Magnolia (14 page)

“I've got an umbrella,” Francie offers, producing it. “Not sure how much it'll help, though.”

“Probably not much. I say we make a run for it. I'm there on the front row. The blue Fiat.”

“I see it,” she says with a nod.

I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle. “On the count of three?”

And that's when the first tornado siren goes off.

A greater power than we can contradict

Hath thwarted our intents.

—William Shakespeare, 
Romeo and Juliet

O
h, this is just great,” I say with a sigh as the red emergency lights begin to flash menacingly. “What now?”

Beside me, Francie shrugs. “Um, I guess we take cover?”

Again, the PA system crackles to life. “All students and staff, please proceed directly to the A corridor and remain there until further notice. I repeat, the A corridor. This is not a drill—this is a tornado warning.”

For a moment I just stand there, frozen in place. Francie reaches for my hand and drags me away from the door as everyone who hadn't yet left the parking lot comes dashing back inside. We all make a run for corridor A, which is right smack in the center of the school, near the media center.

We've lived through enough tornado drills to know exactly
what to do when we get there—even if we feel silly doing it. Our backs pressed against the wall, we sit on the scabbed tile floor and cover our heads. There's about seventy-five of us, I'd say. Conversation is kept to a minimum, because let's face it, it's a pretty scary situation. I mean, you pretty much know you'll be okay—but what if you're not?

Luckily, it doesn't last long. Maybe five minutes later, the voice on the PA system tells us that the warning has expired. They won't let us leave yet, though, so we sit there for another ten or fifteen minutes before they tell us it's safe to go.

“Well, that was intense,” Francie says as she rises and brushes off the back of her shorts.

“I know, right? I'm still shaking.” I hold out one trembling hand as evidence.

The drive home is a nightmare. I literally can't see two feet in front of me, even with the wipers on their highest speed. It's even worse after I drop off Francie—mostly because I'm all alone. It takes me nearly a half hour to make what should be a ten-minute trip, and by the time I pull up in front of my house, my hands are cramped from my death grip on the steering wheel.

It's not until I step out of the car, my legs feeling like they're made of Jell-O, that I notice Ryder's Durango parked in front of me.

“Where the hell have you been?” he calls out from the front
porch, just as I make a mad dash to join him there. His face is red, his brow furrowed over stormy eyes. “They let us out an hour ago!”

I am
really
not in the mood for his crap. “Yeah, so?”

“So I was worried sick. A tornado touched down over by the Roberts' place.”

“I know! I mean, I didn't know it touched down, but I was still at school when the sirens went off.” I drop my ridiculously heavy backpack and shake the rain from my hair. “Is everyone okay over there?”

He runs a visibly trembling hand through his hair. “Yeah, it just tore up their fence or something. Jesus, Jemma!”

“What is
wrong
with you? Why are you even here?”

“I'm supposed to stay over here, remember?”

“What . . . now?” I look past him and notice an army-green duffel bag by the front door. He's got a key—he could've just let himself in.

“I figured now's as good a time as any. We need to put sandbags in front of the back door before it gets any worse out, and then we've got to do something about the barn. It's awful close to the creek, and the water's rising fast.”

“Well, what do you propose we do?”

“Don't you keep your guns out there? We should move them inside. And your dad has some expensive tools in his workshop—we should get those, too.”

I let out a sigh. He's got a point. “Can I at least go inside first? Put my stuff away?”

“Sure.” He moves to the edge of the porch and gazes up at the sky. “It looks like we might get a break in a few minutes, once this band moves through. Might as well wait for it.”

I dig out my keys and unlock the door. I can hear the dogs howling their heads off the minute I step inside. “I've gotta let Beau and Sadie out,” I say over my shoulder as I head toward the kitchen. “Take your stuff to the guest room and get settled, why don't you?”

That's my attempt at reestablishing the fact that
I'm
in charge here, not him. This is
my
house. My stuff. My life.

Beau and Sadie do their business in record time and high-tail it back inside, dripping wet. I find a dish towel hanging by the sink and do my best to dry them off, making a mental note to leave some old towels in the front mudroom. Once we sandbag up the back door, the dogs'll have to go in and out the front, and I can't have them tracking mud all over the place.

“Hey, what happened to the vase that's usually here on the hall table?” Ryder calls out.

I wince, remembering its fate. I'd saved the broken bits in a bag, but there's no hope for it. It's destroyed. It figures he'd notice. What is he, Colonel Mustard?
In the conservatory,
I want to say.
With the candlestick.

“Patrick happened to it,” I answer instead, joining him
there in the hall. “You know, the other night. On his way back from the bathroom.” I have no idea why I'm offering so many details. It's not like it's any of his business. I should have told him that we were having wild sex here in the hall and accidentally knocked it over. Would have served him right for being so nosy.

“You should make him pay for it,” Ryder offers.

“Yeah, maybe. You all moved in?”

“I was thinking . . . it's safer downstairs, what with all the trees around here. You're liable to lose some. You should probably sleep in your parents' room, and I'll just take the couch.”

