Chapter 4
Thirteen Days Before the Hurricane
“P lease, God, make it stop.” Morning sunlight beams through our gauzy bedroom curtains, sharp enough to sting my eyes.
I roll over, but the harsh light follows me.
Cracking one eye, I check the time on my nightstand.
Then, I yank a pillow over my face with a groan. The movement jostles Beau beside me.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is thick with sleep.
“It’s seven-thirty.” The pillow muffles my response. “This insistence of yours to wake up to natural light is unholy.”
I lobbied for the latest in blackout shade technology when we bought the house, extolling the glories of triggering a tomb-like darkness with the touch of a button.
But Beau read some bio-hack-health-whatever article about how waking up with the sun triggers some chemical in your brain that supposedly makes you happier.
I would be happier if I were still asleep.
He moves toward me and cups a hand above my face to shield me from the sun. “Better?”
Peeking out from under my pillow, I narrow my eyes. “You get points for trying.” The handsome shadows of morning stubble around his lips soften my voice. “What time did you get home? You didn’t wake me up when you came in.”
The way he hesitates before answering tells me what I already suspect—he got back so late there was no hope of rousing me.
“Who fucking knows?” He rubs at his eyes with his free hand. “Someone brought out a pack of Fireball shots, and things get fuzzy from there. I’m supposed to play golf with Ford and Shep over at the Ritz this morning.”
I give him a long skeptical look, like he might still be high from last night. But no, his gaze is sharp—he’s sober.
“I’m surprised Ford wants to come down from Mount Olympus to play with the likes of you guys.” I laugh.
“Shep gave a very enthusiastic pitch last night about his new Callaway irons. He swears they’re changing his game,” Beau says, as if this justifies it.
“Bleck.” I shake my head. “He’s always so quiet. But I don’t get the impression he’s shy. He just expects everyone else to carry the conversation for him. I don’t like it.”
“Could be fun.” He grins. Everything sounds like fun to Beau. He’s always game.
“Or you and Ford could spend literal hours in direct sunlight trying to wrench a sentence out of Shep about his golf gear.”
“?Por qué no los dos?” Beau winks. Then he pulls me under him, hovering over me as he kisses my neck. “You want to come? I’ll let you drive the golf cart.”
“Oh. Hard pass.” I giggle, feigning an attempt to escape his grip.
“Well, joke’s on them. I’ve been recording data on my golf game for months now—swing velocity, club head speed, torque, and humidity levels.”
“You are a stone-cold nerd.” I kiss him, remembering he mentioned something about this golf-data quest over dinner a few weeks ago, but I thought he was kidding.
Ever since we stopped working, Beau has redirected all that ambition into hobbies—each one a new puzzle to solve.
Beau arches an eyebrow. “Keep laughing. We’ll see who the nerd is when I fleece each of them for a hundred dollars after eighteen holes.”
“Now who’s gambling away our fortune?” I move to sit up, but he catches me at the waist.
“Hey.” His lips brush over the top of my neck as he murmurs in my ear. “I missed you last night.”
“Aren’t you running on, like, four hours of sleep?” I say, but I don’t move away as the whisper of his breath skims my neck and makes my stomach do a funny little twist.
This is heaven. We burned down our old lives for this. And it was worth it.
At least, I thought we did. But the outreach from the 310 number last night—and that shadow of someone outside the windows of Lemon & Fig—feels like the embers we’d smothered might be sparking back to life.
Beau smirks, then his fingers slip beneath the hem of his old T-shirt—the one I slept in—and push it up, slow and deliberate. I lift my arms, and in one smooth motion, it’s gone, tossed somewhere onto the floor. His bare chest is warm against mine, his hands skim my back, pulling me closer.
“How was the rest of the party?” I sigh as my body starts to respond to his touch.
“Who cares?” He laughs into the crook of my neck, his breath on my skin raising goose bumps along my spine.
His pupils are dark and dilated. The desire I sense in them matches the slow swell of heat pooling in my chest. Then, he kisses me deeply, and I taste the mint of his mouthwash on his tongue.
“I mean, if you’re going to stay out all night, we are absolutely revisiting the blackout curtain discussion.”
I’m teasing, but he doesn’t respond. He’s already moving lower, his mouth skimming my collarbone, then my ribs, then my stomach. The feeling sends my thoughts scattering, and suddenly, I don’t care about anything except the way he’s touching me.
He’s very good at this part.
And while most mornings start like this, today feels different.
It’s urgent, like he’s been starved for this connection.
Or maybe it’s me, trying to vanquish the ghosts of our past. Either way, the feverish need sets a desperate pace.
As we move together, I can’t ignore the way he’s looking at me with lust and adoration, yes—but something else, too.
Something I can’t place.
I consider asking him about it, but then we’re moving faster, chasing a climax. My heart flutters as everything else dissolves.
After, Beau pulls me against him, and I tug a pillow over my face to block out the sun, his fingers tracing light, lazy patterns on my back. I fall asleep to the rhythm of his steady breaths.
The bio-hack-health community can take a seat.
The next time I wake up it’s 9:47 a.m. and I’m late for breakfast with Nora.
I look around. Beau’s already off golfing, and there’s a text from Nora on my phone.
9:42 A.M.
On my way!
Shit.
The plan was simple. She’d run from her house to mine—because she’s a masochist—and then, I’d drive us to brunch. Instead, I’m still in bed, tangled in sheets, barely conscious. And she’ll be here any minute.
