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MERCY
Frank Kingston taught me two things. One, that nothing tastes sweeter than an icy cool fruit punch kiss on a hot summer night and two, that whenever I’m certain of anything, I am most likely wrong about everything. Case in point, the backwards results of every major life choice I’ve made thus far in my twenty-nine years of navigating human life. Most recent being my current mode of transportation, which was meant to be a comfortable seat in first class, flying high above the rain-soaked clouds pouring down an unforgiving wave of water, but instead wound up being the driver’s seat of a very small, very light (the wind factor swinging me to and fro with ease will attest to this) sedan which hardly invokes the sort of confidence required to drive through these conditions while traveling at highway speeds.
I gave up my seat on the plane in a moment of heartache and overflowing compassion. A category four hurricane swept through the southern states last night, making many of us up North desperate to travel home and see to our friends and family who were set to be trapped in the savage weather and spit out mercilessly on the other side of wind, lightning, and deadly floods. However, my need to return to Lacey, Louisiana, seemed less pressing when faced with a mother, in tears, who’d been in New York visiting her sister when news confirmed the storm would hit Louisiana head on. She’d been trying hopelessly to get home to them ever since. The overwhelming need to do something, anything, had been more than enough motivation to hand over my ticket and send her home to tend to her loved ones.
Naturally, every flight was overbooked or cancelled. And, much to my frustration, I didn’t fare a great deal better when I explored trains, buses, and car rental agencies. This little can of metal on wheels was the only mode of transportation available. What choice did I have but to take it?
Now, twenty-two hours into my trip, and countless stops for coffee later, and ten miles from town, I’m starting to reconsider my choice to come back here in the first place.
I’m listing the reasons I deemed Lacey, Louisiana, worthy of a trip when I’m interrupted by my phone.
“Hello?” I call out over the rush of rain thundering against the outside of my car.
“Please tell me you’ve seen reason and have turned your car around, Mer,” says Chase’s voice over the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “I just spent the last thirty minutes watching a reporter nearly drown while covering the floods down South and I’m going crazy worrying about what could happen to you out there.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me, Chase. The hurricane is already back out at sea and dissolving as we speak,” I promise for what feels like the hundredth time. I know his worries are coming from a good place, he loves me, he wants me safe, but he’s a city boy through and through. He’s lived in Manhattan his entire life and doesn’t understand what it means to be from a small town or how much people depend on their community in a crisis. Maybe it’s not my home anymore, but Lacey will always be where I’m from, and it’ll always call to me when it’s in need. Like it is now. “Besides, I’m minutes from town. Turning around now would just be silly.” I’ve barely made my argument when I see flashing lights up ahead, diverting traffic. No, bringing it to a stop all together. “Chase, I have to go.”
“Mer!”
But I hang up before he can protest beyond my name. I have to focus on what’s happening in front of me, I can’t keep being divided between there and here. Here is what matters right now.
As soon as I bring my car to a stop, I see an officer approaching. He’s dressed in head to toe rain gear and tightly gripping an umbrella that doesn’t seem to offer much shelter, given the wind is blowing the strands of rain sideways. He comes to a stop at my door and motions for me to roll down the window.
I do so begrudgingly but am pleased to find he uses the umbrella to keep the rain from coming inside my vehicle.
“Resident or visitor?” he shouts over the noise of the weather.
It’s not until I hear his voice that I recognize him.
“Neither,” I yell back to be heard, “But you have to let me in, Bryce. I’m here to check on Grandma Nettie’s B and B.”
I watch as his stern expression melts away. “Mercy Rose. I should have known you’d turn up.” He smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “The Rose Petal was safe from the floods, but the wind tore it up pretty good. Haven’t made it out there myself, but old Wyatt’s been making the rounds, checking in on everyone and reporting back.”
I nod, gratitude swelling in my chest. The Kingstons have always been amazing neighbors, and Wyatt being the head of that family is likely the reason. “As long as it’s still standing.” I haven’t been back in over ten years, but it never bothered me much until the moment I thought I might not be able to anymore.
“Main roads are under water, no one’s getting through by car.” Bryce points up ahead to where the signs are, arrows all pointing right, away from town. “You’ll have to go around. Everyone’s been gathering at the fairgrounds outside of town. They’ll be able to get you where you need to go from there. Might take a few days’ time, though, so be prepared to be patient,” he warns.
“I have nowhere else I need to be,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
He smiles, tapping my window with his knuckles, letting me know it’s time to roll it back up before he steps away from my car, taking the shelter of his umbrella with him. The next truck is already coming to a stop behind me.
I wait until Bryce is clear of my car before I start moving again, headed for the fairgrounds. What I remember as a fifteen-minute drive takes close to fifty, thanks to poor visibility and several inches of water covering the road, making it hard for my tires to maintain any sort of friction as they move across it, not to mention the spots that wind up being so deep I have to worry about my engine being destroyed before I get to drier roads again.
When I finally arrive, there are countless trucks and trailers parked in rows outside the main building, but only I seem to be foolish enough to have made the trip with two-wheel drive and a vehicle that barely sits above the current water levels.
