wore her long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. In her jeans, navy T-shirt, and boots, she looked as young as her daughter walking beside her. “Thanks so much for coming,” she said, her hazel eyes reflecting her gratitude. “It’s mayhem with all these horses coming. There’s so much to do, I swear, we couldn’t get it all done without your help.”
“Y’all are the ones helping the most,” Grace offered. “I mean . . .” Her arm swept out to indicate the number of horses already ensconced in stalls. “What would they have done?”
Katherine waved the compliment away. “Opening our doors was the right thing to do. Horses go the distance with us every day. Now they’re the ones going the distance—literally. We have to help them.”