In Your Embrace (3 page)

It’s not that he hasn’t had good intentions about helping out.
 He has.  It’s just that life, and his business, tends to get in the way.  To be fair, Timothy doesn’t complain.  He likes working.  Likes getting his hands dirty. Likes keeping his mind busy and his body sore so that when he limps home each night the only things on his mind are food and sleep.

His smile deepens as he hears her begin to hum an old hymn as she sets to work.
 Timothy slips out the back door to survey what’s left of her pile.  A couple of the neighborhood kids hopped the fence not too long ago to confiscate some boards to finish up their tree house.  Although Timothy is sure that Iris didn’t mind, it does put him in a bind for properly protecting her windows.

Less than twenty minutes later, Iris shuffles out with a pitcher of lemonade that quenches his thirst and eases the heat.
 He can hear her old A/C unit out back struggling to keep up with the increasing heat.  Even with night falling, the humidity has yet to break.

Iris watches and sips her drink as he quickly moves about her house, making do with what he has.
 He scolds himself for not thinking ahead of buying extra supplies to help her out.  His own supply at the shop ran out early this morning, and with the flood of people racing to Ace hardware, he knows there’s no sense trying to make a run tonight.  No one will be out and about.  Everyone is preparing to hunker down and ride out the storm.

Using the last board available to him, Timothy steps back to admire his work.
 It’s not the best job he has ever done but it will do.  He glances toward the stairs leading to the upper floor but Iris waves him off.  “Nothing up there except chests of old clothes the moths starting munching on years ago.”

Timothy laughs.
 “Fair enough.”

He gathers his tools and as Iris begins humming Amazing Grace, Timothy is reminded of the sermon his pastor shared recently.
 Pastor Justin is new to Rodanthe.  Like most who move to a new town, he seemed to struggle for the first few months to fit in, but Justin’s easy smile and willingness to roll up his sleeves and lend a hand has helped him to break through many barriers that would have taken other men twenty years to break.

Timothy has worked side by side with the man on several occasions.
 Justin never complains.  He never slides on his duties.  In fact, he is usually one of the last people to leave.

Justin is a humble man.
 From what Timothy can tell, he has devoted his life to serving his new church family and the community.  Every sermon is not only well planned but heartfelt, spoken with love and conviction.  If a person walks out of church feeling nothing at all, then they simply weren’t listening closely enough.

Maybe that’s why Timothy hasn’t been back in a couple of weeks.
 Justin’s last sermon on giving forgiveness even when it isn’t due struck a chord with him, and it still resonates today.  Talk of calming the inner storm within, of resting in God’s embrace, set him to squirming like a toddler ready to bust free of the pew.  Messages like this are too close to home for Timothy.  All they do is remind him of how much he has changed since Abby passed.

Pausing to wipe his eyes so his tears will pass as sweat, Timothy snatches up his hammer.
 The feel of it in his hand is reassuring, helping to ground him to reality once more. “You sure you’ll be alright here all by yourself?”  He pauses at the front door.

Iris looks so frail as she sits hunched over in her rocking chair before the TV, her lap filled with cats.
 The blank screen shows her reflection in the dying light.  “Don’t you worry about me, Timmy Boy.  I’ll be right as rain.”

Grasping the handle of the door, Timothy calls back his goodbye and pushes the door.
 It flies out of his hand, shoved back against the house by a great gale that barrels down the street.  His hair tosses about his forehead and into his eyes.  “Storm’s a comin’, Timmy Boy. Get yourself home.”  Iris calls from behind him.

He turns back.
 “I want you to lock all your doors and windows.  Make sure all the curtains are pulled tight, just in case.”

“I may be old, but I ain’t stupid.
 I’ve lived in these parts for more years than you’ve been on this Earth.”

Timothy smiles at that.
 He starts to leave but thinks better of it and goes back to give her a peck on the cheek.

“Now, what’s that for?”

He smiles and squeezes her hand.  “Because I can.”

An appealing rosy tint floods into her cheeks as she raises a gnarled hand and pats his arm.
 “Get on with you, before you make me tear up.”

