At the small bridge tender’s house, as Labor Day weekend arrived, Jerry Tilghman ran all the computer models again, though he knew they couldn’t possibly have changed very much in the last thirty minutes. The meteorologists on the Baltimore and Washington television and radio stations, and God help us the damn Weather Channel, tended to report on one or two models. Jerry knew from his years working there that these stations were understaffed, underfunded, and under the gun to get weather news on the air, and in the case of a storm like this, they had to do it round the clock.

As a shortcut, they checked a computer forecast model or two, maybe a surface map, maybe not, maybe their favorite software that analyzed several forecast models, but it was an imperfect science, which is why school kids were often disappointed about snowfall forecasts. They might go to bed having been told by the TV weather reporter than six inches of snow were supposed to fall, and wake up disappointed to no snow and a school bus in the morning.

Jerry didn’t like disappointment, and he didn’t like surprises. He was a guy who sat in a small booth day after day, for twelve-hour shifts. A guy who had a lifetime’s worth of knowledge and a lot of time on his hands. The personal weather forecasting system he’d developed specifically for Matthew’s Island didn’t get broadcast on any TV or radio station or blog. A handful of working watermen asked him about the weather so they might know whether to head out early or late for crabbing, and that was about it. But Jerry Tilghman knew exactly when a storm was coming, how much precipitation it would bring the island, what the wind speed was going to be, and, in the case of a hell of a storm like Hurricane Camilla was about to be, exactly how much devastation it would bring.

Watching the choppy whitecaps in front of him, he thought back to the history of the many storms that had ravaged the island in the past.

The watermen loved to regale newer island residents with tales about great storms of the Chesapeake Bay. Inevitably someone would bring up Hurricane Agnes from ’72, when the Susquehanna River almost blew the dam and destroyed the bay entirely, and many say in fact had, as it dumped tons of silt across its bottom. Depending on how many generations their families went back, older watermen would talk about Hurricane Hazel in 1954 with its winds over 100 miles an hour, throwing boats around like toys and wrecking the crabbing industry for a whole season.

In the most recent memory of local watermen, hurricanes like Isabel in 2003 and Irene in 2001 had done the most serious damage to the island, sending some of their boats careening down neatly lined rows of docks and wiping them out, marooning other boats in the middle of roads, blowing out windows, and taking down small buildings. Harvests were once again affected, money was lost.

When storms came, transportation to and from the island could become a serious problem. The spot where the drawbridge met the island had once been nothing but marsh. That created an issue when a big storm came, because the water level rose there first, creating a huge pond where the cars were supposed to go when they got to the island. Waters often receded quickly, and if the storm came at low tide, it wasn’t too harmful for travel. Luckily the larger storms in recent years had hit at a lower tide; there had been a swell at high tide, the islanders knew when they were coming and simply didn’t cross the bridge when the time came, and all was well again at low tide. Standing water lasted for days on the island, but didn’t stop any cars from crossing back to the mainland.

But as Jerry sat looking at his computer model, he shook his head. He ran the numbers again and again, because a hurricane was really nothing but math until it was right outside your door. It’s all fun and games until the big one comes straight up the bay, he’d told Helen for so many years, and now he muttered the old familiar phrase to himself again. I know, dear, she would say, and she would knit away. He didn’t know if she’d heard him or not, or if she had just humored the old man with her automatic answer. Thank God she’d never been around to see this hurricane when it did finally come; the storm he’d always feared. He’d spent a lifetime taking great pride in never being wrong about the weather, but for once Jerry actually hoped there was some way he was somehow incorrect.

Right now, as Jerry saw it, there was no stopping this one from being the worst storm on record to hit the island, and in fact the entire region. He stared at the software he’d worked so long to customize. He sent an email to the state, though he doubted they’d use his models when they relied on the “official” ones from the state and the Feds. The radar imagery showed the white swirling storm cloud coming directly up the gut of the Chesapeake Bay like no other storm in history ever had. It was the storm everyone had feared and many had prayed would never come. Jerry predicted that within twenty-four hours the island would be flooded on both the mainland and the island sides, the drawbridge resting uselessly in between, so that no one would be able to come or go. And that scenario was not what they were telling people on the news weather reports.