I get as close to the doors as I can before I park. Minutes pass as I sit here, staring at the wall of water coming down with no end in sight. Finally, I have no choice but to accept the inevitable. I’m getting soaked to the bone the second I step outside.
One last deep breath of determination and I grab my purse, clutch it to my chest and open the door, ready to make a run for it.
I’m barely three feet from the car when my heel sinks so deep into the mud, I nearly twist my ankle and fall. I’m not even remotely dressed for this.
Water dripping from my nose and lashes, I reach down and slide my shoes from each foot, before I continue to forge on toward the building. The trip becomes increasingly easier in bare feet as I splash through the water and sludge of the formerly sand parking lot and hurry to get inside.
I don’t even pause when I reach the doors, just grab the handle and thrust myself inside.
The building is alive with voices, most of them men. The loud hum of a generator running in the distance adds to the noisy backdrop. The nonstop commotion of people moving, zipping back and forth with cases of water and other emergency supplies, is overwhelming after having spent the last twenty-plus hours in near silent isolation.
“Excuse me,” I say, approaching a set of banquet tables set up near the doors in a makeshift check-in station. “Is there someone here I can talk to about getting into town?”
A man wearing a firefighter uniform looks up from the clipboard he’s holding to stare back at me. “You here to volunteer?” Even as he’s asking, I can tell from his tone he knows the answer is no.
“My family owns The Rose Petal. I’m here to check on it.” I don’t know why, but I feel suddenly stupid for being here. People are fighting for their lives, losing their homes, their livelihoods, all with next to no support from the outside world because Lacey is too tiny and too rural for anyone else to care about it, and I’m here to see about a building I haven’t bothered to step foot in in over a decade.
He shakes his head curtly. “No one’s driving out to The Rose for at least another two days.” He points toward the hall to my left. “You’ll find blankets and water down that way. Might still find a cot, too, if you plan on sticking around but expect to make yourself useful if you do.”
“Absolutely,” I assure him, “I’m happy to help. Anything I can do, just let me know.”
He nods, but the look he gives me leaves little to interpret. He’s not impressed. Nor does he see where I would be of use.
I have half a mind to take offense, because my little five-foot-two frame often causes people to wrongfully underestimate me, but then I catch my reflection in the windows behind him. My long red hair is plastered to my face and down my back, a wet mess of sticky, rust-colored strands. Both my eyes have turned to black holes, mascara and eye shadow bleeding together and running down my pale face in obscure patterns. I’m dressed in a blue silk blouse with golden polka dots paired with a black fitted skirt which lands several inches above my knees, and a destroyed set of Jimmy Choo’s I’m now holding rather than wearing.
I can hardly blame him for having doubts as to my ability to contribute in a natural disaster when I look like one myself.
Lowering my head in abundant shame, I walk down the hall, my wet feet squeaking over the laminate floors. The hall leads to the livestock pavilion, one I remember well from my childhood and the many years of attending events for the Future Farmers of America in this very place. Much like it was then, most of the space is being used for life of the four-legged variety, who have clearly been displaced, just as their two-legged caretakers due to the storm.
It’s surreal, taking it all in. So many mixed emotions, the comforts of familiarity mingling with the sorrow of witnessing such tragedy. It’s hard to process, and I find myself yearning for a new distraction. The nonstop driving and constant focus on the road and traffic did wonders to keep my wandering mind and aching heart functioning. Now that I’m here, with nothing else to think about but what’s right in front of me, I can feel myself slipping. Exhaustion is also making the onslaught of emotions that much harder to hold at bay.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” a snide, high-pitched voice drawls behind me. “Mercy Rose. What on God’s green Earth possessed you to come back here after all these years?”
Slowly, I inch my way around to face her. “Camden Halliwell. It’s been a long time.” I smile politely, though the woman standing in front of me hardly entices me to do so. Her arms are crossed over her floral print raincoat. Her black hair, which I remember being long in high school, is now in a stylish pixie cut. Her hot-pink lipsticked lips are sneering at me.
“Not nearly long enough,” she points out, her dark brown eyes narrowing. “Can’t imagine what might have brought you back after all these years.”
That much, I’d think, would be obvious. “The Rose Petal. It still belongs to my family.”
She sniffs her nose at me, reminding me of her superiority. “Hardly seems that way when it’s the Ashbys that’s been looking after it alone the last decade.” She takes a step in closer to meet me. “But, I suppose, being as it bears your family name, you can still lay claim to it, whether you’re worthy of it or not.”
The sound of someone clearing their throat in an obvious ploy to interrupt our squabbling stops me from responding. Instead, I turn to find a blonde wearing her hair in a braid and dressed in equally obnoxious rain gear and matching rain boots, marching toward us until she comes up beside Camden. It’s MaryBeth, the yin to Camden’s yang, and possibly the only thing about Camden I ever liked. “Cam, the Wilsons could use a hand serving lunch. Think you could help?”
Camden smiles, this time in a genuine fashion. “Of course.” Then she hurries off without saying another word, but not without shooting glares of warning at me with her steely, dagger-tossing eyes.
