“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”
Murphy turned to her harried-looking confederates. “Ladies? Sarah wants to know if we need anything.”
The others murmured, conferring amongst themselves. Alice Hunt, a tiny, bird-faced thing whom Sarah considered a blue-ribbon pain in the ass, said, “When are you going to do something about the leaks in the roof? I would’ve thought getting them fixed before the storm would’ve been a good idea.”
Sarah nodded. “I know, yes — we do need to get the leaks fixed. We need to do a lot of things to this building. But we can’t take care of it right this minute, so I’m going to have to ask you to just do your best for today.” Turning back to Murphy, she said, “You have enough buckets if it starts to drip, don’t you?”
“Oh, it’ll drip,” Hunt muttered, shaking her head as she turned away. “You can bet your pretty little self on that one.”
Moments like these were emotionally draining for Sarah. The primal part of her wanted to give Hunt a can of sealant and a ladder and tell the old wheezebag to go up and fix the leaks herself. But the stronger and more judicious part knew that the woman’s complaint was justified. Sarah was more pained by the fact that they simply hadn’t gotten around to taking care of the problem yet.
Murphy rolled her eyes. “Yes, we’ve got enough, Sarah. It’s just a little water. Don’t worry about us, we’ll be fine.”
“Okay. You have my cell number if you need to call?”
“I sure do.”
“Good. All right, see you later.”
“Take care, hon.”
Main Street in Silver Lake was as close to the Main Street of vintage America as anyone was likely to find in modern times. Each side was lined with mom-and-pop shops of a broad and satisfying variety; the only evidence of corporate encroachment was the Starbucks at one end and the Burger King at the other. Jenkinson’s Hardware was running on its fourth generation and the Wash ’N Wear Family Laundromat had just entered its sixth decade. The present owner of the latter had even gone to considerable expense over the years to keep the original neon sign intact. And Thompson’s Bakery had a line out the door every Sunday morning; a Silver Lake tradition since time out of mind.
Parades rolled through town every Thanksgiving and Memorial Day, and during the evening hours of the winter holiday shopping season, the main thoroughfare was barricaded off to accommodate the “Holiday Stroll.” Residents could enjoy the cold night air, get a free cup of hot cocoa at tables set up by the Boy Scouts or the VFW, and hear the mayor’s annual address on Christmas and Hanukkah.
As Emilio turned the Honda onto Main, Sarah sensed only ghosts of those happy times. The sky had darkened to an ominous shade of gray during the brief drive from the school. Every parking spot along the street was empty and the sidewalks appeared to be deserted. Plywood had been nailed over the shops’ doors and windows.
“Creepy,” she said.
“Very.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever — whoa, wait a minute. Don’t tell me…”
Emilio didn’t wait for instructions, just swerved across the center line and slowed to a halt in front of Ebbett’s Trading Post, Silver Lake’s sole antique shop. A man who looked old enough to be one of the items for sale was struggling with a plywood sheet, trying to prop it on a column of milk crates so he could hammer it into place over the huge display window.
Sarah just about leaped from the car. “Oliver! What are you doing?”
Oliver Ebbett gave a half turn with an embarrassed smile. Perspiration had formed a brilliant sheen across his forehead.
“I’m trying to get this damn thing nailed up,” he said with good-humored frustration. There was still the faint trace of a European accent in his speech, though he and his family had immigrated from Poland back in the mid-1960s. “And how are you doing today?”
As Sarah took hold of one side of the sheet, Emilio, also out of the car now, grabbed the other.
“I’m managing, Oliver, thank you,” she said. “I can’t believe no one’s helped you with this. You should’ve called me.”
“I have been getting help, Sarah. Calm yourself. Michael has—”
The door to the shop opened and a much younger man stepped out. In his midthirties, tall and slender, of good build and handsome features, he was carrying a smaller section of plywood in his gloved hands. Seeing the others, he set his burden down carefully and said, “Ollie, what did I tell you?”
Ebbett groaned. “I know, I know.”
“Crazy old coot, you’re going to give yourself a coronary. Good morning, Sarah. Good morning, Emilio.”
Michael Garvey owned the vintage clothing and consignment shop, Yesterday’s Look, next door. When he’d opened the business three years earlier, Sarah and a few others on the town council feared there would be some static between the two of them — Michael, the aging hippie who never conformed, and Oliver, the Old World conservative who thought the fifties were the greatest years in human history. But to everyone’s astonishment, the two became good friends. Both were easygoing, with a sharp sense of humor and no particular ax to grind. The fact that Michael had become a widower at twenty-nine when his wife succumbed to pancreatic cancer and Ollie had no remaining relatives in the States helped seal their bond. Their businesses complemented each other nicely, too, as Ollie had never been interested in selling used clothing. When customers visited one shop, there was a good chance they’d wander into the other.
“Hello, Michael,” Sarah said. “Let me guess, he wouldn’t wait for you to come back?”
“I can’t just sit here doing nothing,” Ebbett argued.
“Of course not,” Garvey said, gently taking the hammer from him and finishing the job. Then the trio — Michael, Sarah, Emilio — fitted the long rectangular sheet over the door while Ollie cursed under his breath about the burden of infirmity.
Once the shop door was sealed, Emilio said, “Please tell me you can get back in.”
The two men laughed. “Yes,” Ebbett said, “there are fire doors around back. No need to cover those.”
“Do you know if there’s anyone else who isn’t ready?” Sarah asked.
“Nope,” Garvey said. “We’re the last of the Mohicans.”
“Then you should get inside,” she told them. “It’s going to start anytime, and it’s going to be bad.”
“We will,” they said in unison.
“Oliver, is your house prepped?” She was watching him carefully, looking for signs of deception. He was honest to his core, but she knew of his loathing for being tended to.
“It is,” Garvey cut in. “We did his and mine yesterday. We’re ready for whatever wrath this great bitch throws at us.”
“Okay, well, call me if you need anything.”
“We will,” Garvey said. Ebbett, nodding and looking mildly ashamed, mumbled a thank-you as he turned away.
They pulled up to the EMT station a few moments later.
“It’s going to be quite a day for you,” Sarah said, leaning over and massaging Emilio’s cheek. “I wish I could be there to help.”
“Me, too. But I’m sure I’ll be hearing from you.”
“You can count on it.” She moved in and they kissed the way true lovers always do. When they parted, she said, “All right, get in there and let’s tackle this thing together.”
Emilio nodded. “Let’s do it.”
They jumped out of the car at the same time.
The town’s offices, about a hundred yards farther down, were in a long, two-story structure with a neat split-level design of red brick and white concrete. A cylindrical glass atrium swelled from the front like a blister, the words SILVER LAKE MUNICIPAL COMPLEX high above the revolving door. A trio of flagpoles stood within a manicured island nearby, currently bare against the grainy sky.