The Storm (9 page)

“In Austin. Papa served as the associate pastor in one of the largest churches there, and he had high hopes for his calling as a Methodist minister.”

“Did he succeed?”

A wave of sadness washed over her. “Poor Papa. He had a falling-out with the presiding elder, and neither would budge. In fact, the elder threatened to go to the bishop, and Papa has such a temper. I get my red hair from him.”

“Yes, and it's beautiful.” Jacqueline stared at her as boldly as she had in church this morning.

The heat began at Molly's fingertips and worked its way up her arms. She flinched when her breasts began to throb as if Jacqueline had caressed them. Her throat tightened, and her face flamed. It probably matched the color of the chair she sat in. She'd never reacted this way to a compliment, much less one from another female.

Who was this queer, dangerous woman, and how could she avoid seeing her again?

*

Jaq's thighs sizzled, as hot as a summer night in New Orleans. Damn it. Where had her comment about Molly's hair come from? Probably someplace she should stay away from. Sweet Jesus. What was it about women's hair that made her act crazy?

She'd never lost control around Helen—the one woman in France who'd interested her—except that once. Helen had kept her in line with those dark eyes. But she'd sure taken a nosedive around Sister Mary. She'd let unavailable women hurt her enough. She and Willie were strictly pals.

Shaking her head, she asked, “Did you live in Austin long?”

Molly's complexion gradually returned to normal. “Until I was six. After the problem in Austin, the bishop assigned Papa to preach in small towns all over East Texas—Fulshear, Fairfield, League City—”

“That's close to where I grew up.”

“And where might that be?”

Molly sounded even more formal and stilted than she had earlier, though her voice was still melodious. Damnation. Jaq hoped she hadn't completely scared her away.

“Galveston.”

“Galveston? How long did you live there?” Suddenly Molly leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and lost some of her stiffness, like Jaq'd hoped she would.

“Until the Storm.” She still shuddered when she said that word.

“Did you lose anyone?”

Safe, she stared out the bay windows at the branches of the budding trees in the yard. They weren't moving much in the breeze, but her heartbeat revved up like it used to at the front, and memories of the Storm engulfed her.

Smelly, decomposing bodies. Corpses rotting in the streets in September heat, reeking worse than men mowed down in France.

Survivors piled corpses into boats, buried them at sea. They washed back. Workmen burned them like firewood in huge bonfires on the sand. Thank God she and her family—except Grandfather—left the island before those fires started.

Molly had asked her a question, so she nodded, managed to say, “We lost my grandfather.” Then memories of the Storm sucked her back.

The wind howled, buildings crashed. Her legs ached even now. Running from one end of the house to the other, she'd prayed, “Please, Mary, don't let a tree smash the roof. Keep a wagon or buggy from slamming through our walls.” She'd pressed her ears shut, closed her eyes. The wind still roared.

No birds called the next morning—all fled before the Storm. The calm ocean, soundless. Streetcars lay rammed into buildings. Their green island, brown—muddy floodwater in some places, black sludge in others. A wall of wreckage had flattened everything. Eerie silence.

Then people began to call. “Help me. I can't get out. For God's sake, help.” Boats, pilings, roofs, trees trapped them.

Those voices still invaded her dreams. Then when Galveston was silent again, soldiers' moans echoed in her head. She couldn't make them stop.

She glanced at Molly and jerked out of her nightmare.

Molly's green eyes were as peaceful as the center of the hurricane had been when it passed over Galveston that night and gave them a brief respite. Molly gazed at her with such understanding. Had she spoken aloud?

“You lost your grandfather?”

“Yes.” The horrible events that she'd replayed a thousand times flashed through her mind.

Jaq had held her older sister's hand and peeked into the hastily dug hole in their backyard. Her father and brothers had wrapped her grandfather in a white sheet and lowered him into it.

The priest had raced through the ritual, but the stench that encompassed the entire island had almost gagged her. Their big live-oak trees had all blown down, so they stood in the blazing sun and the mud. Sweat ran down her sides, and she smelled horrible because she hadn't had a bath in so long. A mosquito kept buzzing around her face, and flies were crawling up her arm and zooming around the sheet where her grandfather lay, stiff and dead. She craved a drink of water and something to eat, but Mother said they didn't have much left, that they had to save as much of it as possible for when they left the island.