“And here I thought we’d all had time to get over our silly high school feuds,” I joke, hoping MaryBeth will go easier on me than her best friend did.
“Oh, silly Mercy,” she says with a laugh. “This has nothing to do with high school.” She pats my arm, still giggling. “You two are smack in a new feud, and you, poor thing, don’t even know it.”
“What? How is that even possible? I only just showed up here a few minutes ago.” Camden and I did always have a way of being at odds over the simplest things, but that was high school. We were kids. Stupid, petty teenagers. Surely, with our thirties upon us we can do better.
MaryBeth shrugs, her shoulders bouncing lightly. “Sometimes showing up is all it takes.”
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FRANK
“What’s the latest?” I ask, joining the small huddle of men gathered around two tables pushed together and covered in maps of the surrounding areas.
“Everyone’s here. Horses are ready. Just waiting on the rain to let up now,” Wade answers, looking up from the place where his hand still rests on the map. “Still no word from the Pruitts, so we’ll be heading out their way first.”
I nod, stepping into the circle beside him. Wade and I have been best friends since we were kids, longer, really, if you count back to when our parents first met and started the cycle. “Just got off the phone with Mayor Henson. They expect the showers to stop within the hour, but most roads will still have to stay closed for some time for safety reasons.” I lean in to trace a path with my finger. “In the meantime, be easiest to cut through here. Land sits higher, more opportunities for the water to recede faster. And, it’ll lead us straight to the Pruitts main gate on the east end of their property.” The Pruitts run a sanctuary, biggest animal rescue in three states, with everything from rabbits to jungle cats, and no one’s been able to get through since before the storm, so there’s no telling what we’ll find when we get out there.
“Sounds good,” Wade agrees, and a wave of murmurs follows from the group. We’re all on the same page here. “Best get some lunch and fuel up before we head out.”
No one needs to be told twice. I watch as the group clears the table and heads for the small pavilion frequently used as a dining hall, even during fair season. My appetite’s been absent since before the hurricane and I still can’t bring myself to eat much.
Wade notices my lagging behind and turns back. “Not coming?”
“Not hungry.”
“You know Camden’s helping out with lunch. If you don’t go, she’ll just come track you down and force-feed you.”
I groan under my breath. “Just tell her I already ate.”
He chuckles but starts for the exit again. “I’ll try, but you know how she gets.”
I do, indeed.
The small room takes on an almost peaceful feeling once everyone leaves. Even the crashing rain against the tin roof is starting to sound mellower, so much so that I’m starting to believe the weather reports may be right this time and we might see some break in the rain soon. We need it. Desperately. Half our town is sitting under water, and Lacey’s too small a place for anyone outside to care. We’re on our own here. Not that we can’t manage. We’re used to taking care of each other, looking out for our own. It’s part of what makes our little town so special. Even when it’s been ravaged by water and wind, it’s the people here that keep it looking beautiful.
“There you are,” my father’s gruff voice breaks the silence. “Been looking for you all over the place.”
“I didn’t know you were coming out this way.” Stubborn old man’s been out despite the weather, checking in on the neighbors, making sure everyone’s safe and accounted for. Our family’s lived out here for generations, longer than anyone else can count back. I think it’s why he feels so responsible for this town, why he’s passed that same sense of responsibility on to me. And why everyone just accepts it. Expects it even. “You ride all this way?”
“Sure did.” He grins. “Though Hank didn’t much thank me for it.” That horse has been with my father through thick and thin for nearly fifteen years, working together day in and day out on our ranch. They’re partners. More than that, I think that horse is my father’s closest friend.
“I don’t imagine he would.” I shake my head, chuckling quietly. “You’re not planning on making him go back out with us, are you?”
My father shakes his head. “Nah, he’s done his job. So have I. Coming here’s our last bit of duty for today.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nods. “Thought I’d fill ya in on all the things no one else knows yet. The Rose is standing and dry, everyone in it, safe. Your mama’s over at the LicketySplit with your sister, helping out. Place is packed, believe it or not.” It’s the only bar in town and it serves decent food. Not to mention, Esther had the foresight to install a backup generator to ensure power under all circumstances before hurricane season. Given current conditions and morale, I absolutely believe it. “Fences are down everywhere between here and the Mill’s farm. Be a long time before everyone gets their livestock sorted out again.”
“Don’t think anyone will mind much who ends up with whose cows, as long as they are still alive,” I point out grimly. “Anyone hear from the Pruitts yet?”
He shakes his head. “No. But I did hear from Bryce. And you’ll never believe who showed up on the edge of town, trying to get in.”
I thought every muscle in my body was already on edge, but every inch of me just tensed up even tighter. “Who?”
The old man tilts his head, his brow raised ever so slightly as the corner of his mouth curves the way it always does when he’s teaching me a lesson he thinks I should have learned on my own by now. “Who do you think?” Then he winks, and turns, never putting into words the name I forbid myself from even thinking nearly eleven years ago when the girl who owns it walked away without so much as looking back at me.