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Every islander knows there won’t be a photo-op worthy sunset tonight because that front is moving fast, judging by the wind’s easterly direction. It is going to be a bitch of a gale when it hits land and we’re directly positioned to catch one helluva show in the downstairs observatory.
I hurry down the steps to the front hallway. My childhood home is all cream paint walls and exposed distressed wood. I updated with new furniture and a dishwasher a couple of years back but not much else. I like that it feels familiar, unlike my Malibu beach house which is built to look like a rockstar lives there.
Mrs. Hazel stands in the front hall with her weathered hands folded neatly over the short strap of her black leather purse. In the thirty-plus years, I’ve known the gently aging woman, I’ve never seen her without this purse or one like it. She is a stout woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile. Her gnarled fingers speak of a lifetime of work, but her spirit sings of a happy life. I’ve known her long enough to say that with certainty. Looking at my own life, I don't think there’s a single soul who could say that about me. Not even Oliver.
In a glittery backstabbing industry I’m neck-deep in, I’ve earned to keep my cards close and that includes emotions, dreams and ideas of a perfect life. It’s the price of fame no one bothered to tell me about. Knowing how stubborn I can get, I probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.
“Let me give you a ride home; it’s about to pour out there and I’d be an ass to let my favorite person in the world walk home in this.” I snatch my keys off the front hall table and give them a quick toss in the air, flashing her a quick smile.
“My Felix is outside, Mr. Hawkins. I left a chicken warming in the oven, and the salad needs dressing. I’ll be back after church tomorrow to clean up. Now enjoy your evening, sweetie.”
I never knew how old Mrs. Hazel was. She is one of those figures who has always been in my life. Her faded flower print dress, sensible black shoes, and a gentle smile are the same as always.
I bend to kiss her on the cheek and give her a hug while I’m at it. If my fans could see me now they would strip me of my hardcore rocker status in a heartbeat. Truth be told, I’m nowhere near the same person in real life to my stage persona. “I can handle a few dishes. Take tomorrow off. I insist.” The last thing I want is the woman to worry about washing my dishes. That gives me another thought. “Why don’t you take the whole week off? More if you want. You’ve been taking care of this place every day of the year for too long. I got it from here.”
I make a mental note to make a big deposit in her account as a summer bonus.
She tightens her lips into a fine line and for a minute I think she’s going to fight me on it. But her eyes crinkle at the edges. “Thank you, sweet boy. You were always kind.” She pats my cheek gently, and a sudden nostalgia for my childhood slams home.
Easier days, easier times before fame grabbed my life by the balls.
A reflection of car headlights flickers in the hallway mirror, pulling me out of the past.
I open the door for us and follow her out into the gaining winds.
“Evening, Mr. Hazel, how ya doin’?” I duck down to greet the driver as I hold the car door open for my former nanny. Although I’ve known Felix since I was a small boy, I pay the older man the respect of his age. If they were remembered for nothing else, my parents were very big on manners.
“Good to see you, Jude.” The older man’s face is wreathed in wrinkles, but his smile is bright. He pats the steering wheel. “Thanks again for the truck. It sure does come in handy.”
I smile. “Glad to hear it, Mr. Hazel.”
The Hazels’ are very active in their church and outreach on the island. I wanted to get them in a newer and safer vehicle for years, but they pridefully kept refusing until I hit on the idea of a truck to help with their community efforts. Now we are all happy. That doesn’t happen enough in life. “Drive safe, Mr. and Mrs. Hazel. Looks like a wet one coming up.”
I watch them head back down the driveway until their taillights disappear. Besides my little girl, they are the closest thing I have to family and I cherish them as such.
Raindrops the size of quarters fall from the now dark sky. Night comes quickly in the tropics, add a storm of this magnitude to it and it’s like someone tossed a blanket over a birdcage. One minute the setting sun fills the sky with pinks and oranges, then two minutes later you can’t see your hand before your face.
I run up the steps and let the heavy door take care of itself behind me.
Rain splatters the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the sea. Lush greenery hanging overtop the windows from the second-floor balcony slaps against glass. It is like being in a massive car wash only, come morning, I’ll be the one picking up palm fronds from the yard.
“Peyton!” My voice booms throughout the house, but there is no delicate sweet voice there to answer me back.
Damn it. She should be inside by now. Winds are thrashing the palm trees and I’ve already seen someone’s beach umbrella sail by.
The overhead lights dim once then flicker until they settle on total blackout.
Losing power is part of the charm of life in the islands. Usually.
Doesn’t the girl know a tropical storm is not the time for a beach walk? There are a million things that could harm her—flying debris being the most dangerous.
Where the fuck is that woman?
An image of her lifeless body lying on the beach tangled around that damn umbrella some careless person left unattended sends me out the door. I take a left and head toward the beach where I last saw her before realizing I need a flashlight.
I turn on my heel and get an arm full of a sweet-smelling, delicate woman. I tighten my arms around her center and pull her smaller frame into my larger body before we both tumble onto our asses in the rain. She must have just come in because water drips from the tip of her nose and her long dark hair is plastered against her breasts.
I pull her back into me without a second thought, relief flooding through me.
