The Sea Glass Sisters by Lisa Wingate

Author:Lisa Wingate
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Published: 2013-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

The storm has been raging for hours now. It’s worse than was predicted. It’s hitting Hatteras pretty hard as it lumbers by, the eye staying out at sea. We’ve pulled the mattresses and one of the sofas into Aunt Sandy’s dining room to camp out away from the exterior walls. From time to time, I’m sure the roof will go any minute.

Outside, the hurricane shutters rattle, and the house sways in gust after gust of wind. The rain flows in ribbons, stronger as each band of the storm bears down, but even the ebb is incredibly intense. I’ve never heard rain like this. The sound on the roof of Aunt Sandy’s little saltbox house is deafening.

The storm wants to push its way inside. It’s like a demon. Determined. Relentless. Seeking out the faintest cracks to breach our fortress and find its way past the walls. During the ebbs, we hurry through the house, replacing the towels and bedsheets we’ve stuffed in the wet spots around the windows and door stoops. Weather stripping is no match for the fury of this beast.

I have to give my mother and Aunt Sandy credit. They are an efficient team. Two commanding generals who have temporarily joined forces to fight a greater enemy. There is no arguing about whether or not we should have stayed.

During an ebb, we hear a rhythmic clang, clang, clang below the house.

Aunt Sandy pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. I notice for the first time how flushed she looks. “Water’s coming up. The boat’s floating off its trailer down there.”

The noise suddenly makes sense. There’s a little aluminum johnboat outside. Before the rain started, we unhooked the straps binding it to the trailer and tied it to the piers of the house instead. Now I understand why.

She seems matter-of-fact about it, but I know this is not good. For the water to float that boat, it must be a couple feet high already. The weather radio has been belching out flood reports for a while, and our hiding place has become an island.

“No way out but through the storm now.” Aunt Sandy sits down beside me on the sofa and pats my knee. She meets my gaze purposefully, as if she knows there’s a deeper meaning that can be taken there and wants me to grasp it. “I’ll bet about now you’re wishing you had beaten it toward home while you still could.”

“Nope,” I lie.

I expect her to ask about why she found me having a breakdown on the dunes earlier, but she doesn’t. Instead, she curls an arm over me and pulls my head onto her shoulder.

“No way out but through the storm,” she whispers again. “We’re not alone.” She combs her fingers through my hair, and I close my eyes, relaxing against her. “We’re never alone.”

I know what she’s referring to. She’s a woman of great faith. I don’t confirm what she’s said or refute it. I just drift away with the boat downstairs ringing like a church bell, her words the last ones on my mind.

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