Ron & Janet Benrey
Grits and Glory

Published by Steeple Hill Books™

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Sean stumbled against the wind and managed to grab the handle of Glory Community Church’s side door with his good hand. He saw the door begin to open and leaned against it.

“It’ll take both of us to hold it against the wind,” he shouted.

“Okay,” Ann shouted back. “You push, I’ll pull.”

He managed to stay on his feet and, with Ann’s help, made it inside.

“Your head is bleeding!” she gasped.

“The church’s steeple fell on our truck when it blew off the roof.”

“You need a doctor,” she said, guiding him toward a chair in the small lobby. Sean sat down. He heard Ann say something, but he couldn’t make it out. Then he felt her shake his shoulder.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Ann said. “Keep talking.”

Sean gazed at Ann. Her hair was drenched and makeup had run down her cheeks.

“You’re pretty.”

“Now I’m sure you need medical attention.”

Sean chuckled, and then everything went black.

RON AND JANET BENREY

began writing romantic cozy mysteries together more than ten years ago—chiefly because they both loved to read them. Their successful collaboration surprised them both, because they have remarkably different backgrounds.

Ron holds degrees in engineering, management and law. He built a successful career as a nonfiction writer specializing in speechwriting and other aspects of business writing. Janet was an entrepreneur before she earned a degree in communications, working in such fields as professional photography, executive recruiting and sporting-goods marketing.

How do they write together and still stay married? That’s the question that readers ask most. The answer is that they’ve developed a process for writing novels that makes optimum use of their individual talents. Perhaps even more important, their love for cozy mysteries transcends the inevitable squabbles when they write one.

Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.

—Isaiah 43:18

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

ONE

“I am the administrator of Glory Community Church, gentlemen.”

Ann Trask sat upright in her chair and spoke with determination. She hoped the rigid posture would make her look more formidable. “It is my responsibility to remain in the building in the event of an emergency—especially when Pastor Hartman is out of town.”

One of the two big men standing in front of Ann’s desk grinned at her. Rafe Neilson, Glory’s deputy police chief, was solidly in her corner. The other man scowled and made a disparaging gesture.

“We don’t need false bravery today, Miss Trask. There’s a major hurricane bearing down on our corner of North Carolina. Gilda is the proverbial ‘really big one,’ a mid-September wind machine strong enough to be a killer. Her outer rain bands are flooding Glory’s streets as we speak.” Phil Meade’s gaze locked onto Ann’s face as he spoke directly to her. “The outer rain bands are on the periphery of the storm, but they sometimes spawn tornadoes along with the drenching rain. They’re a taste of what’s to come. You don’t want to be here when the main storm arrives.” He crossed his arms. “I say that as Glory’s director of emergency management.”

Ann took a deep breath and prayed that neither man could hear her heart thumping. She knew to the depths of her queasy stomach that Phil Meade—a respected expert in disaster management—had spoken the truth. He even looked the part: late forties, tall, wide, florid-faced and gray at the temples, with a powerful bass voice that commanded respect. But right as Phil was, she couldn’t run away. Not again. This time, she would take control of her fears.

“What do you think, Rafe?” Ann said, as evenly as she could. She noted that he had stopped grinning.

Please don’t let Rafe side with Phil against me.

“Well, we all agree that Glory Community Church is one of the most solidly built structures in town. Moreover, it’s located on the highest patch of ground we have. That’s why we’ve designated it as an emergency shelter. If there’s anyplace in Glory that can survive a major hurricane, this is it.”

“Exactly—” Ann began, but Rafe kept talking.

“However, I feel uneasy that you’ll remain when virtually everyone else has evacuated Glory.”

“Dozens of people are staying,” she protested.

Phil Meade jumped back in. “Correct! Police officers, firefighters, a few medical professionals, the mayor, my staff, a handful of other essential personnel, and me.” He pointed at Ann. “We don’t need a twenty-four-year-old civilian putting her life at risk and making our work more difficult.”

“I’m almost twenty-five, Mr. Meade. There are younger police officers patrolling Glory, and some of them have spouses and children to worry about. I’m single—free as the proverbial bird. I don’t even have my mother to take care of. She’s across the state visiting my brother in Asheville.” Ann took a swift breath. “Someone has to be on duty in Glory’s emergency shelter—I’m glad for the opportunity to be useful.”

Phil turned to Rafe. “What are we going to do about this?”

“I’d have to put her in handcuffs to make her leave town.” He clapped Phil on the shoulder. “Like she said, someone needs to be on duty inside the church.”

“Pah! You deal with her. I have sensible people to worry about.” Phil strode toward the door to Ann’s office, and then spun around. “Miss Trask, make sure you give Rafe a phone number for your next of kin. Just in case.”

Ann camouflaged the jolt of anxiety she felt with a hollow laugh while she listened to Phil’s boot-shod feet clomp down the church’s hallway. He had said the perfect thing to push her panic button.

Please don’t make my mother deal with another visit from the police.

“Phil has a point,” Rafe said. “This may not be the wisest decision you’ve made.”

“Perhaps not.” Ann swallowed hard to clear the alarm from her voice. “But I have an important job to do.”

And this time people are going to see me do it properly.

“Well, if your mind is made up—”

“Good!” Ann said quickly. “Now that that’s settled, when will things get bad in Glory?”

Rafe’s expression became grim. “Gilda’s eye wall—and her strongest winds—will reach Glory at five o’clock this afternoon.”

“So the worst of the hurricane should be over before nightfall, right?”

“I’m afraid not. Gilda’s a massive storm. Her remnants could be with us until the wee hours of tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think the electricity will fail?”

Rafe nodded. “Everyone at the emergency command center expects the power to fail a few minutes after Gilda hits. The citizens of Glory should be prepared to spend Monday night in the dark.” He smiled. “Correction! Most of us should. The church, however, has an emergency generator that will switch on automatically. You’ll be a beacon of light for the rest of Glory.”

“That’s part of every church’s job description.”

Rafe uttered a soft grunt of agreement, then asked, “Are any volunteers still working in the church?”

“No,” Ann said. “They’re all gone. They hung the storm shutters early this morning and finished installing the plywood panels over our stained-glass windows about a half hour ago.” She made a vague gesture toward her own shuttered window. “It’s as dark as a tomb inside the sanctuary.”

“Tombs survive big hurricanes. Anyway, I’m glad the volunteers are finished.”

