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Sabal Palms and the Southern Squall

By Terry Overton

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Chapter One

Elaine Smith lived in the small coastal town of Sabal Palms long enough to know when to worry about a squall and when to simply close the windows and wait for it to pass. This one would be significant. She felt it. At the time, she had no way to know this storm would do things no other storm ever had. But at least for the moment, Elaine could see lights across the bay on the west side of the island. Later tonight, the tourists would scurry back across the causeway before the coming gale force winds roared in and closed the two- mile bridge. The squall was out to sea not far away—this much was certain. Tomorrow, or the day after, the storm would march on shore somewhere along the Texas or Louisiana coast.
Nearly a mile down the strip of sand lining the Gulf of Mexico, the light on the top of the church steeple blinked. How a church planted on the beach was able to withstand so many storms was a mystery. Built in 1925, it occasionally took a little wind damage and lost a few shingles. The steeple had been replaced nearly a dozen times. Storm surges made it to the top of the church steps but never intruded into the building.
Tiny lights across the water marked the scattered fishing boats offshore. One lone sailboat enjoyed a last-minute run before the sky turned dark. The shrimpers remained at sea, but before dawn, they would navigate their boats to the harbor. All vessels would be safely moored in their slips by the time the outer rain bands came ashore.

The ghost crabs ran along the wet sand near Elaine’s feet. “You guys better relocate,” she warned. The storms disoriented the crabs. Even the alligators living in the brackish waters a half a mile or so inland would end up in backyards or small ponds. Storms did that. Storms shook things up, rattled animals and fish all around, and caused people to temporarily move inland. Maybe storms are God’s way of reminding us how powerless we are, she thought.

Elaine picked a piece of the seagrass and poked a ghost crab crawling up to her flip flops. It bolted in the other direction. Glancing down at her own hands, wrinkled and full of enlarged veins, she thought, You’re getting old, Old Girl, and laughed.

Looking at her hands, Elaine recalled buying a larimar bracelet from a Dominican woman during a port stop. The old woman put the bracelet on Elaine’s wrist and announced, “These hands will do what no other hands can do.” Elaine wondered about that statement many times in her life. What did the old woman mean? She had raised four children, loved her late husband dearly, and had a successful career as a professor. She had graded countless term papers, sat in endless committee meetings, given well-attended lectures, and written scholarly research papers and books. Nice accomplishments. But plenty of women had done the same. What could these hands possibly do that no other hands could do?

She laughed as she stood up to walk home. “Right now, I’d settle for these old hands writing a story that might mean something to someone,” she muttered.


Carefully selecting her steps along the dunes, she made her way back to her aqua-colored beach cottage trimmed in white. Climbing the steps up to the deck wasn’t as easy as it once was. But she’d rather pull herself up holding the rails than move into town off the beach. She wouldn’t give up her walks along the shore ever again. She’d moved inland once, and she had been miserable.

The screen door screeched as Elaine opened it and stepped into the comfort of the cottage. The wind wouldn’t pick up until tomorrow. She would ask her neighbor, Ramon, to board up her house. But tonight, she’d attempt once more to hammer out a story. Not just any story, but a perfect story, she thought.
Sitting at her desk, she admired the old, electric typewriter. There was something fascinating about these old machines. She’d written her master’s thesis on one like this, but her dissertation and other scholarly works were completed on various computers. She smiled and turned on the electric typewriter, thinking about the time her college roommate in graduate school accidently deleted an entire thesis on a clumsy, original, home computer. They stayed up all night rewriting it. Nowadays, she preferred the older typewriter to peck out a story.

“You, my dear old friend,” she said as she patted the typewriter, “provide me with the nice, original, paper copy that no one can hack or delete.”

She slid a single sheet of blank paper into the machine. She rolled the paper up to the appropriate top margin and typed out a title. “Saved” and added “By Elaine Smith.” Then, like she had done every time she began anew, she said a short prayer, asking that this story end up in the hands of someone who needed it.

With each strike of the keys onto the solid white background, Elaine grew hopeful. This time, she would be able to write the best story ever. It would be compelling and enthralling, and would generate at least a few sales. This story would be the one.

Her friends never understood why she selected writing to pass the time. Mary protested, “Good grief, Elaine, writing is something you do alone. For Pete’s sake, writing is lonely, by yourself—as in, without your friends.”

Bonnie agreed. “When you get in a writing mood, we don’t see you for days or weeks.”
It’s true writing wasn’t a social activity, and no one else ever wanted to hear any of the details of an incomplete story—or worse, a story that ended up in the trash. Writing was a solitary activity and done indoors if you use this old type of machine.

