Small-Town Bachelor. Jill Kemerer
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I got it.” Tommy extended his palms out in defense and widened his eyes at Bryan, who held a cell phone against his ear. “Well?”
Bryan slid the phone back into his pocket. “Didn’t answer.” He glanced at the elevator. “Oh, that’s why.”
Dad strode to them and patted Claire’s shoulder. “The crews have most of your road clear, Claire-bear. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Claire-bear. Dad must have been worried sick last night. He hadn’t used his pet name for her in years.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Ten minutes later, Dad drove the back roads to the lake. It was turning out to be a beautiful, sunny day, but branches and trees littered the ground. Half a mile from town, a partially destroyed building with a caved-in roof spilled insulation out the missing side wall.
Damaged roofs, pole barns stripped to their frames, rubble-covered sidewalks, furniture strewn through the streets, cars flipped over in yards—everywhere Claire looked there was devastation.
“Whoa,” she said. “Is it like this all over?”
Dad slowed to avoid a set of patio cushions. “One side of Main Street is unrecognizable. The twister took out several roofs in the new subdivision and ripped up trees on a warpath to the restaurant, but it curved away from there. That’s what I’m being told, at least.”
She hoped he was right. Lake Endwell was a small community. Claire biked everywhere, including the quaint downtown, the veterinary clinic, the church and her father’s house. Most of Lake Endwell was within two miles of her home. She drove to volunteer at the zoo, though. The thirty-minute commute gave her time to think.
They neared her road, a narrow paved lane winding down to the lake. Large sections of newly cut tree trunks had been rolled to the shoulder. Dad’s truck drove over smaller branches and leaves. Claire held her breath. Other than a flipped boat and some minor oddities, there didn’t seem to be any severe damage. She leaned forward.
Granddad’s huge old cabin rose proudly against the sparkling turquoise lake. Over sixty years old, the cabin with its hunter-green siding, white trim and white wraparound decks still impressed. A spacious, welcoming vacation spot—she never tired of gazing at it from her porch next door. A driveway and lawn separated their properties. What she wouldn’t give to wave to Granddad each morning, the way she had done when he was alive. Even when he became wheelchair bound, he lived in this beautiful home. The family made it completely handicap accessible so he could wake up to his view of the lake every morning. After he died, it became the go-to place for any out-of-town guests.
Claire’s smaller, butter-yellow cottage came into view. Still standing. She let out the breath she’d been holding. The window boxes Dad had built last year spilled pink and purple petunias, giving it the homey air she adored. He cut the engine, and, muscles protesting, she shot out of her seat. The sun warmed her face as she raced to the back fence, fumbled with the handle and charged into the backyard, stopping short.
What a mess.
The winds had wreaked havoc back here. The entire forest seemed to have fallen on her lawn, and her two lounge chairs had disappeared. The patio umbrella dangled upside down against the corner of the fence.
No signs of the otters. Her heart dropped to her stomach.
She would not panic.
They were here. They had to be here.
She ran to the cellar, hoping, praying. Down the slippery, damp concrete steps, into the cool darkness. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Her gut clenched. Please...
There. In the corner, Hansel and Gretel slept, all curled around each other. Quietly, she went to them, softly petting each to confirm they were alive. Hansel lifted his head, his nose high in the air, and yawned before tucking back under Gretel’s body. Their distinctive musk brought tears to Claire’s eyes.
“Well, hello to you too.” She grinned, straightening. “I can see the storm didn’t bother either of you.”
A loud noise brought her back up the cellar steps. The small pond would need to be cleared of leaves and sticks, but she could safely leave the otters alone. Shading her eyes, she looked up—Dad had already found the ladder, climbed to her roof and was pounding loose shingles back in place.
“This will only take a minute, Claire. You don’t want these flapping off in the next storm. Why don’t you go in and grab something to eat? Or better yet, go to bed.”
Her stomach growled. How long had it been since she last ate?
At the welcome sight of her living room, her sanctuary, her knees almost buckled. She’d sit a minute. Just a minute.
Unable to fight her sheer lack of energy, she sank into the couch. A million worries raced. Although the wedding made Claire wary, she sympathized with Libby. It would be terrible to come so close only to have a tornado destroy the plans. Claire would bring her some flowers and brownies and let her cry on her shoulder for half the night if need be. She would be there for Libby, the way she always was and always would be.
And what about Reed? Stuck in the hospital, far away from home. At least he had his parents and Jake.
She burrowed deeper into the pillow. Reed was going to need a lot of care. The cast, wheelchair...pain.
A guy like him always got snatched up, but yesterday, Aunt Sally told her he was single. Claire yawned. Single, schmingle. Who cared? She’d thumped the final nail in her romantic-notions coffin long ago. If Justin hadn’t convinced her to give up on men, Dr. Jerk Face had. A Tuesday girl...
Nope. Wasn’t going there.
Images from last night danced in her mind—hanging the balloons, the comfortable feeling she always got in Uncle Joe’s Restaurant, Reed coming in dripping wet, the sirens...
The rest swirled like the storm that held them hostage until she fell asleep.
* * *
If Reed had to guess, he’d say his ankle resembled one of the bloated balloons in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Snoopy, probably. The swelling pressed against the inside of his cast, a painful reminder of his captivity. His foot felt as though it weighed at least seven hundred pounds. When would it stop throbbing?
“Claire, do you still have those yoga blocks?” Sally, the barely five-foot-tall woman who could command an army general, stepped away from the couch with a throw pillow in hand. She fluffed it twice. Dale, Claire’s dad, was doing who knew what in the bedroom. This was the weirdest Monday morning Reed had spent in...well...ever.
“Yoga blocks? What are those?” Dale’s voice carried. “We need more hangers. I’ve got three shirts to hang up and no hangers.”
Claire poked her head in through the open sliding door, where she swept twigs and leaves off the deck. “The blocks are in my closet. Should I get them?”
“Yes, and grab a bunch of hangers while you’re at it.” Sally wore jeans rolled up at the ankles and a Race for the Cure T-shirt. Flamingo earrings grazed her shoulders.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.” Claire disappeared.
“Yoga blocks, Dale,” Sally’s voice echoed as she tucked the pillow behind Reed’s neck. “You remember—those blue foam dealies from last year when Libby convinced her to take Marissa’s class.”
Reed studied the cottage’s living area. Streams of sunlight flooded the hardwood floors, and the warm lake breeze tickled the edges of the white sheer curtains. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he’d like it here. Well, he’d like it better if the Sheffields weren’t making such a fuss.
Sally hovered over him. The woman seemed to be everywhere at once. She and Dale were clearly siblings—Reed had never seen two people with so much energy.
“How are you feeling?” Sally brushed his hair from his forehead.