“Me, too,” Ann said, although she’d been sorry to see the eight men go. They hadn’t even taken time to say goodbye. Seconds after the hammering stopped, Ann heard eight engines rev. She understood completely. The volunteers had to protect their own homes from the approaching storm and then evacuate their families further inland, at least to Rocky Mount, perhaps to Winston-Salem.

“I see you’re wearing the miniature tactical police radio I gave you,” Rafe said.

Ann tugged at the two lanyards around her neck. She felt the small lozenge-shaped gizmo bounce against her chest. “I keep the radio you gave me next to my high-intensity flashlight.”

“Our emergency command center is part of police headquarters, less than three blocks from the church. Contact me if you need any help.”

Ann bit her tongue. She wanted to say, You can count on it. Instead, she said, “I won’t need any help. The church is fully battened down.”

The building became astonishingly silent after Rafe said his goodbyes and left. Ann could hear the quartz clock on her desk counting off the seconds. The ticking sound seemed louder than it ever had before, and somehow threatening.

“The church is one of the most solidly built structures in Glory,” she reminded herself again. “Gilda can huff, puff, and tear loose a few roof shingles, but the walls won’t fall down. And the church’s generator will keep the lights on all night.

You don’t have anything to worry about. So stop worrying. This isn’t going to be like last time. I’m much better prepared.

“We’ve got trouble,” Sean Miller said to the person he thought was seated right behind him. “I can’t find a safe place to park the broadcast van.” When he received no response, he looked around and saw that Carlo Vaughn had moved to the back of the van and was rummaging through the closet.

Sean ignored the rush of exasperation that made him want to throw something. “Carlo, please pay attention. I said that we don’t have a home for the van.”

“I heard you, but I have a more pressing problem to solve. I don’t know which of my waterproof rain suits to wear this afternoon. The yellow looks good on me, but I hate the oversized Storm Channel logo embroidered on the front and the back.”

“Then put on your red suit.”

“It pinches at the waist, and the hood is less flattering.”

“What about the navy-blue slicker?”

“Blue is too dark during a heavy storm. My torso disappears—I end up looking like someone removed my head from my body.”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Sean muttered under his breath. Then he said, “Our only pressing problem right now is finding a parking place for the broadcast van. You’re scheduled to go live in less than an hour. I can’t set up the camera and the lights, start our generator, or get the satellite antenna working until we’re safely parked.”

Carlo returned to Sean’s cramped workstation. “I thought you planned to park behind the high school.”

Sean poked his index finger at the map of Glory he’d taped to the desktop. “That was okay before Gilda took direct aim at the town. The high school is located in a low spot that’s likely to flood.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Carlo frowned. “What about that other parking spot we scouted this morning?”

“The local cops called me five minutes ago. The parking structure at Glory Regional Hospital is no longer available because the town is going to use it as a staging area for emergency vehicles.”

“It’s your job to bed down the van. I’m confident that you’ll find a solution,” Carlo said, heading back to the closet.

“I see one remaining possibility on the map—the parking lot next to Glory Community Church. It’s sizable and not likely to flood.”

“Problem solved! We’ll park at the church. I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about a simple decision.”

“The decision may be simple, but the church is private property and we don’t have permission to operate from their parking lot.”

“Then we’d better get over there and ask.”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Sean fought to keep his voice even. The cardinal rule of remote broadcasting was don’t upset the “talent” an hour before an upcoming broadcast.

“I don’t have any choice,” Carlo said glumly. “I’ll have to make do with the red jacket.”

“Poor baby!” Sean muttered.

“But it’s really too bad we don’t have a green rain jacket. I look great in green.”

Sean swallowed another sigh. “Let’s go visit the church.”

God, if you’re listening, please turn Carlo into a frog. He does look great in green.

Ann couldn’t see outside but she could hear the windblown rain drumming on the heavily shuttered windows and it was getting louder by the minute. She wished that she knew more about extreme weather. How could she estimate the amount of rain falling? How much wind did it take to peel shingles off the roof? What should she do if the lights failed inside the church?

Stop worrying about Gilda. Other people in Glory are in much greater danger than you are.

The sound of the church’s doorbell promptly switched her thoughts. Maybe someone wants to take refuge inside the church? Ann raced to front door. She had to push the brass handle with all of her strength to keep the stout wooden door ajar against the force of the wind. A yellow hood poked around the edge of the door.

“May we come in?” said a male voice.

“Of course. But I don’t dare let go of the door.”

“We’ll work the door. Stand back so you don’t get soaked. It’s like the bottom of Niagara Falls out here.”

Ann stepped sideways. Mr. Yellow Suit and a taller man dressed in a red rain slicker and pants slipped into the narthex and pulled the door shut. Ann recognized the red-suited man straight away when he tugged back his hood. Carlo Vaughn was the Storm Channel’s star weather reporter. She couldn’t help staring at him. The man was drop-dead gorgeous: a classic chiseled face, perfect features, lovely chestnut-colored hair that framed his brow, glowing dark brown eyes, and a smile that lit up the narthex.

“Good afternoon,” Mr. Yellow Suit said. “We’re from the Storm Channel.”

Ann responded to his greeting politely, then looked back at Carlo to take in more details: the powerful aura of self-assurance he projected…his brilliant, dazzling smile…the absence of a wedding ring on his third finger…

“My name is Carlo Vaughn.” Carlo’s voice oozed like warm syrup over a buttered waffle. He gave his name a slightly European pronunciation, hitting the second syllable rather than the first.

“Welcome to Glory Community Church,” she replied. “I’ve seen you on TV many times.”

“I’ve come to Glory because there’s a hurricane on the way.”

“‘Storms come, storms go. We follow the storms,’” Ann said.

“You even know our slogan.” He extended a hand. “And your name is?”

“Ann Trask,” she managed, trying to conceal her excitement.

“Well, Ann Trask, I have a favor to ask of you. May we locate our broadcast van in your parking lot?” He pointed toward the rear of the building.

“Our van is completely self-contained,” Mr. Yellow Suit barked.

“Thank you, Sean,” Carlo said. “Ann, let me introduce Sean Miller. Sean is my associate, the man behind the camera.”

Ann studied Sean. He’d pulled back his hood, revealing a plain face that currently overflowed with annoyed impatience. His lack of good looks compared to Carlo—plus his sour expression—worked together to create a bad impression. She found herself feeling annoyed at this boorish hanger-on.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Sean said perfunctorily. “The fact is, your parking lot may be the only dry ground in Glory when Gilda hits. We have a broadcast scheduled in less than forty-five minutes. May we park in your lot?”