“Why don’t you write on a laptop or a tablet, for goodness’ sakes?” Bonnie asked her. “That way, you could at least write while sitting outside on your deck and look out over the water. Or you could do like those young kids and bring it to the coffee shop. But for crying out loud, Elaine, a typewriter? We might be old, but we aren’t antiques!”

Bonnie Taylor was probably the most level-headed of her friends, but she was also the most hard-headed, and no amount of presenting the benefits of an old, electronic typewriter would win her over to Elaine’s side of the argument. Elaine was determined to use the old machine, and any time she brought it up, Bonnie was determined to convince her of the advantages of an electronic device. There was no middle ground, so Elaine just gave up and didn’t discuss it. She felt more in touch with the process of writing using the old machine.


And if the method of writing wasn’t enough of a mystery to her friends, they also really didn’t understand her choice of genre. “Christian fiction?” Mary laughed. “Are you kidding me? You sure won’t make a living doing that! You need to, well, you know, write scandalous stuff if you want to sell. Come on, either blood and guts or raunchy. Take your pick!” Mary insisted.

Now, Mary Sage was an unusual character. Mary prided herself on being the most intense animal conservationist in the whole state of Texas. It wasn’t true, of course. But other than baking desserts and cooking, her only other pastime was volunteering at the Sea Turtle Rescue Center on the island or the Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge just down the road. Mary was almost as level-headed as Bonnie but had absolutely no verbal filter whatsoever. She said the first thing that popped into her brain. She took no prisoners. If she thought it, she would speak it out in the open for all to hear. And she rarely apologized for what she said and never thought for one second that she might have hurt someone’s feelings. But Elaine loved her as much as she loved Bonnie, and they had all been friends for more than twenty years. They knew each other when they still had husbands. And that was a while back.

Despite the protests of her friends, Elaine pressed on with her writing. It was important to her in these last years to write something meaningful. She wanted to write stories that might make someone think, to question their lives. She wanted to write stories that might cause someone to open their Bible or to apologize to their friend or family member after years of anger. She wanted to cause someone somewhere to remember God. Or even better, to find God. What was wrong with that?


Anyway, I’m retired and don’t need the money. I’m getting by. Not great, but getting by.

Elaine typed out a short story draft. Part of her ongoing dilemma was that she couldn’t decide if she wanted to write devotionals, short stories, novellas, or novels. She never liked poetry and had no idea how to write a screenplay. But she had plenty of ideas for stories and devotionals, and she tried night after night to decide exactly what to do. After four hours, she read through the draft. Rubbish, she thought.

Disgusted with her own writing once again, she crumbled the paper up into a ball and threw it in the bin. It landed on top of a whole trash bin full of other crumpled-up pages, stories not good enough. Discarded pieces of her soul that she couldn’t quite express.

She knew the Christian fiction market was difficult to break into, but so were other genres. A Christian magazine published her article once, and she made enough money to treat her friends to a mod- est lunch at the Palm Tree Café. She wasn’t sure if anyone actually read the article once it was published, though. Thinking back, Elaine wondered about the few people who read her scholarly work. She questioned how forty-two years of “publish or perish” helped anyone. She knew for a fact that most of the people who cited her work were her own students working on their own theses or dissertations.

Elaine picked up another piece of plain, white paper and placed it in the typewriter. She pecked away, one laborious key at a time, until nearly two o’clock in the morning. The sounds of the wind in- creased and seemed more consistent. She decided she would call it a day. Tomorrow would require physical stamina to pack, secure the house, and move into town with Mary until the storm passed. She would, of course, take her Bible and her typewriter. She never went anywhere without them.

***

The buzz of Elaine’s cellphone on the night table startled her. She grabbed it and sleepily said, “Hello.”

“Mom, are you at Mary’s house yet?” It was her son, Alex. He lived out of state but was always the first to call when she needed to move inland.

“Hi, honey. I’m just getting up,” she said. “What time is it?”

“It’s after seven. I’ve been watching the news. The tropical storm is now a category one.”

She groaned. “I thought it would be. I felt it in my bones last night on the beach.”

“Are you packed and ready to head over there?”

“Not yet, but soon. Ramon is coming over to board up the windows first. Then I’ll head over.”

“Promise? Don’t wait any longer. Try to leave by ten. It probably won’t come ashore until later this evening. Oh, did you hear what they named the storm?”

“No,” she said rubbing her eyes. “Jada.”

“Jada? What kind of name is that?”

He laughed. “I wondered, too. So, I looked it up. It’s from a Hebrew word that means ‘he knows.’”