 

 

Labor Day weekend arrived and along with it, Hurricane Camilla. So the swirling white cloud forming out in the Atlantic on all the news weather maps, which had suddenly decided to turn and make a direct hit on Matthew’s Island, officially had a name. She looked like she was going to be one bitch of a storm, that was for sure, but Ron and Dale had dealt with some bitches before.

Ron and Dale had worked for weeks to ensure everything would be perfect for what they’d secretly referred to as the BSW. Since Sharps Island Inn specialized in the most phenomenal gay weddings this side of Xanadu, the “Boring Straight Weddings” weren’t always the most spectacular affairs in the world, but they’d become fond of Maggie and Dave and company, and thank God the couple at least came with a cast of fantastic common gay friends of theirs like Wes and Alfred. Also, Eva lived right across the pond from the inn’s owners and they’d known and loved her mother. Her friend Jo certainly was the feisty one. Throw a dominatrix into the mix, and we have ourselves a party.

Situated at the southernmost tip of the island, the inn offered 360-degree views of the convergence of the Talbot River and the Chesapeake Bay. A narrow strip of land connected the circular-shaped property that sat atop high ground surrounded by rocks from the rest of Matthew’s Island, creating sweeping vistas of the scenery from every window. Photo albums filled with happily married couples filled the historic mansion, decorated in rich fabrics, family antiques, and nautical charm. The broad front lawn held hammocks where hours could be lost watching sunrises, sunsets, or both, the perfect backdrop for not only the wedding photos, but the memories that would last forever.

“That was Jerry Tilghman on the phone,” said Dale, “he said not to believe anything we’re hearing on the Weather Channel. This storm has apparently become ten times worse than anyone is saying. He says he thinks our road is going to go out and that we should evacuate.”

“Oh, whatever,” said Ron, straightening his glasses and rolling his eyes. “What is he, the government? Everyone knows Mr. Bridgekeeper Chicken Little is always crying about the sky falling and almost every one of these sixty-five is already on this island. The Matthew’s Island Inn is full, we are full, the island is at maximum capacity. It’s not like anyone’s going anywhere now.”

“Well, an enormous tropical storm turning hurricane was the last thing we needed,” said Dale, pushing aside his ever-present cap to scratch his bald head. “The tent company is pitching a fit. We can’t fit sixty-five people in an 1840 house for a ceremony.”

“Well, if the road is out, the people from Matthew’s Island Inn won’t make it here anyway. Besides, if they’re all drunk enough we can fit everyone, baby,” said Ron, winking. “As long as we don’t run out of booze everything will be fine.”

They stood on the back porch and watched the turbulent Chesapeake Bay. The whitecaps rolled and the water swirled and crashed against the rocks as the Talbot River rushed down from the left of the property and the bay whirled in from the right. They’d watched many, many storms over the years. The wind could make it sound like the island was being torn completely apart, the thunder and lightning terrified anyone staying at the inn with their power over the sheer amount of open sky that blanketed the property, but although the waters had risen, they had always eventually receded and peace had been restored. The inn’s owners had faith that history would repeat itself and that no matter how terrible a storm, the calm would eventually come again.

Upstairs in the beautifully appointed Patricia Bridal Suite at Sharps Island Inn, with its sweeping views of the Talbot River and the Chesapeake Bay, there was slightly less optimism.

“Just perfect,” said Maggie. “We picked a hurricane on an island for all our friends and family to come celebrate our wedding with us.”

“Everything’s going to be fine,” said Dave. “Maybe we don’t have the best wedding photos at the moment. But like the photographer said, we can come back and get those anytime.”

“Yeah, photos are the last thing on my mind,” said Maggie. “I just want everyone to make it through our wedding weekend alive.”

“See, there we go. Fantastic goals!” said Dave, laughing. He took her into his arms. “You know we could call the whole thing off and have everyone head home to safety right now if you think it would be better.”

