Chapter Thirteen
By the last day of July, there’s no doubt Hurricane Lizzie is headed straight for us.
The TV in the lobby, the computer in the office, the app on my phone—all of them show her getting bigger and bigger, her turn almost graceful as she bypasses Cuba, her gaze instead focused on the Gulf Coast of Alabama.
On St. Medard’s Bay.
Edie, still unconscious in her hospital bed, would’ve already left town by now. And she would’ve told me to do the same.
But I stay.
August, Lo, and I are the only people left at the Rosalie.
All the other guests have checked out or canceled their stays, so there was no reason to ask any other staff to come in until after the storm had passed.
There’s barely any reason for me to be at the inn, but I don’t know what to do with myself except show up every morning, so that’s what I continue to do.
I make Walmart runs, stocking up on more bottled water, batteries, and an extra first aid kit.
Our handyman, Ray, comes by to help me move some of the outdoor furniture to the storage shed, and I take down all the hanging plants.
I even do my best to secure the Airstream because if—when—the storm hits, I’ll ride it out at the inn.
I tell myself that these are just smart precautions, that nothing may even happen, that hurricanes are notoriously unpredictable once they hit the warmer waters of the Gulf.
But I know.
It’s like a steady thrumming behind my eyes as the pressure gets lower, the air thicker, and I wonder if it’s some innate sixth sense I have, as a native of this town.
Or could it be genetics, a spooky kind of inheritance?
My rational mind knows that Lo and Edie and my mom were just little girls being silly when they called themselves the Witches of St. Medard’s Bay, but maybe there was more to it.
Or could it be that my real father is sending me a message from beyond the grave, urging me to take every possible precaution so I don’t suffer the same fate?
My real father.
I try not to let myself indulge that line of thinking too often because I can already feel something giving way inside of me, some bulwark I hadn’t even realized was keeping my sanity intact, despite everything.
But it’s getting harder.
In the days leading up to the storm, I don’t see that much of August or Lo, but I sense them constantly, almost like they’re ghosts, haunting the place.
I hear August’s laptop keyboard clicking away whenever I pass his room, and it’s a reminder that he’s potentially prepping a nuclear bomb to drop into my life.
And maybe he understands that, because he’s kept his distance ever since that morning in my office.
The only real conversation we’ve had since was a few days ago, when I asked if he and Lo were going to leave.
He’d actually looked surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. “Are you kidding? And miss the chance to experience one of St. Medard’s Bay’s famous storms firsthand? I couldn’t live with myself if that wasn’t in the book.”
“You won’t be able to live with yourself literally if you drown,” I’d replied. My tone was aiming for playful, trying to recapture whatever banter we’d had before, but he only looked at me with serious, dark eyes and said, “I didn’t do all this not to take a few risks, Geneva.”
All this? I’d thought, mentally rolling my eyes. What have you done except come to a beach hotel and work on a laptop sixteen hours a day?
But there was something about the gravity with which he’d said it that bothered me, even hours later, something I felt like I was missing.
I kept remembering how terrible he’d looked when he came into the office with that picture of Camile Fitzroy on his phone, how …
consumed he seemed by the fact that Landon could very well have been my father.
I chalked it up to writers being writers—obsessive, consumed by the story they’re weaving.
Or maybe the falling air pressure alongside the almost unbearable tension that seemed to be rising inside the inn was making August as crazy as it was me.
I thought Lo might leave even if August wanted to stay, but when I’d asked, she’d given me that sweet-as-pie smile and said, “Baby, I’m one of the Witches of St. Medard’s Bay, remember? I can’t abandon it in its hour of need!”
And we were back to the witches.
I can’t help but notice that she’s writing, too.
Lo.
As I go about the inn, trying to find things to do, small projects to keep me from spiraling into panic and madness, I see her perched on the sofa in the lobby or sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, a yellow legal pad in hand, her pen scrawling so fast I wonder if later she’ll even be able to read anything she’s written.
It adds to the unreality of all of it, the idea of Lo and August in their separate corners, telling different versions of the same story. A story that might involve me far, far more than I ever could have guessed.
THAT NIGHT, I get two calls.
One is from the hospital, where Edie is still in critical condition.
They brought her out of the induced coma, and while she’s far from out of the woods, the prognosis is, as her doctor put it, “tentatively hopeful.” Tonight, the call is to let me know that patients will not be evacuated unless they lose power, which would mean that all of their backup generators had gone out.
The doctor assures me it isn’t likely—St. Medard’s Memorial is prepared for storms. “We’ve never lost power, not even during Marie, and that was a doozy,” he tells me, chuckling, and I fight the urge to scream and laugh all at the same time.
Yup, sure was a fucking doozy, Doc.
The second call is from Hope House. They are evacuating a handful of patients, the ones who, like Mom, don’t require intensive medical care. “She’ll be at Magnolia Manor in Montgomery,” Opal tells me. “Say that three times fast. I’ll keep a close eye on her.”
“I know you will,” I say, but my voice is thin and tired.
We tell each other to stay safe, and I hang up, resting my phone against my chest as I study the ceiling over my bed.
It’s late, almost midnight, and from the little TV on my kitchen counter, I hear newscasters say things like “Landfall within the next thirty-six hours” and “Check generators and batteries” and “Not since Marie in eighty-four…”
Marie in ’84.
Landon.
Lo.
My mom.
And now, more than forty years later, there’s another hurricane, and instead of Mom, there’s me.
Instead of Landon, there’s August.
But in both cases, there’s Lo, right back in the center of things—the eye of the storm itself.
The past feels like a wave, retreating for a while only to rush back in.
