Wanted: Wife (23 page)

“Yeah?” he said, stepping into the yard. “Where?” A few seconds later, he turned to us. “Lightning strike in Fall’s Corner, around mile marker twenty-two. Hit a patch of old growth.” He yanked the door opened. “Celia, we got to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill,” she said, taking one more bite of apple.

“Christ, that’s less than five miles from here,” said Andy.

“Better get prepped. It’s always the best thing.” Ray downed his coffee, handing me the cup. “Thanks for the wonderful dinner. I have a feeling it’s the last food I’m getting for a while.”

As we watched them pull out I said to Andy, “What do you think?”

He put his arm around me and smiled. “We’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”

I sighed. Not what I wanted to hear.

Chapter Sixteen

Surf ‘n Turf

A
NDY’S DAD HAD
kept an old police scanner in the barn, and we set it up in the living room, listening late into the night. There had been a few more lightning strikes in the general vicinity of Fall’s Corner and all with very little rain, hitting mostly wilderness with lots of dead timber for fuel. By two
PM
we heard two hundred and fifty acres had burned, and you could smell the smoke in the yard. By three, it was close to four hundred acres and you could see it, a gray fog wisping through the trees and over the lake, filling the air with a choking thickness, making it hard to breathe. By three-thirty, even though the house was closed tight you could still smell it inside, and by four we climbed to the roof, seeing flames for the first time, the sky above it a sickly orange. By the time we climbed down, Uncle Jinks, a longtime volunteer fireman, was pulling into the yard.

“Twelve hundred acres, so far,” he said, stepping out of his truck. “They’ve managed to contain it at Fall’s Corner, but six houses caught damage outside of Sheffield Township, most of them with no firebreaks.”

“How about the ones
with
firebreaks?” I asked, coughing. Already it was hard to breathe.

He didn’t have to answer; the hot gust of wind that blew across the yard did it for him. “Anyway, I’ve been sent to tell you to evacuate. Unless the wind shifts, you’ve got an hour, maybe two, before both roads out of here won’t be passable. We’re bringing a pumper truck in to start wetting down the woods from your lake. You can go on over to my house. It’s still smoky, but nowhere near as bad.”

“Julie will go,” Andy said, “but I’m staying to help.”

“No!” I said, clutching Andy’s arm. Whether it was my reporter’s radar or I’d become more attached to this place than I realized, I wasn’t about to leave either. “I want to help just as much as you.”

“Which both add up to nothing,” Jinks said, adamant. “Look, you can hardly breathe now around this smoke, and in a little while we’re all going to need masks if we want to breathe at all. If you’re worried about your house and barn, you have a real good firebreak, and I’ll make sure everything gets soaked down, which we can do a whole hell of a lot better and faster than with that garden pisser you’ve got there. Now, go on and get out of here while you still can.”

Andy opened his mouth to argue, then apparently thought it pointless. With the smoke rolling in over the lake, there really wasn’t much he could argue about. Not that he appeared to like it.

“Okay, you win,” he said. “Julie, why don’t you pack an overnight bag for the both of us. I’ll go get the truck and round up Bucky.”

“You’d better hurry,” said Jinks. “The smoke’s getting pretty bad, pretty fast.”

I didn’t need him to tell me that; already my eyes were stinging so badly it was hard to keep them open. Smoke had even seeped through the floorboards and roof and into the house, a gray pall and stench wafting through it. I grabbed my overnighter from underneath the bed and stuffed it with underwear and t-shirts and anything else I could think of, panic gripping me as I gasped for air. I remembered an old story I heard and wet two linen dishtowels down and threw them in a plastic bag. The reek of smoke was like a chokehold on my throat, even worse when I opened the front door and realized the contrast. I couldn’t see ten feet past the front porch. I stumbled down the steps, almost blinded, the hem of my t-shirt over my nose as I searched the fog for Andy.

“Andy!” I cried into the murk.

Almost immediately the truck pulled out in front. “Hurry—get in.” Before I did I checked the seat and back. “Where’s Bucky?”

“He wasn’t in the house?”

“No!” I yelled. “Andy, we can’t leave him.”

“I don’t want to, but how can we find him in this soup?”

“Bucky!” I screamed into the yard. “Bucky!” I turned to Andy. “If he doesn’t burn up, he’ll suffocate—we just can’t leave him here! We can’t!”