Ann returned her gaze to Carlo. “How big is your van?”

“Imagine a bread delivery truck with a satellite dish on the roof. We’ll find an out-of-the-way location in the back—you won’t even know we’re there.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Vaughn.”

“Please call me Carlo.”

“Well, Carlo,” Ann said, feeling a flush in her cheeks, “park as close to the church as you’d like. This is one of the most solidly built structures in Glory. We’re set up as an emergency shelter—come inside whenever you need to. Our side entrance faces the parking lot.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Ann noticed that Sean rolled his eyes. She wondered how a gentleman like Carlo could spend his days traveling with an ill-mannered assistant who clearly lacked his boss’s sophistication and polish.

“Ann, I have to get ready to go on the air,” Carlo said. “I’ll leave Sean here to work out the details. Let’s chat later, after my broadcast.”

“That would be great,” Ann said, smiling.

She took a step backward as Sean eased the front door open for Carlo, allowing a whirlwind of raindrops to spray the narthex. Carlo gave a jaunty wave and marched into the downpour. Sean seemed to be shaking his head as he pulled the heavy door shut.

Ann suddenly realized she’d met a TV star while wearing an abysmal outfit—an old pair of blue jeans, a scruffy plaid shirt and bright yellow plastic clogs. What little makeup she had put on that morning had certainly worn off. Why not spruce up before Carlo comes back?

Why not, indeed?

“Ms. Trask,” Sean said loudly, “I’m on a tight schedule.”

She tried not to frown at his unpleasant attempt to catch her attention. “Certainly. What do you need from me?”

“I wanted to explain that I intend to park the van in the lee of the church. That way, the building will shield the van from the worst of the winds but our satellite antenna will still have an unobstructed view of the sky.”

“Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

“There’s a small downside to parking so close to the church. You’ll probably hear our generator from time to time.”

“Oh, you have a generator? We have one, too.”

“My condolences.” He shook his head gloomily. “Ours is the thing I hate most in the world. It’s ornery and unreliable—and a pain to start.”

“Unreliable? Is that common for generators?”

“Usually,” Sean said.

“I’m relying on our generator to work if the power quits tonight,” Ann said, trying not to panic.

Sean looked at her closely. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have made an offhand comment. You probably have a heavy-duty commercial model that starts automatically in the event of a power failure.”

“I don’t know what we have, only that there’s a large gray steel cabinet behind the church.”

“Well, I’d better get back to van. I have less than thirty minutes to put Carlo on the air.”

Ann forced her frown into a smile. “I know you’re busy, Sean, but before you go, could you do me a favor?”

He peered at her uncertainly. “If I can.”

“Look, you seem to understand generators. Would you help me make sure that ours is okay?”

He glanced at his watch. “Well, I suppose I can give you two minutes. Take me to the generator control panel.”

“Control panel?” She hoped that she looked less bewildered than she sounded.

“A small metal box with buttons and lights.” He looked at his watch again. “Maybe I should come back later.”

Ann fought back a touch of distress she didn’t want Sean to see.

“No need. I know what you’re talking about. It’s hanging on the wall in the utility room.”

She quickly led Sean to the control panel. He took a moment to examine it. “Who’s Richard Squires?”

“One of our members—why?”

“There’s a note on the wall. ‘In case of a problem with the generator, call Richard Squires.’”

“Is there a problem?”

“We’re about to find out. The generator is set to automatic, but you can test it by pushing the red manual start button.”

Ann pushed the red button. Almost immediately, she heard a growling noise outside, then the reassuring rumble of an engine. Three small indicator lights on the control panel began to glow green.

“The engine’s running fine, there’s plenty of fuel, and the system is producing electricity.”

“Great!” Ann said, full of relief.

“Hit the black button to turn it off,” Sean said.

But before Ann could lift her hand, the middle light began to flash red. A second later, the engine quit.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“According to the indicator light, something in the fuel system.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t even have time to try. We go on the air in a few minutes. Perhaps you should call this Richard Squires guy on the note.”

Ann immediately felt foolish for not thinking of Richard herself. “Good idea. I’ll call Richard. He’s the church volunteer in charge of the generator.”

“I need to get back to our van.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I’ll see myself out.”

“Be careful out there,” she said, reaching for the cell phone in her pocket.

The generator is Richard Squires’s baby. He’ll know what to do.

TWO

Sean studied the pewter-colored but rainless sky. The break between rain bands gave him a small window of time to deploy the lights and camera. Everything should be fine unless there was an unexpected problem with the camera’s focus and color balance.

I could encourage the unlikely to happen and Carlo would never know.

Sean pushed the delightfully evil thought out of his mind. He would do his job properly, even though he ached to make Carlo look like a fuzzy, multicolored blob. Sean finished setting up with four minutes to spare. He found Carlo in the back of the van memorizing a script he’d written on a yellow notepad.

“Everything’s ready for you,” Sean said.

Carlo looked up and smirked. “Kind of like blond little-miss-what’s-her-name.”

“If you’re talking about the woman in the church, her name is Ann Trask.”

“So it is.” He chortled. “She’s not up to my usual standards, of course, but one can’t be choosy during a hurricane.”

“This isn’t spring break, Carlo. You’re in Glory on assignment, remember?”

“An assignment in a hick city is a perfect opportunity for a quick encounter with a local lass.”

“Ann Trask doesn’t seem a ‘quick encounter’ type of woman.”

“Says who? She checked out my ring finger, I checked out hers. Didn’t you spot her come-hither look when she saw me?”

“That’s nonsense!”

“There’s nothing like stormy weather to relax a woman’s inhibitions, if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean—and you’re making me angry.”

Carlo snorted. “You sound as if you like her.”

“What if I do?”

“Great! We’ll both court her. Competition increases the joy of victory,” said Carlo.

Sean flinched as a bolt of lightning illuminated the interior of the van. The thunderclap came less than a second later.

“That was close,” Carlo said. “Since when do hurricanes have lightning?”

“Most don’t. Gilda is a special storm.”

“Which means?”

“Her vertical wind flows are creating an electrical field. That’s unusual.”

“Unusual bad? Or unusual good?” Carlo’s normally melodious voice had become a little shrill.

“I don’t know.”

“You have to know. You’re the expert. You actually have a degree in meteorology.”

“Don’t get your rain pants in a twist. Lightning doesn’t make a hurricane more powerful.”