“Be still and stop sniveling,” her mother had hissed during the funeral. “If you hadn't been so stubborn and run out after Bébé during the storm, your grandfather would be alive right now.”

It was all her fault. Jaq had held the pup and petted her and tried to get her to calm down, but Bébé had kept barking so loud she finally put her down for just a minute. When a huge gust blew the back door open, Bébé went wild and dashed out. Jaq had chased her, splashing through the big mud puddles. Just as Jaq had been about to wade after her into the flooded alley, someone grabbed her. It was Grandfather, and he'd kept her from saving Bébé. She'd broken away from him and run back toward their house, crying.

Just as she'd reached the back door, she'd heard a loud crash and turned around. A huge tree limb had crashed right where she'd just been, and all she could see was Grandfather's legs sticking out from under part of it.

He was dead, and Mother was right. All her fault.

Molly said softly, her voice jolting Jaq back to the parlor, “I'm so sorry. You were, what, seven? eight?”

“Six years and three months. It seemed like the end of the world. I'd never seen my parents act like that. I'm sure they tried to hide their fear, for our sake. My sister was ten, my twin brothers eight, and I was the baby. They wanted to protect us, but nobody could.”

As she tried to shake off the memories, Molly's small hand touched her knee and she spoke, her voice soothing. “I wish I could have been with you. I was almost thirteen when the Storm hit. The water started to rise and we ran out to the bay and played in the waves. But then it began to flood our yard. The wind kept picking up speed. It blew off roofs and ripped limbs from the trees. All my family survived, but I was terrified.”

That's exactly how Jaq had felt, but she'd never told anybody.

“Papa was in Galveston that week because he was scheduled to hold a church meeting there. He waited as long as possible but finally realized how bad the hurricane might be and caught the last train out.

“He told us the wind and the waves had pushed the locomotive off the tracks. He'd managed to get out of the coach and climb on top of a floating boxcar, and he lay there panting and praying it wouldn't sink.”

Molly let go of her knee and returned her hand to her lap. Jaq missed their contact immediately.

Molly shifted in her chair. “Papa tried to save a drowning woman and her baby. He held on to the boxcar railing with one hand, stretched out his other arm, and pulled her on top of the train by her long hair. The baby was dead, poor little mite. But the woman lived. They managed to stay on top of that boxcar all night through the Storm, and the next morning some men in a rowboat rescued them.”

Jaq was glad she'd decided to visit the Russells, in spite of Molly's mother-in-law. Molly was so beautiful, and she seemed to understand. Holy smoke. She made Jaq feel so much better. But after those revelations, she couldn't be attracted to Molly, couldn't even consider seducing someone so pure and innocent.

Molly scared her more than the Storm had.

Mrs. Russell plopped down on the large couch then arched her back to try to get shed of some of the soreness. If she didn't keep working, the misery hit her pretty hard. The preacher had finally left, but they had an uninvited visitor, so she had to sit some more instead of walking the fields like she'd rather.

“Hot cup of coffee, Jacqueline? That'd be the ticket late in the afternoon like this. Molly, how about fetching some? Make it myself out of white-oak acorns from the yard. Soak 'em a few days to get the tannin out, then roast and grind 'em. Almost as good as the real thing. Sure will be glad when this dang war is over and done with, though. I miss my coffee and especially my sugar.”

“Why, thank you.” Jacqueline turned to Molly. “I'd appreciate a cup. If you don't mind.” As she spoke she locked eyes with Molly and preened like she'd just discovered an egg under a setting hen, all pleased with herself and the hen too. What had those two been cooking up? She'd get to the bottom of this situation in nothing flat.

After Molly left, she gave Jacqueline her best smile. “So, what brings you and Eric to our neck of the woods?”

Jacqueline smoothed the nap of the sofa like it was a cat purring beside her. “He had to come help his father find some decent hired help. Then we can go back to New Orleans.”