Andy whistled and yelled, but it was impossible to see past the immediate, our own voices seeming to end in a dull thud. Then Jinks came up alongside. I tried not to panic when I saw the breathing mask in his hand.

“If you’re looking for the dog,” he said, “I saw him running across the road as I pulled in the yard.”

I clutched Andy’s arm. “He’s probably disoriented by the smoke. Oh, Andy, we’ll never find him now.”

He looked at his uncle. “Will you watch out for him?”

“I just saw him not ten minutes ago; he’s fine. When he shows up I’ll take him with me. Now go on, get out of here.” Jinks looked to me. “I have your number, and you have mine. I’ll keep you posted. Like I said, it’s the smoke that’s worse than the fire.”

“What about Betsy?” I said. “And the chickens?”

Andy laughed, which I took as a good sign. “The chickens will just have to fend for themselves, but Betsy’s safe in the barn.”

“And I’m the one who showed you how to work that milking contraption,” said Jinks. “She won’t burst. Now, go on get out of here before you won’t be able to see at all. The pumper should be here any—well, speak of the—!”

Just then a fire truck rumbled into the yard. At least I thought it was a fire truck as the smoke momentarily stirred, followed by a couple pick-ups containing men and equipment.

“Okay, now I feel better,” Andy said, shifting the truck into gear. He looked to his Uncle Jinks. “You be careful,
mon oncle
,” he said, clasping his hand. “There’s lots of food and coffee in the house for you and the men, so help yourself.”

“Thanks, don’t think we won’t. Now go on and get that wife of yours out of here.” Andy waved, pulling out of the yard.

Driving through the smoky woods was a nerve-wracking exercise in patience, made even worse by the cover of night. You wanted to go fast but you couldn’t see, as without the painted lines of an asphalt road to guide you, all you had was sugar sand and the claustrophobic fencing of trees and undergrowth. With the headlights reflecting back glare, I believed we could’ve gone faster crawling. At one point it was so thick we apparently drove right into the smoke’s trajectory. With wet dishtowels over our mouths and noses, Andy had to crack the window so he could hear the road as we couldn’t see it, the air outside so black and viscous it would’ve been easier breathing from the bottom of the lake. My throat scorched and my eyes streaming, the interior of the truck like an oven, I broke out in a sweat, gasping for air through the damp cloth.

Andy rubbed my neck. “Just a little bit longer.”

Wishful thinking, I knew, when all of a sudden it brightened and a herd of deer thundered across the trail, leaping madly into the woods. Ahead flames licked the trees on the other side of the road, burning as fast as a match struck to paper.

Andy stomped on the brake, his face frozen, his fingers whitening around the steering wheel. “Andy . . .?” I said but he didn’t answer. “Andy!”

In the microsecond it took me to shake his arm he reacted with a jolt. As the flames climbed and licked, I swore I could see that boy from all those years before, finding his father on fire. “Andy!” I cried, shaking him.

He whipped his head toward me, as if suddenly discovering I was there. He clenched his eyes and, turning, refocused on the road. “Hold on,” he said, squeezing my hand. Then he stepped on the gas and roared forward.

I coughed, holding on, my heart in my throat.

The burning branches arced around us like a fiery tunnel, snapping and whirring. I never knew fire was so noisy, but it crackled, rumbled and howled, screeching pitifully as the wind blew through it, crashing when it took down a limb. Andy bore through the conflagration like a guided missile, his head up, his body forward, his eyes dead ahead, while I clawed my nails into the dashboard, terrified, coughing and in awe. With the fire lighting the inside like a thousand-watt bulb Andy was beyond illuminated, a study in incandescent tenacity.

“Just hold on,” he said. “We’re almost through.”

“I-I’m okay,” I said, and just like that, I was. Suddenly the flames receded, and within the next hundred feet the fog lifted, at least enough we could see the trail again. By the time Andy idled at the stop sign on Main Street, the smoke had thinned into a haze, three more fire trucks turning onto the trail to get into it. A few more feet and we hit tar. I was so happy I wanted to get out and kiss the ground. Instead I kissed Andy’s cheek.

“Thank you for getting me out of there,” I said.

He looked wired, relieved and oh-so-grateful. “Thank you for trusting me enough to do it.”