“But it definitely increases the danger to reporters broadcasting from parking lots. I’m not in the mood to get struck by lightning this afternoon.”

“We’re parked next to a tall aluminum light pole. If lightning hits anything around here, it will be that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.” He pointed toward the door. “Now get out there. We go live in two minutes.”

Sean sat down at his workstation and manipulated the joysticks that controlled the TV camera and the lights. He slipped his headset over his ears, pushed the attached microphone close to his mouth, and spoke to Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel’s broadcast headquarters on Long Island.

“Hi, Cathy. We’re ready in Glory.”

“Glad to hear it,” she replied. “How’s Gilda so far?”

“Wet, windy and electric. Mr. Magnificent is worried about being zapped by lightning.”

“Get a picture if it happens. I know a dozen women who’d want copies.” Cathy’s voice became cool and businesslike. “Switching to Carlo in twenty seconds.”

Sean pushed the button that connected his microphone to Carlo’s earpiece. “Cue in fifteen seconds.”

Sean heard Carlo clear his throat. “Four…three…two…” Sean counted softly.

A red light lit on his console, confirming that an identical light on the camera had signaled Carlo to begin. Sean studied the monitor screen as Carlo spoke into his handheld microphone. As usual, the camera loved Carlo. He looked artlessly elegant even though his jacket’s tunnel-like hood was fully extended to keep his face dry.

“This is Carlo Vaughn reporting from Glory, North Carolina. It is only four in the afternoon, but the sky is dark in this pretty waterfront town on the Albemarle Sound, an ominous sign of things to come. Another of Gilda’s outer rain bands is dumping precipitation on Glory.”

A gust of wind suddenly tugged at Carlo’s hood and he grabbed at it with his free hand.

“Most of Glory’s six thousand residents have moved to higher ground, leaving a handful of emergency personnel to deal with the approaching hurricane. They’ve been told to prepare for major damage.

“Gilda is the most powerful hurricane to threaten the Albemarle region in more than a decade. The current forecast predicts steady winds exceeding one hundred miles per hour when Gilda arrives in Glory less than an hour from now.”

Sean adjusted the image when a lightning flash illuminated the sky behind Carlo’s head. A moment later, the rumble of thunder shook the van. Carlo took the interruption in stride. “As you’ve just seen and heard, Gilda is also an electrical storm, which is unusual for a hurricane.”

“Off in thirty seconds,” Sean informed Carlo softly.

Carlo unexpectedly took a sideways step. He gazed at the sky to his left and his right, as if he were an expert meteorologist studying the storm. Sean worked the joystick to move the lens to keep Carlo’s face framed in the image. But then, without warning, Carlo stepped closer to the camera, his expression full of compassion and concern. Sean suddenly realized that Carlo was trying to impress Ann Trask.

Cathy’s voice filled Sean’s headphone. “What’s your boy doing? It looks like he’s trying to climb into the viewers’ laps.”

“You don’t want to know,” Sean said grimly.

Carlo began to speak. “The small cadre of people who chose to remain in Glory will soon be tested by Gilda’s fury. I call them the courageous few.

“We’re broadcasting from the parking lot of a church that may provide emergency shelter when the storm hits. The person on duty inside—a young woman named Ann Trask—is willing to brave the danger, not for personal gain, but in the spirit of public service. Stay tuned—we’ll hear Ms. Trask’s observations about Gilda during our next broadcast.

“Glory—we’re with you. This is Carlo Vaughn signing off for now.”

Sean killed the connection to the TV camera.

Blast the man! He put a phony quiver in his voice and his eyes looked weepy.

Sean poked angrily at more buttons on his control console. It wouldn’t matter to Ann that Carlo knew next to nothing about the weather. She wouldn’t care that he was merely imitating a knowledgeable meteorologist. Nope! Like every other female with a pulse, she’d be dazzled by his smarmy good looks. Sean sighed as he zipped up his jacket and prepared to go outside to retrieve the camera and tripod.

Ann Trask is a grown woman. She’ll have to fend for herself in Carlo-land.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say this,” Ann said, “but I’m delighted you stayed in town this evening.” She positioned a golf umbrella to shield Richard Squires’s back from driving rain, fighting against the wind. His big-brimmed baseball cap seemed to be doing a good job keeping rain off his face.

“They won’t let me leave Glory,” he said with a laugh. “I manage the crew that keeps the rest of the emergency personnel well fed. More light on the right side of the engine, please.”

Ann shifted the powerful utility light she held in her other hand and wished she could do more to help Richard. He was a self-taught expert on engine maintenance and a restorer of vintage cars when he wasn’t managing Squires’ Place, one of Glory’s best restaurants. He also sang tenor in Glory Community’s choir.

He picked up a wrench. “One of these days, we’ll have to buy a replacement fuel pump, but this fix will keep the engine running throughout Gilda’s visit.”

“Amen!” Ann murmured.

He went on, “I’m glad that TV fellow tested the generator—I should have done it this morning.”

“You’re one of our most valuable volunteers, Richard. I thank you for all you do for the church.”

She watched Richard stretch to work on the back of the engine. “This is one of those times I wish I was taller,” he said. Even standing on a step stool, Richard, who was only an inch or two taller than Ann, had difficulty reaching deep into the generator’s cabinet.

Her cell phone rang.

“Give me the utility light,” Richard said. “That’ll free up your right hand.”

Ann managed to flip her phone open and was surprised to find her brother calling.

“Alan! Everything all right with Mom?” she asked.

“Mom’s fine—and proud as punch.”

“About?”

“You didn’t hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“You’re famous! Carlo Vaughn talked about you on the Storm Channel.”

“Oh, no! What did he say?” Ann laughed.

“He called you one of the ‘courageous few.’ Even better—he’s going to put you on the air later today.”

“I’ve never been on TV before.” Ann saw Richard struggling with the utility light and the wrench. “I have to run, Alan. Thanks for the news! I’ll call you later. Love to Mom.”

Richard extracted himself from the generator box. “I only heard one side of your conversation, but it seems to me that you should find yourself a TV set. The Storm Channel often repeats Carlo Vaughn’s broadcasts.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m nearly done. I can replace the generator cover by myself.”

“Then what will you do, Richard? The storm’s getting worse,” Ann said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

“It’s a short drive to the emergency command center. I’ll be there long before Gilda arrives for real.”

