“Mother.” As before, when she put her hand on the deeply ridged bark, she felt no strong sense of communication.
She crossed to the opposite side of the grassy arena, admiring the view of lush green trees and fields below, some spotted with horses. She approached the smallest of the trees with special reverence. This tree was bent and scarred by what was most likely a lightning bolt. Some of its branches were already dead. Moira bowed, hoping that this tree would have some much-needed advice today. She set the quartz at the base of the tree. Its roots were not as large or thick, but this tree was by far the oldest.
“Grandmother,” she said, and stepped forward to place her hand on the dry, thick bark. This time Moira felt a sudden gush of maternal love. The emotion enveloped her, causing tears to flood her eyes, bringing her to her knees. She placed her cheek against the bark, feeling as though it were her grandmother’s breast. In this moment, she felt connected to the divine, in the presence of all beings and linked at a cellular level to all of nature and the world around her.
“Grandmother,” she cried chokingly, awash in emotion. She felt all the myriad questions swirling inside of her. Should she leave Thom? Should she fight for her marriage? Should she—did she dare—go to veterinary school or was it too late? “What should I do?”
She closed her eyes and waited for the vision. In her mind’s eye came the clear image of a tree’s roots growing deep in the ground. The roots were strong and healthy. Nourished by Mother Earth. She heard the words in her mind: You know what you have to do.
“I don’t,” she cried, sounding like a child to her own ears.
You know what you have to do, came the reply once more, as gentle and sure as the wind in the leaves above. And again, the image of the tree roots floated through her mind. Roots. Her roots, she thought. Then, with more clarity, My roots. And suddenly all became clear.
Moira always looked at what other people needed from her, what she could do for others to help them, to nurture them. The tree was telling her that it was time she listened to her own needs. To grow her own roots deep into a fertile soil. Be rooted, she heard.
Moira kissed the tree bark, feeling its roughness on her tender lips. A black ant crawled into her field of vision, stopping in caution. Gripping the tree, she rose to her feet. She felt light-headed, as though waking from a dream. She breathed deep and took a final sweep of the vista, letting its peace and power fill her. Then she bowed once more to the old tree.
“Thank you, Grandmother. I know what I have to do.”
* * *
August 22, 4:00 p.m.
Isle of Palms, South Carolina
The pounding as David set the hurricane shutters into place continued throughout the day. Cara had moved the planters and porch furniture indoors and trimmed bushes and limbs that were close to the house. At three o’clock a policeman stopped by to remind them that there was a mandatory evacuation going on. Cara had assured him that they were just going to finish up and head out.
“You put your life at risk staying,” he’d told them. “Once that bridge closes, no one gets off. And we can’t come to save you.”
It was an onerous message, one that added adrenaline to their efforts. There were a few hitches they hadn’t planned on, one big one being running out of the right screws for the shutters. David had to make a dash to the hardware store in Mount Pleasant and they, of course, did not have the right size. So he had to drive across town to another where thankfully he found what he’d needed.
But David was nearly done now. Cara was in the bedroom, packing a few final things into her suitcase. She’d placed a jewelry pouch that contained her mother’s pearls in first. She’d seen her mother wear these pearls more times than she could count. There were a few other nice brooches and earrings, but Lovie had never been one for jewelry, and she’d given the bulk of her inherited pieces to Julia, Cara’s sister-in-law. Palmer was the eldest son, after all. But in truth, Cara wasn’t much for jewelry either. She’d claimed, instead, her mother’s collection of local paintings. Those, it turned out, were a real treasure trove. Unfortunately, she could only fit one into David’s car. She selected her favorite, a Jonathan Green. She was zipping her suitcase shut when a knock came on the door.
Cara thought for certain it was the policeman back to warn her again, but when she opened the door she was surprised to find Emmi. Her face was wild with worry. Cara felt her stomach clench. This wasn’t good news.
“What are you still doing here?” Cara asked. “Why aren’t you gone?”
“Flo’s missing.”
Cara felt her throat tighten. “What?”
“I’ve been looking for hours. She went out for the nest. Ugh, she’s so stubborn,” she fired out with anger born from worry. “I didn’t realize she’d left the house until I was ready to leave. I went straight to Third Avenue, expecting to find her there opening the nests. But she wasn’t there. So I ran home and looked around in every room in the house, just to be sure. Then I went out looking for her. I didn’t find her so I came here.” Emmi’s voice was ragged with fear.
“Did you call the police?”
Emmi shook her head. “The police? No! I didn’t think . . .”
“Oh, Emmi, why didn’t you call me, at least? We’ve lost precious time.” She heard the accusation in her voice and, seeing the guilt on Emmi’s face, regretted it.
“I didn’t want to bother you. You were trying to get out. And I thought I’d find her. But when I didn’t, I came right over.”
“Of course,” she said with a quick smile. Cara’s mind began to sort out possibilities. It was moments like these that Cara shone. She could make quick decisions and act forcefully.
“We have to call the police immediately. They may be busy with storm preparations, but they’ll help us. We’re running out of time.”
“Okay,” Emmi said, calmer. She had Cara to tell her what to do.
“Where do you think she might be?” Cara asked.
“Like I told you. The nests at Third. But she wasn’t there.”
“Which means she got lost.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Cara put her hand to her forehead. “Do you remember years back when this same thing happened to her mother, Miranda?”
“Flo’s mother?” She shook her head.
“Sure you do. She went out looking for the hatchlings. She had Alzheimer’s and got lost. It took hours to find her. We found her wandering the beach, trying to find her way home.”
“That’s what is happening with Flo. Lately, she’s been getting lost more often. I don’t let her out on the beach by herself anymore. It’s been hard. She sneaks out.”
“I’m sorry this has fallen on you, Emmi. When this storm is over, I’ll do more.”
“I know you’re there. But for now, I’ll call the police.”
“And I’ll call David. We need all hands on deck.”
* * *
August 22, 5:30 p.m.
Freehold Farm, North Carolina
In Grace’s kitchen, the Rolling Stones were crying out that sometimes you get what you need over the speakers. Her friends were standing around the kitchen island, wineglasses in hand, moving to the beat of the Stones. Her friend, Laura Rombauer, had shipped a case of her vineyard’s chardonnay and zinfandel to Grace as a birthday gift with the note “to drink on the occasion of a celebration.” Grace couldn’t think of anything more worthy of celebration than the coming together of friends to help the horses. When they’d finished their work, Grace had corralled her friends over to share the wealth. They were still wearing their soiled work jeans and riding pants and danced in stocking feet, having left muddy boots at the door. Everyone knew Grace liked a clean floor. From time to time they burst out laughing as they shared a story from their day at the barns.