Olivia was proud of her employees. Without hesitating, they immediately surged forward to unload the van. There was enough daylight in the kitchen to create a functional assembly line and Michel barked orders until the room hummed with the same brisk efficiency it did during the preparation of five-star meals. Everyone seemed happy to have something useful to do and it warmed Olivia’s heart to see that her staff made sandwiches and arranged apple slices and pretzels into cardboard lunch boxes with the same measure of pride with which they created rose blossoms out of strawberries or drizzled remoulade over a shrimp and avocado salad.
Well before noon, the owner and employees of The Boot Top donned white aprons and piled into Michel’s white van. By now, the streets were stirring to life. Industrious business owners and locals looking to help with Oyster Bay’s restoration had replaced the curiosity-seekers of early morning. The town was suddenly alive, like a hermit crab creeping out from the safety of its shell. And like a colony of busy ants, people scattered over the sidewalks and streets bagging trash, picking up sticks, sweeping, and chatting.
The presence of the utility trucks seemed to add an extra dose of energy to the mix. People knew, despite the damage Oyster Bay had received, that they would recover from the storm. Lights would go back on, shattered windows would be replaced, roofs would be patched. There would be an endless string of phone calls to insurance companies and repairmen, but Olivia was confident that the town would sparkle by the Cardboard Regatta’s opening day.
She and her staff wasted no time in handing out lunches. From anxious shopkeepers to sanitation workers, the simple meal was received with sincere gratitude. Olivia began to feel like Ebenezer Scrooge delivering a fat goose to Tiny Tim’s family on Christmas Day. Her heart was swollen with affection for the town of her childhood and she felt drunk on the grateful smiles of her neighbors.
Her exultation ebbed when she noticed Flynn perched on the top of a ladder at the end of the block. He held a crooked street sign straight while a second man drilled the green- and white-lettered rectangle back into place.
Olivia paused for a moment, realizing that she hadn’t thought of Flynn once during the storm. Had he wondered about her? The fact that he hadn’t called to ascertain how she had weathered the tempest reinforced her conviction that the bookstore owner harbored no deep feelings for her.
“Not that I care,” she muttered to herself. Still, it took no small effort to paste on a smile and airily called out, “Top of the morning to you, gentlemen! Care for a roast beef and Swiss or a ham and cheddar sandwich?”
Flynn glanced down from the ladder and grinned. “Are you the new president of the Red Cross?” Waiting for the other man to give him a thumbs-up, Flynn nimbly climbed to the ground and accepted two box lunches. “You’re better looking than Clara Burton.”
“And my purse is deeper,” was her breezy reply. “How’s your store?”
“Untouched.” Flynn made a wide gesture, encompassing all of Main Street. “I could probably open for business today. The windows of that old fish warehouse are huge and the shop has plenty of light, but I couldn’t run my credit card machine and people carry around less cash then they used to.” He shrugged. “So I thought I’d take the day off and lend a hand. I’m not much of a handyman, but I take orders well.”
“Folks won’t be lookin’ to buy books today anyhow, more like milk and bread,” the other man said. He scratched his graying beard pensively. “It’s the same after every storm. People focus on the simple things. Me, I think it’s a blessing when all our gadgets and computers get shut down against our will. Folks gotta play cards and tell stories like they did in the old days. It slows us down, reminds us who our neighbors are and how damned fine it feels to take a hot shower.”
Olivia had to agree. Somehow, the lack of noise from car engines and booming radios allowed people to converse with greater ease. The town was filled with a different form of music; voices wove into a melody and the sound of people at work formed a steady rhythm. Every now and then, the high pitch of a gull’s hungry cries overshadowed the human symphony.
Wishing the two men luck with their task, Olivia spent another hour distributing food. She then waited for one of the men from the power company to take a much-needed break. Sitting alongside him on the curb, she asked how widespread the outages were.
“I need to get something in the mail today,” she added, keeping an eye on Haviland, who had wandered off to sniff the base of a streetlamp. “So if you could point me to the nearest functioning township, I’d be grateful.”
“Cedar Point,” the man answered promptly while unwrapping his sandwich. “My cousin lives there. Only part of the town has power, but the business district is movin’ along steady as a freight train.”
Olivia thanked him. She and Haviland trotted back to the Range Rover and made their way to Cedar Point. There weren’t many people on the road and the landscape was littered with hundreds of downed trees. It was as if one of the Titans of Greek mythology had swept a colossal arm across the entire region, flattening pines, oaks, and magnolias in a fit of rage.
The UPS Store was open, but hardly doing a brisk business. A bored clerk reluctantly shoved aside her Star magazine and examined Olivia’s neon pink parcel. “You just missed the truck. We can send this overnight but it won’t get there ’til Thursday morning at the earliest.”
“Perfect,” Olivia answered and paid for the service. In the Rover, she sagged against the leather seat. “Now there’s nothing to do but wait,” she told Haviland, picturing Rodney Burkhart retrieving the pink package from his mailbox while Will Hamilton followed his every move through a camera lens.
Haviland nudged her elbow, indicating he was ready for her to begin driving so he could stick his head out the window and partake of an hour of ecstasy delivered by the rush of wind through his nostrils.
As the afternoon passed into evening Oyster Bay remained dark. Olivia sat at The Boot Top’s bar, surveying the mast lights on the boats in the harbor as she sipped a glass of Chivas Regal.
“Nothing to do but wait,” she said to the empty restaurant.
By Thursday, people spoke of Ophelia as though she were a distant relative who’d come in for a holiday weekend, behaved poorly, and then mercifully departed, leaving the house in disarray.
When power was restored to the business district Thursday morning, the townsfolk milled about the shops and eateries comparing their hurricane woes. Many were still without electricity but had gratefully returned to their jobs and daily routines.
Hoping Steve was busy filling a cavity, Olivia called Laurel at home.
“Are we on for today?” she asked her friend and then realized she shouldn’t have opened the conversation with that line. If she’d been more sensitive, she would have asked if Laurel had recovered from the shock she’d received over being present when a woman of similar age and circumstance suddenly, tragically, became a widow.
Laurel didn’t answer immediately. “I’ve been thinking about the whole reporter thing, Olivia. I’ve been acting like my life is missing something, but I have this beautiful house and a husband who provides for me. Seeing April at that hospital . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “I should learn to count my blessings, not complain about them.”
“Who says those should be limited?” Olivia demanded. “I understand your being upset. Afraid even. But, Laurel, do you want other women to go through this or do you want to help the police catch these bastards and put a stop to future murders?”