Ann thanked Richard and headed for the Chapman Lounge, the location of the church’s only TV set. As she walked down the hallway, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass-paneled door. Nothing about her face appearance had improved during the past hour. I’d better freshen up if Carlo is going to stand me in front of a TV camera and ask questions. She made a detour to her office and retrieved the duffel bag she’d packed that morning.

The Chapman Lounge was a comfortable room next to the pastor’s office that had a small sofa, two armchairs, and a big-screen TV set. Ann had to wait less than ten minutes for the rerun of Carlo’s report.

She felt somewhat eccentric laughing out loud in an empty church, but she couldn’t stop herself. Hearing herself praised by Carlo cracked her up. He’d made a grim day more cheery by pushing Gilda to the back of her mind.

She unzipped the duffel bag and surveyed her meager wardrobe. Everything fell into the “working clothing” category—clothes suitable for working in the kitchen, working in the basement, working on the church grounds. Nothing was really appropriate for a TV interview. She finally decided on a pair of tan chinos (clean but threadbare) and a dark blue cotton sweater (originally part of her mother’s wardrobe and at least fifteen years old). The bright blue tactical police radio hanging from the lanyard around her neck would spruce up her outfit with an extra touch of color. It was the best she could do on short notice, she decided.

Ann hadn’t meant to stay in the lounge for long, but she got caught up in the Storm Channel’s coverage of Gilda provided by other weather reporters who were based closer to North Carolina’s Atlantic Coast. The slowly changing satellite images showed the revolving hurricane approaching the shoreline like a huge Frisbee.

Suddenly, the lights flickered. Not the electricity. Not yet. They flickered again, then died, leaving the lounge in complete darkness.

Ann fumbled for the flashlight on her lanyard. The lounge, now illuminated by a single beam, seemed bleak and forbidding, a sensation made even worse by the roar of the wind and the pelting of rain against the wooden shutters, sounds previously covered by the TV. Gilda had arrived.

She soon began to hear the reassuring chug of the church’s generator. The lights blinked back on.

Please, God, keep the engine going.

Ann decided to move to the narthex, to be closer to the front door. As she walked down the hallway, strange creaks from above added to the cacophony of sound. A few seconds later, a loud tearing noise made her flinch, followed quickly by a loud crash outside. It took her a moment to put the sounds together.

Gilda ripped our steeple off the roof.

Sean stumbled against the wind and managed to grab the handle of Glory Community’s door with his good left hand. He used his aching right hand to wipe rain-diluted blood off his face, then gingerly placed his thumb on the doorbell. He pulled again and again, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the haze that seemed to saturate his mind.

He saw the door begin to open and pulled even harder. “It’ll take both of us to hold it against the wind,” he shouted.

“Okay,” Ann shouted back. “You pull, I’ll push.”

The force of the wind against the heavy steel door was even greater than he’d anticipated. It shoved him a step backward and simultaneously tugged Ann beyond the sill, exposing her to the curtain of rain whirling beneath the narrow overhanging portico. He managed to stay on his feet and, with Ann’s help, held the door half-open against a sudden gust.

“Goodness!” she said. “Your head is bleeding.”

“The church’s steeple fell on our truck when it blew off the roof.”

“Where’s Carlo?”

“Still in the truck. He’s unconscious.”

He heard her gasp.

“Let’s get inside,” he said. “Then I’ll call for help.”

Sean maneuvered around Ann and grabbed the inside handle. Slowly…slowly, they dragged the door shut. Sean felt muzzy headed. He sagged against the wall.

“You need a doctor,” she said.

“Probably—but not as much as Carlo.”

Ann guided him toward a chair in the small lobby. “You rest. I’ll radio the emergency command center.”

“I don’t want to drip blood on your upholstery.”

“That chair has survived a dozen Vacation Bible Schools. It’s seen far worse than a few drops of blood.”

Sean sat down. He heard the radio crackle, heard Ann say something, but couldn’t make out what she said.

He felt Ann shake his shoulder. “Huh?”

“They told me to keep you awake,” she said.

He pushed himself to his feet. “I’d better look after Carlo.”

“You did that by walking from the parking lot to the church.” She pushed him back down. “When you rang the bell, I was already at the side door. I heard the steeple fall and I wanted to see what happened.”

“What happened is that it hit our van, and some big pieces of wood plowed through our windshield.” Sean recalled the noise of glass breaking…

“Don’t fall asleep,” Ann said. “Keep talking.”

“Carlo and I were sitting up front, watching the storm. I’d lowered the outriggers, so the wind wouldn’t tip the van…”

“And?”

“There were two strong gusts. The first one knocked out the electricity. The second made a big ‘boom,’ glass and wood flying everywhere. Carlo got the worst of it. He was in the passenger seat.”

Ann said something into her radio, but he only caught one word: paramedic.

“You’re drifting,” Ann said. “Stay with me.”

“I want apologize on behalf of the Storm Channel.”

“Apologize for what?”

“You won’t be on television tonight. Our satellite antenna is smashed. No more live broadcasts from Glory.”

“And here I went to all the trouble of acquiring this soaking wet look.”

Sean gazed at Ann. Her hair was drenched and makeup had run down her cheeks.

“You’re pretty.”

“Now I’m sure that you need medical attention.”

Sean knew he had chuckled, but he couldn’t remember what was funny.

He felt another shake. “Talk some more. Tell me about Gilda.”

“There’s not much to tell. She zigged to the east.”

“What does that mean?”

Sean couldn’t remember. He told himself to focus. His thoughts abruptly sharpened. “Gilda’s track shifted, so Glory’s out of the bull’s-eye. The storm’s weaker southwestern quadrant is blowing through town. The last time I checked, the wind speed was down to eighty-five miles per hour.”

“Glory won’t be flattened?”

“Nope. There’ll be less wind damage and a much smaller storm surge.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” Ann said.

“We weather forecasters try to please.”

He watched Ann step away from him when a man dressed in yellow magically appeared at his side.

“This must be our patient,” the man said.

Ann nodded. “Sean, meet Dave. He’s an emergency medical technician.”

Sean tried to look at Dave, but all he could see was a bright light shining in his right eye.

“He might have a concussion,” Dave said. “I’ll transport him to the hospital, too. Trouble is I can’t use a gurney right now because the rest of the team is working on Carlo Vaughn.” The light blinked off. “Sean, do you think you can walk to the ambulance?”

“Absolutely!” Sean began to stand—and staggered into Ann.

