How do I forgive myself for that?
How do I ask Elora to?
When the hurt finally lets up a little, I get to my feet and take one last look around the room. I don’t know what I was hoping to find here. Other than the faint scent of Elora. Some kind of last-minute clue, maybe. But I don’t even know where to look.
Then I remember the secret spot. A place that only Elora and I know exists. A loose piece of paneling in the corner behind the bed. When we were kids, we hid our best treasures there. Bottle caps. Glitter pens. Plastic rings we got out of the quarter machine at the grocery store up in Kinter. And later, love notes we wrote to boys who would never read them and lists of faraway cities we planned to visit.
Someday.
I wedge myself into the little space between the bed and the wall and sink down to my knees. Then I feel around for the loose paneling and pry it away slow and easy, so it doesn’t make any noise.
I feel around inside our hiding hole, and there’s nothing but a folded piece of notebook paper. When I pull it out and open it up, a simple gold bracelet spills into my hands. I carry it to the window and hold it to the moonlight so I can get a better look at the charm dangling from one end. A single tiny heart inlaid with a red stone.
Red for passion. Red for sensuality.
Red to get a fire going, if you know what I mean.
When I turn it over in my fingers, Elora’s name is engraved in fancy cursive on the back. It’s exquisite and delicate and breathtakingly lovely. And not at all something Case would ever pick out. Not in a million years.
Zale said Elora was waiting for someone that night. She sneaked away while everyone was playing flashlight tag. Left them out in the storm, searching and calling her name.
I take another look at the notebook paper the bracelet was wrapped in, but there’s only one word handwritten there in dark blue ink.
Soon.
That’s all it says. Definitely not Elora’s loopy script. Plain printed letters. They’re distinctive, though. The S leans forward at a sharp angle, and the double o’s are odd-looking. Tall and elongated. More egg-shaped than round.
Soon.
“Who bought you this?” I whisper the words out loud to the ruffled bedspread and the yellow rug, then I wrap the little bracelet back up in the notebook paper and tuck it into my pocket.
I replace the loose paneling and inhale once more. A deep lungful of Elora. Then I climb back out the window like the worst thief ever. I haven’t taken much. Just a little love token and the faint whiff of orange-vanilla body spray still clinging to my skin. I slide the window closed, and I freeze.
Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the wet air.
So I know he’s there before I hear his voice.
“You shouldn’t be out here, Shortcake. Don’t ya know there’s a hurricane comin’？”
Hart lights up another cigarette, then he sucks in smoke and holds it for a long time before he blows it out. He’s got me in the hot seat, and he knows it. He ashes the cigarette and cocks his head to one side. “You wanna tell me what the hell you’re doin’， Greycie?”
“I just needed to be in her room. So I could say goodbye.” “Damn.” Hart shakes his head. “We don’t even know how to tell the truth to each other any more, you and me.” He turns and walks toward the end of the boardwalk. And I follow him. Like always.
He’s carrying a big pair of bolt cutters in his other hand. He gives them to me, then he hops down into the pontoon boat with the cigarette between his lips. The water hyacinth has grown so thick, it must be choking the old boat half to death. The purple flowers are pretty. But it’s invasive. It can suffocate a pond when it takes over. Block out the light. Steal all the oxygen. I sit down on the edge of the boardwalk, and Hart motions for me to hand him down the bolt cutters, so I do. He cuts the chain on the boat, then he climbs back up the ladder to sit beside me.
“Things get as bad as they’re sayin’， I don’t want it smashin’ against the boardwalk. Might take the pilings out.”
He finishes the cigarette and tosses the butt down into the bow of the boat. I focus my eyes on it for a few seconds, to see if I can get the cypress needles to light.
To see if I have any of my mother in me, I guess.
But nothing happens.
“You leavin’ tomorrow?” he asks, and I nod.
We listen to the night music for a while. Even the frogs sound worried. Like they know what’s coming.
“I’m not evacuating,” Hart finally tells me. “I decided I’m gonna stay and ride it out.”