“Who knows?”

“Well, he does!” He laughed again.


Elaine could see this was going nowhere. She would have spelled “he” with a capital H, meaning God—as in God knows—but her son probably wouldn’t agree, and that worried her.

“Now, Mom, don’t forget to let me know when you are inland.”

“I’ll text when I get over to Mary’s house. Oh, will you call the girls for me?”

“Yes, I’ll call and let them know that we talked. Don’t forget; text me.”

Elaine opened her usual medium-sized bag and threw in a few all-purpose clothes and shoes. “Closed-toed shoes, you dummy,” she said to herself, switching her sandals for her waterproof shoes. She would wear her flip flops over to Mary’s house and take one pair of shoes and minimal clothes and toiletries. Mary was always prepared for her and Bonnie, and whoever else needed safe harbor, during a storm. For a split second, she wondered about Adriana. Maybe she would come over, too. She only came when it was a serious hurricane. Adriana Manale was someone Elaine didn’t know very well. It wasn’t that Elaine hadn’t tried to get to know her, but Adriana was hard to figure out. She definitely was the most well-off of the group. Maybe Elaine would get to know her better in the future. One thing Elaine was certain about was how to pronounce Adriana’s last name. Every time Adriana was introduced to someone new, she would hold her bejeweled hand out, laden with designer jewelry, take the other person’s hand and say, “Now, that’s Ma-Nal-ee—be sure you pronounce that e on the end. It’s not Manal.” And then she would laugh. “We Italians are proud of our vowels.”

Elaine looked around the house one last time to be sure her appliances were unplugged, her windows locked, and that she hadn’t forgotten anything. She’d feel safe at Mary’s house a few miles inland. At first, Elaine protested when Mary insisted that she and Bonnie come over during the storms. Each time Elaine arrived, she apologized for imposing, which only made Mary mad.

“Oh, horsefeathers! What are friends for? When I want to have a cookout on the beach, you insist I come over, and you even provide the food. You think I’m gonna stand by while you and Bonnie are blown out to sea? Good grief!”

Elaine’s bag was large enough for her clothing, toiletry essentials, a short stack of blank paper, and her Bible. But the typewriter had to be carried separately. It was cumbersome but necessary.

Ramon came over without any beckoning. He was reliable and considerate of both Elaine and Bonnie. He would have both of their houses boarded up in no time. Thanks to his organizational skills, he had the routine down and knew precisely where he stored all of the needed items in the shed. Each window was measured years ago, and the boards were cut to the specifications. He had numbered the windows and boards, which meant the process was fast. The needed washers, bolts, and corrosion-resistant screws were in labeled compartments. He retrieved all necessary items and began with window one beside the front door.
“Morning, Elaine,” he said as he strategically placed the blowing plywood board on the window. Somehow, even when Ramon waited until the wind picked up, he always managed to get the windows completely covered.

“Good morning, Ramon. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said.

“Now, Elaine, you know I love taking care of my ladies,” he said and laughed. “Besides, without your cakes, Mary’s desserts, and Bonnie’s pies, I’d never get dessert. Maria won’t let me touch sweets at home.”

“Don’t believe him,” Bonnie shouted as she trudged up the crushed shell pathway to Elaine’s house. “I have it on good authority that Maria makes the best Tres leches cake in town.”

Bonnie, who was struggling to complete the half-mile walk, prided herself in her previous athletic talents as a long-distance runner, her good figure established in her younger years, and a well-worn yet attractive face. She continued to spend a fortune on her fetching wardrobe. But during times of distress, like before a hurricane or during a power outage, Bonnie appeared in her own wrinkled, natural beauty—makeup-free, bed-headed, and slightly faded beachwear. The wind blowing her unruly hair completed the total wild lady image. To add to the strange depiction, Bonnie always stuffed her large, oversized suitcase with extensive makeup kits, matching clothing, and multiple pairs of brightly colored shoes, each with a little bow or bling attached. And even though the luggage had wheels, it was too heavy to roll on the seashell walk smoothly. The bag toppled from one side to the other, and Elaine couldn’t help but laugh at the disheveled mess attempting to balance the large suitcase as she trudged along the walkway.

“Good, you’re still here,” Bonnie said as she attempted to catch her breath.

“Bonnie, I wouldn’t leave without you.”

When Bonnie’s husband passed away, Bonnie sold the car. She said it was too much upkeep for her and reminded her too much of Bill. And Bonnie and Bill were not exactly lovebirds. Plus, Elaine knew Bill and Bonnie both hated that car. It had been a lemon; it was noisy, clunky, and got horrible gas mileage. It never ran well once he drove it off the dealership lot.