“Not so fast,” Dave said. “I’ll support your right side. Ann, you grab his left arm.” He continued, “Sean, take a step at a time. Tell us if you feel faint.”

“How’s Carlo?” Ann asked.

“Yeah,” Sean muttered. “How is Carlo?”

“He’s conscious, but barely.”

“Oh, my!” Ann said.

“Oh, my,” Sean echoed, and then he said, “I feel dizzy.”

“That’s what happens when you get whacked in the head.” Dave spoke to Ann. “I’ll handle the door, you prop up Sean.”

“Yummy!” Sean said when he felt the rain against his face. He lifted his head. The light poles were dark but three powerful floodlights on the ambulance provided enough illumination to see most of the parking lot. The ambulance was positioned on the left side of the van—the side away from the fallen steeple. The wind was still roaring, but less loudly than before.

“Sheesh!” Sean said to Ann. “Your steeple looks like a stack of firewood.” He tried to move toward the pile of rubble.

“Slow down,” Dave said. “Take one step at a time.”

“I must be seeing things in the dark,” Ann said. “Don’t those look like red boots sticking out from beneath the white boards?”

“Yep,” Sean said. “They look exactly like fake boots.”

“Except…” Ann began, then went silent.

Dave took over. “Except those are real boots, attached to real legs. Someone else was hit by the falling steeple.”

Sean felt uneasy when Ann left his side, ran toward the mound of shattered wood and began to yank the boards away.

“Be careful!” Dave shouted. “Those boards are studded with nails.”

“Shouldn’t you help her?” Sean said to Dave.

“I will—after I get you to the ambulance.”

They’d reached the back of the broadcast van when Ann screamed, loudly enough for Sean to hear her over the wind.

“Dave! It’s Richard Squires!”

Sean remembered. The man who fixes generators…

And then everything went black.

THREE

Ann stood behind Dave as he kneeled down and felt for the artery in Richard Squires’s neck. She knew Dave wouldn’t find a pulse. The way Richard’s body lay under the shattered boards and the empty expression on his face declared he wasn’t alive.

She sucked in two deep breaths to stop the churning in her stomach and glanced up at the clouds that were barely visible against the inky sky. She saw distant flashes of lightning and heard the rumble of faraway thunder.

Both the wind and the rain had subsided considerably since her last sojourn outside, but Gilda was still roaring loudly enough to make conversation difficult without yelling.

“Shift your flashlight a little to the right,” Dave shouted. Ann recalled with a shiver that this was the second occasion in less than three hours that she’d held a light for Richard Squires.

Only this time he was dead. All because he had done a good deed for the church and repaired the generator.

She moved her flashlight beam to the right of Richard’s head, revealing a glistening pink pool of blood mixed with rainwater. She felt like throwing up but managed to resist the urge. Instead she murmured a quiet prayer asking God to comfort the many people in Glory who knew and liked Richard.

Dave aimed his penlight into Richard’s eyes. “No pulse, no pupil response. He’s gone.” Dave climbed to his feet and added, “Richard must have been walking toward his car over there.” Dave pointed toward a compact sedan near the back of the parking lot. Ann could hear the anguish in his voice. “A board smashed the back of his head when the steeple fell.”

Ann switched her flashlight off. “Should we—” The question caught in her throat. She tried again. “Should we move him to the ambulance?”

“We don’t have a second gurney. I’ll come back for Richard’s body after I transport Carlo and Sean to the hospital.”

The ambulance’s rear door was open, the interior brightly lit. Ann could see Carlo, still unconscious, lying on a gurney. A thick white bandage covered his left eye. Sean, his face pale, sat near the door, leaning against another paramedic. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding, but a big bruise on his forehead was beginning to color.

She watched Dave climb into the ambulance. “Do you want to ride with us to the hospital?” he shouted. “You look more than a little shaky yourself.”

Ann ached to say yes. She didn’t want to be alone inside a sealed-up church—not with Richard Squires lying dead outside, half-buried under a pile of rubble. There was plenty of room for her next to Carlo and Sean. Everyone would understand if she bugged out.

Everyone except Ann Trask. The administrator of Glory Community Church had to stay at her post as long as Gilda threatened the town.

Ann shook her head. “I can’t leave.”

She expected Dave to argue with her, but he didn’t. “It’s a short run to the hospital. Expect us back in less than ten minutes.” He killed the three floodlights atop the ambulance and yanked the rear door shut. The vehicle’s white, red and amber warning signals spun to life, illuminating the jagged remains of the steeple piled next to the Storm Channel’s broadcast van and casting bizarre shadows in the parking lot.

Then the ambulance drove away, leaving almost total darkness in its wake. Ann wished that she’d remembered to switch on the exterior light above the church’s side door.

She tugged her rain hood forward and tightened the drawstrings. Not that the hood would make much difference. She was soaked to the skin inside her clothing—what were a few more drops of wind-driven rain dripping down her neck?

It hardly made sense to seek a few minutes of shelter inside the church, but she decided to check if anyone had telephoned in her absence. A quick glance at the answering machine in her office told her that no one had called. She made it back to the parking lot in less than five minutes, a moment before one of the police department’s four-wheel-drive SUVs, a boxy truck decked out with red and blue strobe lights, entered from King Street. Dave must have notified the emergency command center that Richard had been killed. She cringed. Why hadn’t she thought to call Rafe Neilson first?

Probably because you’re more shocked by Richard’s death than you’re willing to admit.

The SUV stopped next to the crippled broadcast van, inches away from Ann. Its headlights lit up the wreckage of the crushed steeple, making Richard’s red boots look especially garish compared to the mostly white chunks of smashed wood.

Rafe slipped out of the driver-side door and Phil Meade exited the passenger side. Their faces, alternately lit by blue and red flashes, seemed surreal, but Ann could see anger glowing in Phil’s eyes as he strode toward Richard’s body.

“Are you okay?” Rafe asked, approaching Ann. Ann took comfort in his strong, caring voice.

“I don’t think what’s happened has sunk in yet,” she said. “It doesn’t compute that Richard is dead. He was killed in such a weird way.”

“Weird happens,” Rafe said, “both for the bad and the good. The broadcast van was in the wrong place at the wrong time. So was Richard Squires. But as far as we know, no one else in town, or the county for that matter, has been seriously injured. One dead and two wounded is a lot better than we hoped for a few hours ago.”

“Praise God for that.”