“We've got five empty beds, not counting the sleeping porches, and you're going to sleep on the couch?” I shake my head in disbelief.

“Isn't the one in the family room a sofa bed?”

“Yeah, but it's awful. You can't sleep there—the springs are poking through the mattress.”

“I'll be fine,” he says with a shrug.

“Whatever.” I glance over at the window, taking in the scary-looking sky. “You really think we need to sleep downstairs?”

He cocks a brow. “Have you been watching the Weather Channel?”

Have
I
been watching the Weather Channel? Ha! “I wonder if it'll be as bad as they're saying.”

“Could be the worst to hit the coast since Katrina.”

“Yeah, but we're nowhere near the coast,” I argue. “It's just hard to imagine. . . .” I trail off, feeling foolish. “Anyway, you ready to go do those sandbags?”

He nods. “I'm ready. Sounds like the rain has let up some. You got a poncho or something like that you can put on?”

“What's the point? I'm already soaked.” I can't wait to take a long, hot bath in my mom's Jacuzzi tub. “Just let me get my rain boots.”

It takes us close to an hour to get the sandbags stacked properly against the back door. The rain comes and goes in bursts, the wind making an odd shrieking noise. The usually silent creek is rushing like rapids, and the grass is soaked and squishy beneath my boots. Everything beyond the lawn is mud now—great big puddles of mud.

“You think that'll do it?” I ask, straightening with a groan. My back is already killing me, and we haven't even tackled the barn yet.

“Looks good,” Ryder says with a satisfied nod. “You want to take a break and get some lunch?”

Great, now I've got to make him lunch.

“Lou sent over some sandwiches,” he adds.

Of course she did.

“Actually, she sent over a whole hamper of stuff. Potato salad, pickles—”

“Stop.” I hold up one hand. “You had me at potato salad.” Because Lou's is the best in all of Lafayette County—no lie. It's like she's got crack in there or something. Mama's tried to replicate it many times, to no avail. I'm salivating just thinking about it.

Of course, we're sopping wet and dripping everywhere by the time we step into the dry mudroom to pull off our boots. “This is crazy,” I say, shaking my head like Sadie does when she's wet. “We can't walk through the house like this—we'll make a mess.” Ryder's jeans are soaked through and caked with mud. I'm wearing shorts, but my bare legs are spattered all over. “We're going to have to strip here,” I say, shaking my head. “Just leave it all in a pile. I'll toss it in the wash after lunch.”

He just stares at me, wide-eyed. “What? Now?”

“Yeah, you go first,” I say, amused by the blush that's creeping up his neck. “Geez, Ryder. It's not like I haven't seen you in your underpants before.”

I have vague memories of Ryder running around Magnolia Landing's lawn wearing nothing but superhero undies. And after all the years of shared beach houses and hotel suites, well . . . like I said, we were more like siblings when we were little.

“If it'll make you more comfortable, I'll turn around,” I offer.

“Nah, it's fine.” He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.

And then I remember why this was a bad idea. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his tanned, sculpted chest, his narrow waist, and jutting hip bones. Oh, man. What was I thinking?

I swallow hard as he unbuttons his jeans and slides down the zipper.
Boxers or briefs?
That's all I'm thinking as he peels down the wet denim—slowly, as if he's enjoying this little striptease. He steps out of them gracefully and tosses them into a heap beside his shirt before straightening to his full height, facing me.

Oh. My. God.

I exhale sharply. The answer is boxer briefs, heather-gray ones. And right now they're clinging to him wetly, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He looks like a god. A six-foot-four, football-playing god, and I am staring at him with my mouth hanging open like some kind of pathetic freak.

Snap out of it.

“Sorry,” I say, averting my gaze. My cheeks are burning now. I probably look like a clown. That's what happens when a fair-skinned redhead like me blushes. “If you . . . um . . . want to shower. I mean, you know—”

“I'll just go put on something dry for now. We really need to eat and then get that stuff out of the barn.”

I just nod, biting my lower lip. I can't even look at him. This is crazy.

“Your turn to strip,” he says, and my gaze shoots up to meet
his. He's smiling now, his dimples in full effect.

“Ugh, just go and change.” I cover my eyes with one hand and flap the other toward the hall.

“I'll meet you in the kitchen in five,” he says.

“Great.” I let my hand drop only when I hear his footsteps move away. Then yeah, I'll admit it—I allow myself a nice long look at his backside as he walks away from me.

And let me tell you, it was
well
worth the look.

G
od bless Lou. When I open the refrigerator, I find it stocked with premade sandwiches—chicken salad with apples and pecans, ham and cheese, and my favorite, roast beef with horseradish sauce. Two Tupperware tubs contain potato and macaroni salad, and she's thoughtfully included an assortment of pickles in mason jars. There's even a caramel cake—Ryder's favorite—covered in Saran Wrap, sitting on the counter. She must have dropped it all off this morning while I was at school.