Grits And Glory. Ron Benrey
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Vaughn was the Storm Channel’s star weather reporter. She couldn’t help staring at him. The man was drop-dead gorgeous: a classic chiseled face, perfect features, lovely chestnut-colored hair that framed his brow, glowing dark brown eyes, and a smile that lit up the narthex.
“Good afternoon,” Mr. Yellow Suit said. “We’re from the Storm Channel.”
Ann responded to his greeting politely, then looked back at Carlo to take in more details: the powerful aura of self-assurance he projected…his brilliant, dazzling smile…the absence of a wedding ring on his third finger…
“My name is Carlo Vaughn.” Carlo’s voice oozed like warm syrup over a buttered waffle. He gave his name a slightly European pronunciation, hitting the second syllable rather than the first.
“Welcome to Glory Community Church,” she replied. “I’ve seen you on TV many times.”
“I’ve come to Glory because there’s a hurricane on the way.”
“‘Storms come, storms go. We follow the storms,’” Ann said.
“You even know our slogan.” He extended a hand. “And your name is?”
“Ann Trask,” she managed, trying to conceal her excitement.
“Well, Ann Trask, I have a favor to ask of you. May we locate our broadcast van in your parking lot?” He pointed toward the rear of the building.
“Our van is completely self-contained,” Mr. Yellow Suit barked.
“Thank you, Sean,” Carlo said. “Ann, let me introduce Sean Miller. Sean is my associate, the man behind the camera.”
Ann studied Sean. He’d pulled back his hood, revealing a plain face that currently overflowed with annoyed impatience. His lack of good looks compared to Carlo—plus his sour expression—worked together to create a bad impression. She found herself feeling annoyed at this boorish hanger-on.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Sean said perfunctorily. “The fact is, your parking lot may be the only dry ground in Glory when Gilda hits. We have a broadcast scheduled in less than forty-five minutes. May we park in your lot?”
Ann returned her gaze to Carlo. “How big is your van?”
“Imagine a bread delivery truck with a satellite dish on the roof. We’ll find an out-of-the-way location in the back—you won’t even know we’re there.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Vaughn.”
“Please call me Carlo.”
“Well, Carlo,” Ann said, feeling a flush in her cheeks, “park as close to the church as you’d like. This is one of the most solidly built structures in Glory. We’re set up as an emergency shelter—come inside whenever you need to. Our side entrance faces the parking lot.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
Ann noticed that Sean rolled his eyes. She wondered how a gentleman like Carlo could spend his days traveling with an ill-mannered assistant who clearly lacked his boss’s sophistication and polish.
“Ann, I have to get ready to go on the air,” Carlo said. “I’ll leave Sean here to work out the details. Let’s chat later, after my broadcast.”
“That would be great,” Ann said, smiling.
She took a step backward as Sean eased the front door open for Carlo, allowing a whirlwind of raindrops to spray the narthex. Carlo gave a jaunty wave and marched into the downpour. Sean seemed to be shaking his head as he pulled the heavy door shut.
Ann suddenly realized she’d met a TV star while wearing an abysmal outfit—an old pair of blue jeans, a scruffy plaid shirt and bright yellow plastic clogs. What little makeup she had put on that morning had certainly worn off. Why not spruce up before Carlo comes back?
Why not, indeed?
“Ms. Trask,” Sean said loudly, “I’m on a tight schedule.”
She tried not to frown at his unpleasant attempt to catch her attention. “Certainly. What do you need from me?”
“I wanted to explain that I intend to park the van in the lee of the church. That way, the building will shield the van from the worst of the winds but our satellite antenna will still have an unobstructed view of the sky.”
“Whatever you decide is fine with me.”
“There’s a small downside to parking so close to the church. You’ll probably hear our generator from time to time.”
“Oh, you have a generator? We have one, too.”
“My condolences.” He shook his head gloomily. “Ours is the thing I hate most in the world. It’s ornery and unreliable—and a pain to start.”
“Unreliable? Is that common for generators?”
“Usually,” Sean said.
“I’m relying on our generator to work if the power quits tonight,” Ann said, trying not to panic.
Sean looked at her closely. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have made an offhand comment. You probably have a heavy-duty commercial model that starts automatically in the event of a power failure.”
“I don’t know what we have, only that there’s a large gray steel cabinet behind the church.”
“Well, I’d better get back to van. I have less than thirty minutes to put Carlo on the air.”
Ann forced her frown into a smile. “I know you’re busy, Sean, but before you go, could you do me a favor?”
He peered at her uncertainly. “If I can.”
“Look, you seem to understand generators. Would you help me make sure that ours is okay?”
He glanced at his watch. “Well, I suppose I can give you two minutes. Take me to the generator control panel.”
“Control panel?” She hoped that she looked less bewildered than she sounded.
“A small metal box with buttons and lights.” He looked at his watch again. “Maybe I should come back later.”
Ann fought back a touch of distress she didn’t want Sean to see.
“No need. I know what you’re talking about. It’s hanging on the wall in the utility room.”
She quickly led Sean to the control panel. He took a moment to examine it. “Who’s Richard Squires?”
“One of our members—why?”
“There’s a note on the wall. ‘In case of a problem with the generator, call Richard Squires.’”
“Is there a problem?”
“We’re about to find out. The generator is set to automatic, but you can test it by pushing the red manual start button.”
Ann pushed the red button. Almost immediately, she heard a growling noise outside, then the reassuring rumble of an engine. Three small indicator lights on the control panel began to glow green.
“The engine’s running fine, there’s plenty of fuel, and the system is producing electricity.”
“Great!” Ann said, full of relief.
“Hit the black button to turn it off,” Sean said.
But before Ann could lift her hand, the middle light began to flash red. A second later, the engine quit.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“According to the indicator light, something in the fuel system.”
“Can you fix it?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t even have time to try. We go on the air in a few minutes. Perhaps you should call this Richard