“If I need to go anywhere, I’ll just ride with you,” Bonnie announced.

Elaine never quite understood why her friends implied things would be fine, even without asking first. Of course, Elaine didn’t care about hauling Bonnie around, but she would like to have been asked.

“Just stop there,” Elain said gesturing with her hand. “No need to come up the steps. I’ll unlock the trunk.” Elaine clicked the remote, and the trunk popped open.

“Good. This thing is killing me.”

“All that for one night?” Elaine asked.

“A girl has to look good. Besides, it’s already a category one. If it increases, we could be over at Mary’s house more than one day.”

“Good point. I’ll grab another change of clothes.” Elaine ran back into the house.

Bonnie yelled to Ramon, “About to get ‘er done?”

“Yep. I’ll get yours right after this.”

“Aren’t you and Maria moving inland?” Bonnie asked.

“Sure. We’ll leave around lunch and go to Maria’s mom’s house. Her parents are ten miles inland and on a hill. This thing might be stronger than a category one. I’d rather be safe inland just in case.”

“Sounds perfect,” Bonnie said.

The wind blew steady and hot. Elaine was amazed how the temperature increased before a storm like this. She could feel the pressure building up in the atmosphere. She had a keen sense when a storm would be a bad one. The increased heat only fueled the storm, and Elaine believed the storm would be more severe than predicted. She opened her closet and yanked a couple of shirts off of the hangers. She took extra shorts and capris out of her dresser. “That should do,” she murmured.

She emerged from the cottage and got into her car. “Ready?”

Bonnie fastened her seatbelt. “Let’s go!”

Elaine maneuvered the car out onto the small, primitive road made of gravel and shells and onto the paved county road.

“Do you think she will be there?” Bonnie asked.

“If the hurricane increases to a category two, she’ll come over. She usually does.”

Bonnie was referring to Adriana. Adriana was at least ten years younger, slim, and well-kempt; and she lived in the wealthy part of town. Granted, in this small seaside town, the upper crust only occupied two city blocks. But it was, after all, the most desired neighborhood. At least, according to Adriana. Adriana’s house was a two-story stucco with all of the amenities and a grand pool in the backyard. Built fairly recently, it met all the hurricane specifications. It would likely hold up better than Bonnie or Elaine’s beach cottages. It would probably hold up better than Mary’s older house. But structural security wasn’t what drove Adriana to Mary’s house. In truth, Adriana was terribly lonesome and liked Mary, Bonnie, and Elaine better than any of the uppity crowd.

“Tell me again why Adriana feels the need to come over in a category two?” Bonnie asked.

“Now, Bonnie, she’s alone, too. She feels better being around people during the emergency.”

“Uh huh.”

“Be nice,” Elaine said. “It will just be for a short time, and she leaves once the storm has passed.”

“But it changes our whole dynamic, you know? We have to listen to her all night long, while she bloviates on and on and hijacks the conversation the entire evening. And after all, she’s Italian. Sicilian, to be precise.”

“What does that have to do with anything? I’m part Italian myself.”

“Yeah, and part-Irish. But Adriana is really proud of it. And she has that whole Catholic thing going on. Insisting we have wine at communion, or it doesn’t count. And that habit—you know, making the sign of the cross every time she talks about any of our deceased husbands—God rest their souls, especially her husband.”

“Bonnie, why in the world does it bother you?” Elaine asked. “And besides, Mary is Catholic, too, you know. And we’ve all lost our husbands.”

“But my goodness, haven’t you noticed? She talks about her husband nonstop like he was the best thing since sliced bread. Good grief.”

“There is nothing wrong with that. She loved him, that’s all.”

“Baloney. The only reason she believes he hung the moon is because he died so young—you know, before he got old and grouchy like ours did.”

Elaine laughed. “That is the craziest theory I’ve ever heard.” “Besides, how do you think he died? She never said. He was thirty-something, for goodness’ sakes. Had to be a violent death.”

“You are making that up.”

“She never said how he died.” “Did you ask?”

“How do you ask that? Oh, by the way, why did your husband die so young? Was he shot? Was it a hit? No, I can’t ask. But I think he had to be connected. You know, Wise Guys, the Mafia. I mean, look at all that money, for crying out loud, at that age. I never thought he was anything other than crooked. Mafia, I tell you.”

Elaine laughed so hard, she almost lost control of the car.

“Stay on the road,” Bonnie barked.

“Call Mary and tell her we will be there in five minutes.”

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