Over the last of Molly’s chicken and a casserole of green beans, Molly and I discussed what to do. There were no designated shelters on tiny Bonefish Cay. Two women riding out a hurricane alone on an otherwise deserted cay didn’t seem like a good idea to me, even if we were both able-bodied gals described by everyone who knew us as ‘spunky.’
Our designated shelter was the Hawksbill Cay All-Age School, but Molly taught poetry there from time to time, and wasn’t convinced it’d be any safer than staying at home on Bonefish. ‘Trust me when I tell you, Hannah, I’d rather ride out the storm in Pro Bono than in the Hawksbill All-Age School.’
An alternative was the St Frances de Sales Catholic Church in Marsh Harbour, but we didn’t know anybody there.
Then on the Cruisers’ Net that morning, a welcome announcement. Jaime Mueller (who claimed he never listened!) called in on open mike to say that the Tamarind Tree Resort and Marina could be used as an evacuation center.
‘He just wants to curry favor with the locals,’ Molly grumbled.
‘Curry away,’ I said, delighted. ‘Any port in a storm.’
‘Not quite any. My late husband was a builder,’ Molly told me. ‘Let’s check the Tamarind Tree out.’
‘What I really want to check out, is that shack in Kelchner’s Cove. Since we’ll have free access to the grounds, do you think…?’
‘Snap out of it, Hannah! Hurricane? Remember?’
‘There’s a party pooper in every crowd.’
Twenty minutes later, it seemed odd to find the turnstile up and the gate to the exclusive resort unattended. When we found him, Lou, the gate attendant, was dragging pool furniture into the fitness center with the help of another staffer. Sitting on an empty planter ten feet away, watching, was Alice Madonna Robinson Mueller.
‘Hello, Alice,’ I said.
Her tears had dried, but they’d left tracks of blue-black mascara down her cheeks. I was going to ask her what was wrong when she said, ‘Oh, hi, Hannah. Who’s your friend?’
‘This is Molly Weston. She lives over on Bonefish Cay, too. We’re hoping to ride out the hurricane with you.’
‘Oh, goody! It’ll be nice to have a friend staying here.’
‘Looks like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, really. It’s just that Jaime can be such a stinker! I wanted to go home, begged him, but he said if he had to stay, I had to stay.’ She folded her arms across her bosom. ‘And now it’s too late.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, Alice, I’m stuck here, too. My husband’s back in Maryland, totally pissed off that I didn’t make it out in time.’
Alice hopped off the planter, seemingly cheered by this news. ‘Jaime says this place was built to withstand winds up to one hundred and eighty miles an hour. Can you imagine? I’ve already got my space picked out. Come and see.’ Like a camp counselor on a field trip, she led us into the dining room where I’d last eaten lunch after my talk with Gabriele, down a narrow corridor and into an elegant, mahogany-paneled club room decorated in British Colonial style, more reminiscent of the Raj than the West Indies. Small items that could easily become projectiles – silverware, glassware, vases – had been stored away, leaving only tables and chairs. Ceiling fans circled slowly overhead.
‘I’m behind the bar,’ Alice said. She pointed out her mattress, pillows and blanket; a pile of Vogue and People magazines; and something that made me want to take her in my arms and whisper there-there into her hair – a teddy bear so well loved he was nearly hairless.
‘What a lovely little nest you’ve made for yourself, Alice,’ said Molly.
‘I couldn’t bring everything, of course.’ She started to tear up again.
I picked up her hand, squeezed and held on to it. ‘We’re going back home to pick up our things now, but after we return and get settled in, let’s sit down and have a nice chat. Okay?’
Alice managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere and plant it on her face. ‘I’d like that a lot, Hannah.’
‘What a sad little creature,’ Molly said after Alice had scampered off to retrieve something else she’d forgotten from her cottage on the point. We were wandering around the club room, casing the joint. ‘Poured concrete floors,’ Molly said, testing the carpet with her toes. She laid a hand flat on the wall. ‘Solid concrete construction here, too.’ She leaned back, checking out the ceiling. ‘Reinforced trusses, two-by-six and not two-by-four, that’s good.’ She pointed. ‘And they’re nicely camouflaged, but can you see where they used hurricane straps to tie the roof to the walls? That should prevent lift-off!’
Even I could see that except for the picture window overlooking the pool, all the windows had been constructed, Bahamian-style, out of wood and high-quality plexiglass. They became their own hurricane shutters when lowered and dogged tightly down. ‘And another plus?’ Molly added. ‘The doors open out, and not in.’
As we strolled back toward the main gate, Molly pointed out that in a town where trees, telephone poles, boats, golf carts, air conditioners and even other buildings could rise up and fall down on you, the Tamarind Tree had an advantage. It sat practically alone.
It was a no-brainer.
On the way back to Bonefish Cay, we stopped at Hawksbill Hardware – ‘If we don’t have it, you don’t need it’ – and bought spare batteries for my flashlight and the last two cans of Sterno.
‘What’s CNN saying?’ I asked Molly on the VHF radio a bit later.
‘It’s coming, it’s bad, and it’s tomorrow. Over.’
‘I’ll come and help you, then we can secure Windswept. Over and out.’
When it was Windswept’s turn, everything that was outside had to come in. A flying coconut can do damage enough – I’d heard of people being killed by them – but a flying barbecue grill?
I disconnected the gutters from the cistern to prevent wind-driven waves of salt water from sweeping over the roof and contaminating our drinking water. With Molly’s help, I lowered all the windows and dogged them down tight while she hooked them to the window frames on the inside. I flipped all the breakers and turned off the power. And I hauled down the flag.
Molly went to fetch her ditch kit, but I had one last task to do.
Pets weren’t allowed in shelters, I’d heard, and I wanted to say goodbye.
The last time I’d seen Dickie had been that morning. I’d been sitting on the back steps doing kitty shiatsu along his spine, when he suddenly stiffened. The fur on his tail puffed out as if it’d been stuck into an electric socket, then he leapt from my arms and streaked off into the bushes, a coonskin cap on four legs.
‘Dickie!’ I called now, hoping he’d come back. ‘Here Dickie, Dickie, Dickie!’
I’m not sure why I was bothering to call as I’d never known the skittish animal to answer to his name. I filled a bowl with kibble and wandered around the back yard, rattling as I went. ‘Dickie!’ But he failed to appear.
I followed the path that led from my house to Molly’s and back again, rattling and calling, but the silly cat was AWOL. Still holding the bowl, I sat down on the steps and began to cry. ‘Damn you, cat,’ I sniffled. ‘Please come out!’
Did Dickie know a hurricane was coming? Did some electrical charge in the air tip him off? Was he off in some hurricane hole of his own?
Swiping at my eyes, I clumped back into the house and rummaged around in the cupboards until I found a couple of mixing bowls. I filled one with kibble and the other with water and crammed them in the crawl space under the house where Dickie liked to hide. He’d survived more than one hurricane, and I hoped he’d survive this one, too.