“Oh Andy,” I said, kissing his cheek again, “I want to say I’d trust you with my life, but it looks like I just did.”

He leaned in, but whatever moment there was to be between us was suddenly broken by a bark.

We both turned at once and saw Bucky yapping his head off from the bay of the truck. “Bucky!” I yelled.

“He must have jumped in as we were going through the smoke,” Andy said. He opened his door and immediately the dog hopped out of the back and in between us.

“Bucky! You bad boy!” I cried, hugging his smoky ruff. “Damn, if you don’t smell like a barbecue. The first thing we’re all doing at Uncle Jinks’ is take a shower, you included.” I coughed. “It’s even up my nose.”

Andy turned onto Main Street. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to wait a little longer,” he said, just as Jinks’ house appeared in the rear window.

“Hey! You passed Uncle—say . . .” I peered at him. Where’re you going?”

“It’s a surprise. We should be there in an hour.”

“And where’s that?” I said as he veered a sharp left. “Wait, I know this road. It goes to Tuckerton. We’re going to Tuckerton?”

“Sure. It’s where we pick up Route Nine.”

“Why’re we going to Route Nine?” The last thing I was in the mood for was a surprise when I was exhausted, smelly, and badly in need of coffee. “Andy! I’m tired and filthy and I can hardly breathe. Where in hell are you taking me?”

He smiled again, nudging me back to the seat. “I’m taking you as far away from all this smoke and fire as we can get. Now relax and close your eyes. I’ll wake you up when we get there. And open your window.” He rolled down his. “The air’s already clearer.”

I hadn’t the strength to argue. I rolled down the window, the cool air hitting my lungs like an infusion. I sucked it in, my head clearing enough to tell the rest of my body that at a quarter past five
AM
all was well, and no one would mind, least of all me, if it shut down for a little while. I closed my eyes and promptly complied.

T
HE TRUCK BOUNCED
and my eyes opened, my head lolling against the headrest as Bucky lifted his head from my lap. Ahead lay an expanse of bridge and water, the sky lightening over land in the distance.

“W-Where are we?” I said, momentarily disoriented, every bone in my body aching.

Andy’s arm stretched across the back of the seat, his fingers kneading my neck. I sighed, feeling the vertebrae pop. “Long Beach Island, coming up.”

“Long Beach—?” I reached through the fog of memory. “You have a house on Long Beach Island?”

“Well, it’s more like a cottage.”

“Cottage is fine,” I said. Bucky hopped up and stuck his head out the window, and recognizing a good idea when I saw one, I did too, the air salty and crisp, snapping me awake. As we bumped from islet to islet over the causeway, the bay slipped like mercury beneath us, and I felt a tingling which had nothing to do with hunger and exhaustion. “Are we spending the day?”

He squeezed my hand. “Or two. How’s that sound?” A shimmer of ocean became visible for a split-second as we topped the highest bridge. Since I was little, there wasn’t anything I loved more than the Shore, becoming the seasonal Jersey Girl for at least two weeks every summer, three, if my father could manage it. “Sounds too good to be true. But what about the farm? Does Uncle Jinks know?”

“He knows,” Andy said, steering the truck off the bridge. At the Boulevard he turned right, and through the waning night and with hardly a word, we drove nearly to the tail of the long barrier island, past storefronts and houses already shuttered for the off season, through the larger village of Beach Haven and to where the island narrowed to just the boulevard and interspersed houses, ocean dunes on one side and bay reeds on the other. With the end of it in view he made a left into a driveway, and up a rise to a small blue-shuttered, clapboard house, bordered by dune grass and holly. Andy picked through his key ring and we went inside.

When Andy flicked on a light I could see it was at least half the size of the farmhouse, with white wainscoted walls and wood floors and a brick fireplace in the living room on the left, which stretched into a kitchen the width of the house, and on the right, two tiny bedrooms and a miniscule bathroom. Bucky trotted in and settled by the hearth. But I only noticed it in passing as I went directly to the door at the other end, which opened to a small covered porch, and a berm of dune, and a soft, undulating roar.

A second later I was at the railing, taking in beach and ocean and a faint pinking on the horizon, the breeze ruffling my hair and pebbling my skin, promising a last taste of summer. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, letting the salt eat away at the smoke and stifle, the unobstructed expanse of sea and sky such an antidote for the last twelve hours I felt giddy, and oh-so-grateful.