“Kinda worries me 'bout old McCade's sons being in that big camp. I heard the sickness up there's different from any influenza they ever saw, but it won't amount to much.”

“I read something like that too. Do they know exactly what it is?”

“Nope. Sounds more like pneumonia. But when the boys go overseas, no telling what they'll come across. Hope my son Clyde doesn't come down with it.”

Jacqueline looked real concerned. “I had a bad case of something last summer. Felt like I'd die. It's one reason I came home.”

“Say, Jacqueline. The ladies in our local Red Cross chapter would be pleased if you'd join us at our weekly meeting. Molly goes once in a blue moon, but she usually has some music carrying-on. I could take you, introduce you—”

“No, thanks. I'm sick of this men's war. I've been helping the suffragists fight for the vote instead.”

Well, she should have known Jacqueline would be cozy with that bunch of heifers. Maybe she'd come around later.

Molly hustled in carrying a small tray. “Here you go. Two cups of coffee, a glass of water, and some leftover chocolate pie.”

She had to strain to keep from scowling. It wasn't right to have to share her sweets with a stranger. As Molly sat down, she couldn't resist jibing her. “Jacqueline and Eric are heading back to New Orleans soon.”

Molly's face fell. That'd teach her to give away pie.

So she and Jacqueline had already sparked, she thought. Molly would want to gad about with her. They both needed to tend to their families and do their patriotic duty.

“Don't let me interrupt your conversation, girls.”

“We were talking about the 1900 Storm. Jacqueline lived through it, and I was so nearby—”

“Heavens to Betsy, that was the worst hurricane imaginable. James finished the house that year. Did y'all stay on Galveston Island after it blew through?”

Jacqueline looked like she didn't want to talk about it. But then she started in like she aimed to flush it right out of her system.

“After the Storm, we didn't have anything. No telephones or electricity, of course. But no food except what little was left in the house—not even much drinking water. And we were the lucky ones. Some people didn't even have any clothes.”

Jacqueline acted like she really didn't want to say any more. Finally, though, she smoothed down her bangs like she was making sure nobody could see under 'em and soldiered on.

“All the bridges were gone, so nobody could get to us and we couldn't go anywhere. We'd have starved if we'd had to stay much longer. But Father found a small boat—he was in the shipping business, and most of his fleet was out at sea. Some men who worked for him rowed us across to the mainland.”

Molly sipped her water and looked like she was 'bout to cry. “Thank God y'all were saved.”

“Saved?” Jacqueline asked, like she almost wished she hadn't been. “Eventually. But we didn't find anything on the mainland but more dead bodies—people and animals. All the roads were washed out, and the train tracks were twisted like hairpins, some of them around tree trunks. It stank so bad we threw up what little food we'd eaten.”

Jacqueline picked up a saucer of pie, then set it back down without taking a bite. Maybe she'd lost her appetite. She kept on talking like there was no tomorrow. And at church Mrs. Russell had thought she was stingy with her words.

She pondered the situation. Come to think of it, that's the way she'd been when she finally found somebody to listen to her about what happened in Georgia during the War.

Jacqueline recommenced. “We walked until my legs almost fell off. Then my brothers took turns carrying me. We saw mud puddles everywhere, but we couldn't drink the water because of all the rotting bodies. Finally, we saw smoke. It was a relief train from Houston, and we ran to it as fast as we could.”

She warmed up to Jacqueline. She'd been through some rough patches. Not like Molly, who'd always had her bread buttered on both sides. She knew what it felt like to be hungry, but she didn't let herself dwell on the hard times. It was too easy to get caught up in them and miss out on the good ones.

Might as well let these youngsters know 'bout real suffering. Maybe give Jacqueline a little consolation. She was evidently carrying some mighty heavy burdens.

She cleared her throat. “Well, in 1864 my life was kinda like what you describe, Jacqueline. I lived a good piece west of Atlanta, and my future husband spent all that long, hot summer on the battlefield defending the city.” She'd treasured every letter he'd scribbled on a scrap of paper with a pencil and sent her.