“I’m going.
 I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

He leans into the driving winds and hurries to put the last of his tools away.
 Although the logical thing may have been to just leave them in the house and put them away once the storms passed, Timothy is nothing if not methodical.  Everything has a place and that’s where it belongs. That keeps his life and business running smoothly.

After
a twist of the dead bolt on the front door, Timothy rushes through a quick wash.  Although he would love to linger and enjoy a long soak to ease the aches in his shoulders, he knows he needs to take care of the final preparations.

Gathering his supplies, Timothy stockpiles his batteries, flashlights, candles, matches and blankets.
 The thought of being under a blanket in this heat makes him feel as if he’s suffocating, but he knows they may come in handy before the night is over.  Tucking a bed sheet onto the cushions of his couch, Timothy prepares his bed for the night.  The cushions mold around his tall frame, well accustomed to his presence each night.  He still hasn’t been able to bring himself to sleep in his bed without Abby.  And the thought of getting a new bed...well, he’s just not ready for that yet either.

Tucking a pillow beneath his head, Timothy turns out the light.
 All he can do now is wait.

THREE

Calm Before the Storm

The first moment Hannah laid eyes on Claire and Andrew’s new fixer-upper, she was in love.
 Sure the house needs a few good nails, several gallons of paint stripper, and decking that isn’t eroded by salt water, but it has charm.  No doubt about that!

The Serendipity Inn was lovingly named due to the happenstance way in which it was discovered.
 Claire and Andrew love the ocean.  They love kayaking in the waves, feeding the gulls and sitting on the dunes to watch the waves crash against the shore.  Neither one of them set out to start a bed and breakfast.  To be honest, the idea bloomed much like every other thing in their life...by chance.  Or by faith, depending on how you look at it.

After getting stuck in a rip current earlier in the summer, which pulled them a couple miles off course, Andrew and Claire finally beached their boats and stumbled upon this gem.
 At the time it was nothing nice to look at.  Much of the exterior had been left to rot.  The banisters and railings were broken or missing entirely.  Many of the windows were blown, the white gas fogging them to a point beyond repair.  Despite all of its flaws, Claire saw great potential.

Deciding to take a leap of faith, Andrew and Claire sold their bungalow in Nags Head and moved here.
 Hannah’s mother and father immediately turned up their noses at the idea, all too happy to point out the dozens of risks that the couple was taking for no apparent reason.  When the call came to invite Hannah to come stay at the inn for a month, her parents were quick to deny her the chance, deeming it necessary for her to focus on her studies rather than gallivanting off to the east coast.  Disappointed in their decision, Hannah nearly gave up on the idea, but she began to feel an unusual pull to come here.  Now she knows why.  The tale behind this place is just as magical as the couple who purchased it.

Though purchasing this place surely cost her aunt and uncle every spare dime they had, she has never seen them so happy.
 Standing with her feet in the waves and looking up at the towering inn before her, Hannah senses what drew her aunt and uncle to this property.  It is secluded, peaceful.  Something to call their own.

Looking down the beach, Hannah can just make out a figure walking a dog in the distance.
 Gulls caw and swoop low over the waves.  The near constant crash of the waves calls to Hannah.

She turns to look at the frothy water, noting how much darker it looks today.
 The swells are rising.  The clouds out to sea look ominous.  Hannah sighs and hikes up a dune and sinks into the grasses, drying her feet to put her sandals back on.

Andrew’s predictions about the storm a few days ago were wrong.
 The hurricane has turned and is heading straight for them.  Last night over dinner the trio discussed their options: move inland away from the storm surge, board up the house and evacuate like many of the folks around, or hunker down and ride it out.  Hannah understands her aunt and uncle’s reluctance to leave. She, too, feels a kindred spirit with this grand inn, but she can’t deny there is reason for concern.

The inn’s foundational pillars go deep into the shoreline, so it should withstand the storm.
 The house itself sits high above the waves, but a direct hit from such a large hurricane can bring total devastation.

Hannah refused to answer her cell phone last night and this morning when her mother tried calling.
 She let it go to voicemail, knowing exactly what message would be waiting for her.  Hannah isn't a quitter.  If Claire and Andrew are staying then so is she.

