Page 13 of No Judgements

“We’ve got a suite on the fourth floor,” Patrick went on. “We check in tomorrow morning. We’ve got it through the weekend. We’re going to ride this thing out like true queens.”

“We’re taking our George Foreman grill,” Bill, who loved to cook, informed me. “Because my uncle Rick just sent us a batch of Omaha steaks, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to let them sit here and spoil when the power goes out.”

“But.” I was confused. “You won’t be able to grill on the balcony if there’s a hurricane.”

“No, we’re going to grill them in the room. Because the Cascabel has a generator. So even if there’s no power on the rest of the island due to the storm, we’ll still be eating like civilized human beings.”

“Oh.” I tried to picture the two of them grilling Omaha steaks in a luxury hotel room during a hurricane. “I’m sure the Cascabel staff will be thrilled about that.”

“Oh, it’s going to be bougie as hell,” Patrick assured me, “but fabulous. And you’re going to be fabulous, too, because you’ll be coming with us, of course.”

“What?” I burst out laughing. “No, I’m not.”

“Girl, yes, you are. We couldn’t in good conscience enjoy our steaks knowing that you’re here, possibly drowning in disgusting harbor water. Of course you’re coming with us. We’ll have them set up an extra cot in the suite. And you’re bringing this bad boy.” Patrick stooped down and gave Gary a scratch under the chin. Gary let out a small mew in protest since he hadn’t finished marking their feet, but then allowed himself to be stroked, mostly because the area underhis chin was his most sensitive spot, and any stroking there sent him into spasms of ecstasy, and Patrick knew it. “You know he gets along with the babies.”

It was true that Gary did, indeed, get along with Patrick and Bill’s three pugs.

“That is the nicest invitation.” I watched as Gary fell over onto his back, showing his round white belly, all four paws up in a gesture of complete surrender. “I just might take you up on it.”

“Oh, perfect!” Patrick straightened, and Gary promptly rolled back onto his feet and went after their toes again. “Well, we have to go finish delivering these.” He indicated the Jell-O shots. “It’s important to keep up people’s spirits during these trying times.”

“I understand,” I said. “Thanks again.”

When they were gone, I made sure Gary was well stocked with food and water, checked out my reflection one last time in the mirror to make sure Patrick was right about the dress, swallowed the Jell-O shot, then got on my bike. I’d decided it would be best to bike rather than take my scooter to Mrs. Hartwell’s party since I knew I had to continue to conserve fuel. Plus, I would be consuming alcohol.

Fortunately I only lived directly down the hill from the Hartwells. As I pedaled by the boarded-up homes of my neighborhood, not a single car or pedestrian passed me. It was as if I lived in a ghost town. Over my head, fast-moving purple clouds were beginning to pile up, flashing brilliant fuchsia with heat lightning here and there behind the trees. The storm was still too far out to sea for this to be one ofthe “rain bands” the meteorologists kept warning us about, though the wind had picked up significantly.

After locking my bike to an ornamental streetlamp close to Mrs. Hartwell’s house, I pulled the bottle of champagne I’d brought along as a house gift from the basket of my bike and climbed the long flight of white wooden steps to the Hartwells’ wide porch. Fans swung lazily overhead as I pressed the old-fashioned brass buzzer bell beside the Victorian door and heard a corresponding ring inside the house—along with the steady rhythm of salsa music and loud conversation.

Nothing happened. No one had heard me. Behind me, far off in the distance, thunder rumbled. Maybe that hadn’t been heat lightning after all. Maybe the meteorologists had been wrong, and the first of Marilyn’s rain bands was coming sooner than they’d predicted.

There was a large window in the front door, but it was covered by a lace curtain, so I couldn’t see what was behind it. I could, however, hear laughter. People were having a good time, despite the impending threat.

Encouraged, I laid my hand on the door handle, and let myself in.

I found myself in a long entrance hallway filled with dark-stained wood and an elaborate crystal chandelier. A strong scent of pine hit me. That must be the extinct wood the house was made of that Mrs. H had mentioned.

The home clearly hadn’t been renovated much since the day it had been constructed by the original Captain Hartwell, but that’s because it didn’t need it—unless you weresomeone who was into modern décor, which I wasn’t, necessarily.

The walls were wainscoted and wallpapered in traditionally nautical patterns and colors, pale blue with crisp white stripes or shells, the furniture heavy but comfortable looking, the original wood floors carpeted here and there with Persian throw rugs. Gold-framed portraits of ancient Hartwell ancestors lined the walls, the ship captains and their wives glaring down at me sternly in their dark frock coats and gowns, in which they must have been quite uncomfortable, considering the subtropical heat.

There was about as little Floridian as you could imagine in the Hartwells’ home, except for a large parrot cage that I passed in the living room on my way toward the back of the house, from which I could hear the music. The parrot greeted me with a cheerful “Hello, Joe!” as I made my way past.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

The house was dark, thanks to all the windows being shuttered in anticipation of the storm...

... at least until I followed the cheerful flow of music and voices past the old-fashioned and ornate dining room, and then onto a wide, wraparound back deck, which opened onto a vast backyard and pool area, lit by tiki torches.

“Bree?” asked a deep, all too familiar voice.

Chapter Seven

Time:8:10P.M.

Temperature:80ºF

Wind Speed:9 MPH