Which of us will be left standing when it slides back out to sea?
I lie there in the dark, my thoughts churning, my heart pounding, and then suddenly I’m on my feet and headed to the door.
The wind has started, and while it’s not nearly as strong as it’s going to get, it’s enough to wrench the trailer door out of my hand as I open it.
I can’t see the ocean over the rise of the beach, but I can hear the surf pounding.
The air itself feels heavy with moisture, and my lips are salty when I lick them.
I make my way to the inn, squinting against the wind and the fine bits of sand swirling in the air. With every step, I tell myself the same thing, the thought I had while I was lying there in my bed.
I’ll make them leave. I can do that. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, I don’t care that I’ll be alone when that fucking bitch Lizzie slams into the Rosalie, I’m not doing this, I’m not reenacting this fucked-up story, I’m not offering up my life, my mom’s life for fucking content, I’m making them leave, I’m making them leave, I’m making them leave.
I go to August’s room, knock hard, and he answers almost immediately.
“Is it here?”
I blink at him, confused, but then I see his open laptop on the desk behind him, a document pulled up.
An unusually sober Ray boarded up the windows this afternoon, so August has been shut away in here with his writing.
I bet he hasn’t even checked the weather in the past few hours.
He told me that he can get completely absorbed in his work, but that’s not what has me confused.
It’s how … excited he seems. Eager, almost. Like he can’t wait for waves and wind to pummel us.
That’s good, though. It’s the fuel I need to push into his room before turning to face him.
He leaves the door open, and there’s a wariness to his expression, the way he’s studying me.
“Geneva, I know you’re stressed and scared, but the other night was … well, it was a mistake, I get that now. Really unprofessional of me, and now that you may end up being a much bigger part of all this—”
I hold up a hand. “For fuck’s sake, August, I didn’t come in here looking for some kind of hurricane hookup.”
It’s insulting how relieved he suddenly looks, but I ignore that and press on. “I want you and Lo out. Now.”
Silence lands heavy between us, the wind outside muffled by all the boards.
“Now,” August repeats slowly. “In the middle of a hurricane.”
“It’s not here yet,” I tell him. “You can be in Montgomery before dawn, and there, the worst that might happen is you’ll get rained on.”
“Geneva,” he says, and I don’t like his tone, like he’s trying to placate a pissed-off horse. “You don’t want us to go. You don’t want to go through this alone. You’ll need help, or at least company. Don’t make decisions when you’re this freaked out.”
“Here’s a fun fact, August—the story of my life is going through shit alone. I very rarely have help, and I definitely don’t have much company, and I am always—always—making decisions while freaked out. So yeah, I want you to leave. I’ll deal with this like I’ve dealt with everything else.”
“What’s going on here?” August asks, stepping a little closer.
He hasn’t shaved in days now, his beard dark against his skin, which has gotten paler thanks to all his time locked in here with the book.
He looks like he’s lost a little weight, too, and I try to remember if I’ve seen him leaving to eat or get groceries in the last few days.
I turn away from him, clutching the back of the desk chair, trying to gather my thoughts as the wind keeps pounding against the inn, as the lights start to flicker. “It’s just too much,” I say. “Lo and my mom, and my … and Landon, and you, and this book.”
I gesture to the computer screen, glancing at it as I do, and my eye snags on my name.
Leaning in closer, I read, And Geneva. In the end, she was the one I felt the most sorry for, the only one who didn’t, in some way, bring her own doom down on her head. But maybe it was natural that my sympathies would lie with her given
It stops there, and I whirl around.
August is still standing near the door, his hands held out at hip level, knees bent like he might bolt. “What is this?” I ask, slashing a hand toward the screen, but before he can answer, there’s a massive crash from the lobby, shaking the floorboards.
I move without thinking, my mind picturing a million and one disasters, some of which make sense (a heavy planter I forgot to move from the side porch falling over), some of which are nonsensical (a piece of the wrecked Rosalie trying to beach itself at the door), but all of which fill me with a terror I hadn’t known I could feel.
Not for me or my safety, but for the Rosalie Inn itself.
My home.
The one thing left from a family that might not have been what I thought it was, but that was still mine, was still real.
And under that terror there’s a fierce need to protect this place, to do whatever it takes to keep it standing.
Which is why it knocks the breath out of me to come into the lobby and discover one of the sheets of plywood pulled from the big window facing the sea. That’s what I’d heard, the board hitting the ground. And standing there, looking out at the raging sea and driving rain, is Lo.
She’s got a hammer in her hand. Where she found it, I have no idea, but the only question right now is the one I scream.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You wanted to see a storm!” she calls back without turning around. With her back to us and her hair down, her slim body clad in a long pink silk nightgown, Lo could be the girl in those pictures from four decades ago.
For a dizzying, maddening moment, I wonder if she is that girl, if being here has somehow turned back the years and when she turns around, she won’t be sixty anymore, but nineteen again.
Beautiful and young and deadly.
“And you just had to see it,” she goes on, raising her voice along with the wind.
She turns then, and I’m relieved to see that no, she’s not some vengeful ghost, not some unnatural creature made young again, but the same Lo who showed up here a little more than a month ago.
No longer young, but still beautiful.
And now, I realize, still deadly.
“If you want to understand what happened the night your daddy died, you have to understand the storm, baby.”
She knew.
The thought eats into my stomach like acid, a sour taste at the back of my throat.
She knew, she knew, she knew. She talked to me like we were friends, and all the time, she knew who my real father was, and that’s why she killed him, because she knew, she—
And then, through the blur of tears, through my own fury and betrayal, I realize she’s not talking to me.
She’s talking to August.