From this vantage point, she can see the weathered dock where Andrew tethered two bright orange kayaks.
 They are buffeted by the rising waves, beating against the moorings with an echoing thud.  Soon her uncle will be forced to drag them to shore and find a safer location to store them.

With her sandals firmly in place and much of the sand knocked off her legs, Hannah treks back to the house. A slightly warped ramp leads up to the first floor of the inn, which offers a sweeping view of the ocean and will serve as a communal area for guests.
 The main deck curves around to the back of the house, where Hannah envisions guests lounging with freshly squeezed sweet tea on a warm summer day.

She lets herself in the kitchen door just off the wide veranda deck, stepping carefully over several boards nearly rotted completely through.
 The house is quiet.  Only the winds beating against the siding can be heard.  Claire and Andrew went into town to load up on bottled water, canned goods, batteries, extra boards and candles.  
Just in case
, Andrew had said before they left.

Hannah climbs the first of two staircases in the inn.
 The first is a grand, wide staircase with a curved bannister perfect for sliding if you are still young at heart. The second floor holds four large suites, though none of them are anywhere near ready to house guests.  Hannah peeks into the rooms as she passes, feeling the familiar eerie sense of age and disuse when she spies the furniture draped in old sheets and blankets.  Furniture left behind out of lack of desire to move the solid wood frames.  
I suppose in one way it actually helps Claire and Andrew with the furnishing cost,
Hannah muses as she walks toward the second staircase.

This set of stairs winds its way to the upper floors where Hannah has claimed one of the rooms designated for family living.
 This stairwell is her favorite.  Its steps are nothing more than planks of wood winding upward in a tight spiral. A black wrought iron railing coils around the wall.

Reaching her closed door, Hannah pushes it open and smiles.
 Natural light spills in through the double glass paned, French-style doors across from her.  The light of the sun warms the beige rug that sits beneath her four poster bed and stretches toward the walls, leaving only a few feet of honey oak hardwood planks exposed.  The light has faded in its brilliance since she came inside.  Looking beyond the railings of the balcony she frowns at the darkening skyline.

Closing her eyes, Hannah clasps her hands before her.
 
God, from the looks of that sky, this storm is going to be pretty nasty.  Please watch over us.

This simple heartfelt prayer brings a smile to Hannah’s lips once more, her nerves calmed for the moment.
 Her gaze falls upon the rickety boards forming the decking of the balcony beyond the French doors.  The railing quivers in the gusts.  It is missing several of its spindles.  The faded blue shutters at her bedroom window rap loudly against the siding.  
It won’t take much to tear this place apart
, she adds.

Over the past few days, Hannah has yet to figure out exactly what color the wood shake siding was intended to be.
 It offers a plethora of beiges, browns and even some varying shades of blues.  Obviously the previous owner’s attempts to renovate this home failed miserably.

Be grateful you have a working toilet
, Hannah scolds herself and draws away from the window.  Though her aunt and uncle were assured that all of the plumbing in this home was up to code, Hannah has her doubt as to how long it will last.  It clanks and groans in the walls and floors.

Twisting her hair up into a ponytail, Hannah grabs a hammer and nails and sets about nailing down the shutters.
 Once that is done and peace has been restored, she works to board up the remainder of the windows in the rooms on this floor.  Andrew did the lower floors by himself this morning while Hannah and Claire worked on storing all of the patio furniture in the storage unit beneath the house. No doubt it will flood when the waves rise, but hopefully the lock will hold.

It takes her nearly an hour to complete her task.
 When she is done, her arms and shoulders ache, making her wish for a working bathtub, but she won’t complain.

Tugging a thick velvet curtain across the final hallway window, Hannah turns her attention to stuffing blankets and pillows along the bottom of exterior door frames on this floor.
 “If the waves reach this high it won’t really matter anyway,” she muses, dusting her hands on her capris pants.

After grabbing a drink and a small snack, Hannah heads back up to her room. With nothing else to do but wait for Claire to return, she sinks onto the edge of her bed to rest.
 She sweeps her gaze to take in the furnishings of her room.

In the far corner stands a rocking chair older than she is, its leg notched from use.
 A daisy patterned quilt adorns the bed, a pattern she remembers seeing her mother work on when she was younger.  An old wooden chest, smelling strongly of mothballs, sits against the footboard.