“I know, and we’ve talked about it, but from everything we’ve seen, it’s too late for that now, and then we are putting everyone in danger having everyone try to drive and fly home in the middle of a hurricane,” said Maggie. “We have no idea whether this damn storm is going to turn at the last second and come up the bay or not. At this point we just have to hunker down with our friends and our family and just wait it out. With any luck by this time Monday, we’re married and everyone is home safe and sound. Who cares about pretty wedding photos. Besides, we have cake one way or the other.”

“No doubt we are going to be eating well in this storm,” said Dave. “That’s one way to look on the bright side. Cake!”

In fact, Chef Herman from Paul’s Café had taken every precaution, ensuring that all the wedding food was already delivered and ready for preparation prior to the storm. He and a few staff members were on the property staying in one of the cabins at the inn with Ron and Dale so that they didn’t have to worry about getting to and from the inn and running around in the middle of the storm. Every detail was in place, including the rainbow Smith Island cake.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” said Maggie.

“What is it, sweetheart?” asked Dave, putting an arm around Maggie’s waist and brushing an ever-stray auburn curl from her forehead.

“After this is all over, I’ve decided that I’m going to go visit my mother in Boston,” said Maggie. She put her head down, hugging Dave.

Dave held her, pulling her close. “You’ve been thinking about this so much since that letter came.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” said Maggie. “I could never forgive myself if she died and I never forgave her. That’s all she really asked for. It isn’t too much for a dying woman to ask for forgiveness.”

“I think the visit will probably be something that will bring you just as much peace as it will bring her,” said Dave.

 

 

When Charles, the head chef at the Plaza Hotel in New York City, received at his office Eva’s letter and the “cheek swab DNA kit,” he was shocked. He couldn’t believe she would send him this shocking information and request him to respond to it in such a cold manner. They had been lovers for years, their affair in New York went far beyond this treatment. He had fallen in love with her. How dare she send him this in the mail? For him to find out that he might be the father of her baby in an envelope? He sat with his head in his hands for an hour, feeling a range of emotions he didn’t even know he was capable of. Having lost his own wife to cancer so many years before and now in his fifties, he had never been a father. And now, in his hands was this—this kit that would determine whether he was to raise a child—his only child—with the woman he loved and thought of and missed every day.

Eva. How he’d waited and longed to hear from her. He’d been so patient, understanding that the loss of her mother and her marriage had been so hard for her, that her sons had graduated from high school this summer—so many changes. So he had waited. Letting her heal, allowing her time to find peace in her own space on the island. And now, now he finds out that, nine months ago on her last trip to New York when they were together for the last time, this union may have resulted in a child?

His sadness turned to anger. She couldn’t have come to New York to tell him this? She cared so little? Her feelings obviously did not match his. His dedication to her had been so pure, so complete.

There was only one thing to do now. Especially with the child on the way. He would go to her. He must see her face to face. He deserved an explanation as to why she would dare send him this cold package in the mail.

He picked up his phone and called his sous chef, who was very surprised to hear that for the first time, Charles would be leaving the Plaza in his charge. Charles made a second call to the valet, asking for his car, a vintage Mercedes, to be brought to the front. He checked his phone and saw that the 228-mile drive would take four hours and eighteen minutes. He drove nonstop in the downpour, his hands gripped on the steering wheel, determined to face Eva the very same day.

What Charles did not check was the weather. The closer he got to the island, the worse the weather became. He was so distracted by emotion, he paid little attention to the driving rains, the pummeling winds. Although “Flood Area” signs had been haphazardly placed by the state highway administration long before the danger had been realized, Charles ignored them as he approached the Choptank Narrows area just before the bridge, which had been raised by Jerry Tilghman to alert drivers to keep away from the flood area. The rushing waters of the Talbot River and the Chesapeake Bay had formed a deadly mix at high tide during Hurricane Camilla. Charles drove his car into what looked like a black puddle but in fact was a floodwater that carried his car away in a matter of seconds.

It would be weeks before his car and body were recovered from the bottom of the Talbot River and Eva would see his name in the local paper on a list of one of the many victims of Hurricane Camilla.