Phil’s booming voice overpowered the wind. “Praise God indeed for good news, Miss Trask, but not for the way that you deal with crises.” He brought his face inches from Ann’s, close enough for her to see raindrops dribble off his nose. “Your foolish stubbornness killed a wonderful man. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Ann flinched as the impact of his words hit home. Phil Meade blamed her for Richard’s death.

She pressed her lips together to control the fury she felt. No way would she give Phil a close-up view of her anger. She would behave like a professional manager, no matter what he said to provoke her.

Rafe stepped between Ann and Phil. “For the tenth time, Phil, you can’t blame Ann for Richard’s death. She didn’t bring down the steeple—that was Gilda’s doing. Hurricanes are dangerous. Everyone who stayed in Glory understood the risk. Including Richard Squires.”

“For the eleventh time,” Phil shouted, “there’s only one reason that Richard is dead. Ann Trask panicked when she couldn’t start the generator, because she’s too young and too inexperienced to handle routine problems.” He clasped his hands to his temples and shook his head, an extravagantly complex gesture that Ann read as a signal of his bewilderment.

“I don’t understand the leaders of Glory Community Church,” he said. “Why would you guys put someone in charge of your building during a storm if she can’t prime a simple diesel fuel pump?”

Ann felt her anger surge again when Phil spoke about her in the third person, as if she weren’t there. She leveled her index finger at him. “Richard kept the generator in good running order. We were supposed to call him immediately if anything went wrong.”

“If anything major went wrong,” Phil replied, with a generous wave of his hands, “or if circumstances truly required the generator to be operational. The very last thing Richard wanted to do this evening was leave his job at the emergency command center and deal with a trivial generator glitch. He did it because you don’t know diddly about diesel engines, and because you seemed scared stiff of the dark. That’s what he told all of us before he left.” He glanced at Rafe. “You were there—you heard Richard moaning and groaning about going to the church. Tell her I’m right.”

Ann’s anger quickly turned to concern. Rafe’s unhappy expression told her that everything Phil had said was true, which meant that Richard’s gracious “I should have tested the generator this morning” had been nothing but a polite fib, spoken to cover how he really felt.

That doesn’t change my reason for calling him.

Words came rushing out of her mouth.

“I called Richard this evening because I had to. A major hurricane was about to hit Glory. A backup generator is an essential piece of equipment at an emergency shelter. It has to work reliably. The generator was Richard’s responsibility, not mine. If he’d maintained it properly, I wouldn’t have needed his last-minute help.”

Ann watched a vein begin to throb in Phil Meade’s temple.

“You’re plainly inexperienced,” he said angrily, “but I didn’t expect you to also be mean-spirited. How dare you blame Richard for your own ineptitude?” He stretched to his full height and went on. “Shame on you! Richard deserves better than that.”

Phil spun around and made his way back to Richard’s body.

“I give up,” Ann said to Rafe. “Phil is determined to blame me.”

“Phil’s upset about Richard and not in a mood to listen to reason.”

She stood still as Rafe gently brushed away a little puddle of rainwater that had collected on the brim of her hood.

“Richard was in charge of the generator,” Rafe went on. “He often told people that keeping it running was part of his ministry at Glory Community Church.”

“Even so, I’d better smooth things over with Phil.”

“Good idea,” Rafe said, “but give him a chance to calm down before you try. He’ll come around after he’s had some time to cool off.”

Ann knew better. Phil might never “come around.” She had embarrassed him earlier by forcing him to back down. He was the sort of person who didn’t forgive and forget. Especially not now that he’d discovered her Achilles’ heel—her so-called fear of the dark.

“I started my new job at the church just a few months ago,” she murmured to herself. “The last thing I need right now is an influential enemy questioning my competence.”

God, why do You keep putting me in this position?

Sean felt something squeezing his arm. He opened his eyes and found a smiling nurse standing next to him, pumping a blood pressure cuff. A name tag clipped to her blouse identified her as “Sharon R.N.”

“How long have I been out, Sharon?” he asked with a yawn he couldn’t suppress.

“Six or seven hours, on and off. The doc stitched the cut on your scalp, ordered an MRI, and then decided you’d suffered nothing worse than a simple concussion and a painful bruise on your forehead. And in case you’re wondering why you’re yawning, we woke you up repeatedly throughout the night.”

Sean glanced at the window behind Sharon. He saw sunlight streaming through the panes and blue, cloudless skies. Gilda had moved on during the night, gifting Glory with a beautiful morning.

Her smile widened. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly.”

“Blame the concussion. Your stomach might be touchy for a few days. But I do suggest you eat a light breakfast. This could become a busy morning for you. Rafe Neilson wants to talk to you and a woman named Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel began to call for you an hour ago.”

Sean had no idea who Rafe Neilson might be and didn’t really care. But Cathy McCabe, his producer, was another matter. “What did you tell her?”

“That I wasn’t your secretary and she should leave messages for you on your cell phone. She countered that she didn’t much like my attitude and that only an overzealous bureaucrat would refuse to give her any specific information about Carlo’s medical status.”

Sean chuckled. Like most executive producers, Cathy had a low tolerance for being rebuffed. He imagined the increasingly annoyed tone of her voice. There were a dozen different things she’d want to know—starting with Carlo’s health and moving on to the condition of the broadcast van and the pricey camera and control room equipment they carried. He decided not to call her until he had more information.

“What would you say to me if I asked about Carlo’s condition?”

“I’d ask you not to give me a hard time. You’re not Mr. Vaughn’s next of kin, are you?”

“Thankfully no.”

“In that case, all I can tell you is what we’ve told the forty or fifty reporters who’ve already inquired. We’re treating his injuries, which are not life threatening.”

She gestured toward an empty bed in the room. “He’ll be coming up from the ophthalmological treatment center in a few minutes, and then you can ask him yourself how he’s doing. I’m confident that he’ll be willing and eager to share.”

Sean laughed. “Ah. You discovered that Carlo can be a trifle full of himself.”

“A trifle?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re a master of understatement this morning. Fortunately, Glory is a gracious town, known for its Carolinian charm and civility. We strive to uphold our reputation even when challenged by an over-inflated northern ego.”

Sharon showed him a laminated menu. “Poached egg and some Jell-O for you?”

“Where’s the Carolinian charm in that?”

“All of our breakfasts come with grits and a biscuit,” she said.

“I stand corrected. Can I take a shower before breakfast?”