The closet is the best feature of the room.
 Its double doors open to a spacious walk-in room that offers row after row of shelves and hanging space.  It is a dream closet for most people, but Hannah doesn’t really need all of that space.  Her sparse wardrobe barely covers half of one row.

She hears the door open and shut below and chuckles at the muttered complaints of Andrew as he blows inside.
 She flings open the door and calls down the stairs, “Do you need any help with dinner, Aunt Claire?”

Her aunt’s windblown head appears at the bottom of the spiral.
 “You know I never refuse help in the kitchen, but tonight our feast is being presented by Chef Andrew.”

Hannah grins as Claire calls up the stairs to be ready for dinner in half an hour.
 Chef Andrew has one and only one specialty: spaghetti.  He sure knows how to make a mean meatball.

Hopping in the shower, Hannah scrubs away sand and sweat that somehow has reached places she could never have imagined.
 Wrapped in an oversized towel, she wipes her hand across the fogged mirror and stares at the brown halo of frizzy hair about her forehead.

“Yikes!
 That’s a sight to see.”  With deft fingers, Hannah twines her hair into a braid and lets it fall down the length of her back, then smiles at her reflection.  She has always thought her ivory oval face is a nice complement to her expressive hazel eyes.  Without makeup, the smattering of freckles along her nose can easily be seen, especially when she has been out in the sun too long.  Growing up in California, she was always embarrassed to be one of the few people who couldn’t manage a decent tan, but no matter how many hours she lay out, Hannah never achieved anything more than a painful shade of pink.

Hannah knows she would never win a beauty contest, but she finds contentment in not being the center of attention.
 Someday she will find a man who values the beauty of her heart rather than the curve of her figure.  Any man with other thoughts on his mind is not worth entertaining.

Smoothing the wrinkles from her white eyelet top and capris pants, Hannah bounds down the stairs.
 She smiles at the abundant array of family photos lining the wall. She can trace the steps of her childhood on a single wall.  From drooling toothless baby to high school graduate.  
Soon to be college graduate,
Hannah thinks with a dose of aged bitterness.

Her sour thoughts fade as a savory smell wafts around the corner, drawing Hannah into the dining room.
 Sniffing the air, she hurries to her seat just as Claire sets a basket of freshly baked store bought garlic bread before her.  “That smells heavenly.  Would you like any help?”

“Of course not.
 You’re our guest, and I won’t have you working any harder than you already are.”  Claire starts to head toward the kitchen but turns back, wagging her finger.  “Not a bite before dinner, missy.”

The tails of Claire’s red and white striped apron flap behind her as she bustles back out of the room at the sound of clattering pans.
 “I’m alright,” Andrew shouts.  “No need to panic.”

“Is the spaghetti safe?” Hannah calls.

Andrew pokes his head out of the swinging door that leads into the kitchen.  Several strands of pasta dangle over his forehead and ears.  “It’s still edible.”

Hannah laughs and places her cloth napkin in her lap.
 Usually Claire lights candles at the dinner table, but tonight she has settled for normal lighting from a few table lamps nearby.  Hannah can’t help but wonder if this is to savor the last few moments they may have of electricity before the storm hits sometime in the night.

The temptation to snag a small bit of garlic bread forces Hannah to tuck her hands under her thighs.
 It is a silly thing really, but she adores the playful banter that would arise should she give in to her rebellious desires.

“Here we are.”
 Hannah looks up to see Andrew pushing through the door with a steaming stock pot filled to the brim with water.  Claire playfully scolds him for being a bit excessive with the water but Andrew merely grins.  “A chef never takes advice from his patrons.”

“Especially when they aren’t paying.” Hannah grins as Andrew places the pot on a large trivet before her.

“Precisely,” he waves his tongs at her.  “See dear?  At least someone understands me.”

Claire hides a smile behind her hand but is quickly discovered when her husband draws her hand into his own while reaching out for Hannah’s.
 He smirks then bows his head and says the blessing, lingering a moment longer than usual to ask for protection for all of those who have remained in Rodanthe.