I launch from the mattress and tear through my closet, yanking on leggings and a sports bra, splashing water on my face, all in a blur of too-little-time. But my body’s not totally awake yet. My hair is a disaster and my skin warm from sleep.
As I trip out of my front door, though, blinking against the sun, there’s no Nora. I see Polly washing a golf cart in her driveway.
“Hey, Este.” She throws up a peace sign.
I cross the distance between our two houses. “What’s on tap for today? Want to go release a bunch of snails into Carol Parker’s greenhouse?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a tennis lesson.”
When Ford signed Polly up for classes at the club, I gave him credit for not trying to mold her life to match his own, like my parents had tried to do with me before they died.
“Did you hear your dad’s out golfing with Beau today?”
Polly gives a know-it-all nod. “He got home yesterday morning, so Ms. Dowling had to make a roast chicken.”
“A win.” I smile.
Ms. Dowling is vegan, which means, on the days her dad’s out, Polly is a vegan by proxy.
Dowling is always packing her school lunches with mung bean this and chickpea that.
Dinner might as well be a pile of leaves with a side of farro.
Polly’s pretty miserable without the usual picky eater kid fare, and more than once, I’ve caught her researching bone density studies on kids who grow up without enough protein.
“What’s he doing home?” I ask.
“He says he hurt his knee.”
Ms. Dowling peeks her head out from around the shrubs that trace our property line and informs us it’s time for Polly to get to her tennis lesson.
We’re mid-goodbye when Nora appears at the Isle of Sicily bridge. I hop in my car and meet her halfway. As she’s slipping into the passenger seat, her eyes catch on her old house. Her own personal albatross. When she moved out, she swore she’d never set foot in the house again.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” I say, hoping to distract her from her thoughts. “You can tell me all about your house hunt.”
“Not much to report yet.” She gives the house one more uneasy glance over her shoulder, like it might spontaneously sprout legs and start chasing after us.
As I shift into drive, I’m about to say something light, something to lift her mood, but as I pull onto Via Tuscany, a police car streaks past us, sirens blaring, down the quiet street. We both startle, watching as it disappears.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, hoping to brush off the déjà vu.
But Nora looks shaken up. She exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Yeah,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
I suggest Lemon & Fig for breakfast—prepared to redouble my matchmaking mission. But Nora says she’s in the mood for the crab cakes at the Chapman, a spot on the other side of Park Avenue.
“Did something happen last night?” I ask, my eyes alight with hope for some details of at least a flirtation. “I saw you talking to Marcus when I left.”
“I talk to Marcus all the time. What does that mean?” She shakes her head, but she’s avoiding something.
“Nothing,” I say.
Maybe we’re both ignoring the ghosts of our pasts.
We park beside a peacock mural—an ode to Winter Park’s crest—and slip inside the Chapman without much conversation.
The hostess offers us a sunny table with a view of Park Avenue, but when I see another police car go by, I angle my body to obscure the window from Nora’s view and say, “I’m not ready for natural sunlight. What about something in the back?”
When I order a bottle of wine, Nora makes a face.
“I have some painting to do later,” she says, and at least this thought seems to cheer her up.
“Artists drink,” I rib.
“Van Gogh definitely didn’t cut his ear off sober,” she agrees.
“I think I read historians have called that story a myth,” I offer, hoping to guide the conversation toward calmer waters.
She takes a beat and then shakes her head. “Sorry. The police thing was a little too…”
“Right.”
Déjà vu.
A disquieting reminder that there’s no such thing as forgetting the lessons from our pasts completely. We should know better by now than to pretend the ground can’t shift without warning.
I’ve learned it’s safer to keep moving—find a scheme or two to occupy your mind—rather than stop and notice the cracks. But Nora’s memories are still fresh, snagging her mid-thought and threatening to pull her under.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I wave a hand.
After another beat, she straightens and says to our server, “We’ll have two glasses and a bottle of the Puligny-Montrachet.” I can start to feel the equilibrium coming back to baseline as she turns to me. “What are you getting up to today?”
“I’m tragically solo. You have that art class, and Beau’s up at the Ritz to play a round of golf with Shep and Ford.”
I don’t tell Nora that I think I might have to go on an apology tour today, dropping off a check with Carol for the damage to her yard and smoothing over the prank.
“Golfing with Shep and Ford?” She looks confused. “Why?”
“See, that’s what I said. Something about nine irons and a data-driven golf swing. You know I black out as soon as anyone brings up golf.”
“It’s good to have hobbies.” Nora shrugs.
“Sure, but there are more entertaining ways to pass the time.”
“Are we talking about Carol Parker? Because what was that?” She’s not judging. We don’t judge. But she’s giving me that “what are you capable of” look she sometimes gets. “Did you really TP her house?”
I laugh—unable to summon a straight face to deny it—and Nora takes it as a confirmation. She throws her napkin at me and we both erupt with laughter.
“What’s going on with you and your real estate adventures?” I ask.
“I think I might have found something.”
I lean forward. “Please tell me every single detail, starting with the price.”
Nora shakes her head at me. “No. Not yet. I’m not ready for anyone to know what I am eyeing.”
Nora’s different on the other side of grief—more decisive, more private. I’m usually the one person she spills her secrets to.
But not this one. Interesting.
“Okay. But if Autumn knows before I do, I’ll never forgive you.”
She fakes horror. “Never.”
My phone rings before I can press her further.
Mouthing to Nora that it’s Beau, I answer with a smirk, “What’s going on, Beau? Did your algorithm also unlock the fifteen-minute golf game?”
I don’t feel the floor shift beneath me until after Beau speaks.
“Gemma’s dead.”