“Sure thing—and a stroll down the hallway if you feel up to it. There’s a bathrobe hanging behind the bathroom door and paper slippers in the closet. But don’t get dressed yet. The doc wants to give you a final check before we discharge you.”

Sean quickly got the hang of walking in paper slippers. Ten minutes later, he’d made it to the end of the corridor outside his room and reached a glassed-in balcony that overlooked downtown Glory. He tried to gauge the damage Gilda had caused. All of the windows he could see were intact, but roof shingles were missing here and there. Soon after Sean maneuvered past the heavy glass door and stepped onto the balcony, a tall, official-looking man introduced himself.

“I’m Rafe Neilson. I’m glad to see you up and about. You looked awfully shaky last night, and they wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“The fatal accident at the church.”

“The fellow who took care of the church’s generator?”

Rafe nodded. “Richard Squires. I sang in the church choir with him. We’d become good friends during the five years I’ve lived in Glory.”

“That’s the one thing I hate about hurricanes—they kill people. No one told me that he was dead, but I guessed as much when I heard Ann Trask shouting.”

“I understand that you tried to start the church’s generator.”

“Ann asked me to.”

“Why do you suppose she did that?”

Sean shrugged. “I’d told her that we have a generator in our broadcast van. I guess she assumed I’d know how to work the church’s backup system. I showed her where the manual start button was, and things were fine for a few seconds. I gave up as soon as I saw the fuel system warning light blinking red. I had a broadcast coming up and didn’t have time to work on the engine. That’s when I told Ann to call Richard Squires.”

“How did you know about Richard?”

“A note tacked to the wall said to contact him if the generator didn’t work.” Sean felt a twinge of concern. The surprisingly formal tone of Rafe’s questions had put him on edge. “You’re beginning to sound like a policeman, Rafe.”

“Can’t help it,” he said with a grin. “I’m Glory’s deputy police chief. We don’t have many fatal accidents in our little town. I’m trying to understand everything that happened in Glory Community’s parking lot last night.”

“A gust of wind at the height of the hurricane tore the steeple down—a gust with a velocity of upwards of ninety miles per hour. The wreckage fell on Richard Squires and our broadcast van. What more is there to understand?”

Rafe shook his head. “Probably nothing. Take care of yourself. Don’t overdo.”

Before Sean could reply, Rafe pivoted on his heels and began to walk away.

“Hey, Mr. Deputy Police Chief. I have a question for you. How badly did Glory get hit last night?”

“Not badly at all,” Rafe said over his shoulder. “A handful of large trees are down, a few windows broken here and there, several dozen roofs were damaged, and the streets nearest the Albemarle Sound were flooded, including part of Front Street. We got off lucky except for Richard’s death and the fallen steeple. Other than you and your colleague, there were no injuries requiring hospitalization.”

Rafe departed, leaving Sean to speculate what had prompted the string of odd questions. He returned to his room and sat down on the visitor’s chair in front of his bed. A short time later a nurse’s aide arrived with his breakfast tray and placed it on a wheeled table next to the chair.

“I’m not usually a grits person but these look good,” Sean said as he grabbed a spoon to dig in.

The door squeaked open and Sharon propelled Carlo, sitting regally in a wheelchair, into the room. Sean noted that Carlo’s forehead and left eye were both bandaged, the dressing on his eye smaller than the bandage Sean remembered from the night before.

“Here you go, Mr. Vaughn,” she said. “This is your room. Can you manage to climb into bed, or do you need me to help you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of saying no to anything you offer, Sharon,” Carlo said, punctuating his smarmy reply with an utterly sincere gaze. “Please, please, please call me Carlo.”

Sharon seemed to tolerate Carlo’s obvious flirtation, although Sean could barely avoid throwing a spoonful of grits at him.

“Good morning, amigo,” Sean said. “You look much better than you did last night. What did the doctors tell you?”

Carlo gestured toward his bandaged eye. “This is the worrisome injury. A glass splinter scratched my cornea and lifted a small flap of tissue. It should heal cleanly—but there’s always a risk of infection.” He touched his forehead. “I also have a concussion,” Carlo said. “Worse than yours, but I’ll probably survive. The MRI didn’t show any long-term damage.”

Sean bit back a snicker. They’d looked inside Carlo’s head and found nothing.

“Glad to hear it. So far so good.”

“The docs want me to stay in the hospital two or three more days.”

“The nursing staff requested a whole week,” Sharon said, winking at Sean, “but Carlo’s insurance company wouldn’t agree to cover more than three days.” She helped him climb into bed. “Would you like breakfast?”

“No thanks. My stomach feels too wonky to eat.” Carlo’s voice oozed angst and made known the enormity of his self-sacrifice. Sharon smiled as she left the room.

Carlo pointed at Sean’s tray. “I see that you’re able to eat breakfast.”

“Eagerly, in fact.”

“Good. I’d hate unnecessary guilt to put you off your feed.”

“Why would I feel the least bit guilty?”

“You chose the parking place last night, not me.”

Sean ate more grits. There was no point arguing with Carlo when he got hold of a loony idea.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Sean said.

The door opened, revealing Ann Trask. Sean realized that Ann was petite—five foot three and a hundred pounds, at the most. But the strength that radiated from her blue eyes made her seem a foot taller.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Ann said.

“It’s Mizz Ann Trask,” Carlo said, “come to visit the halt and the lame. A very churchy thing to do.”

It was rare for Carlo to offer a verbal joke, so Sean kept it going. “We’re both a tad halt today, Ann, but no more lame than usual.”

He expected Ann to react, but she didn’t even crack a smile. She probably didn’t feel like laughing so soon after Richard Squires’s death. But he saw another emotion in her somber expression. Something beyond grief that looked like worry.

Carlo must have also registered Ann’s mood. He offered a high-voltage smile and said, “I haven’t forgotten my promise to put you on the Storm Channel. What’s your schedule like during the next day or two?”

She responded with a small smile of her own. “Let’s wait until your bandages are off. If I’m going to debut on television with Carlo Vaughn, I insist on the unadorned original.”

“You shall have him, although a black eye patch can be an intriguing fashion accessory. I may adopt the buccaneer look. What do you think?”

Sean felt like retching, but Carlo’s cornball patter had amplified Ann’s smile and chased the worry—if that’s what he had seen—from her face.

“You’d make a great swashbuckling buccaneer,” she said, making Sean wish that he had the skill to say magic words that could alter a woman’s frame of mind.

Even more to the point, he wished that Ann smiled at him the way she smiled at Carlo.

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