Twila's Tempest

Chapter One

Fasteners shot through the air like bullets from a barrel as the clatter of siding ripped free from buildings. Angry gusts of wind bent palm trees to the breaking point, ratcheting Twila’s nerves as she leaned against her kitchen counter watching the footage. The hurricane crept across the ocean on all fours. With the advancing surge, the seas curled up and slammed the shore with a violent fist. Flying debris windmilled with deadly trajectory at anything in its path and rain showered the ground like blood splatter.

Twila shuddered. Every Floridian understood and respected the power of a hurricane, but they’d rather watch it on TV than be caught in its path. Between June and November, Mother Nature had a bad case of cranky. Port St. Lucie had been hit twice last year by Hurricanes Frances and Jeanne. Luckily, her parents’ trailer, now her trailer, had escaped major damage.

The weatherman sounded giddy instead of concerned as he reported on the aftermath of Hurricane Rita which skirted the Keys and flooded two hundred homes a couple days earlier. The guy gestured toward the weather map.

Rita was the fourth-most intense Atlantic hurricane ever recorded. I’d put money down that we’re not done yet, Florida. Two thousand and five is going to be a record-setting year, he said, surveying the satellite image of the Atlantic. We got away with a glancing blow from Katrina, but my meteorological senses tell me it’s not over. I’m Jimmy the human barometer with more to come on your local weather. Stay tuned.

The TV cut to commercial and Twila sported a grin. More like Jimmy the human ass-o-meter. She inhaled the aroma of fresh coffee, infusing her senses with have no fear, coffee’s here, and drew her cup of roasted brew from the mini coffee maker. The guy spouted more about his greatness than an accurate weather report, most of the time. With a buff build, bleached teeth and dark, ruffled hair, WWPE, Treasure Coast’s TV station, found younger viewers, mostly women, were tuning in. He had zero education in meteorology, but he could wink at the audience wearing his skin-tight shirt, read a teleprompter, and flex his upper arms.

Arrogant men irritated her beyond reason. Only an ass-o-meter would get excited over the mounting debt Florida faced every hurricane season. Adding a little milk to her coffee and bumping the refrigerator door shut with her bum, she turned toward the September sun laying warm strips across her brown shag carpet. Not that she had much left, but she’d put money down hoping the Human Barometer was wrong, and the tropical storms had come to an end in the Atlantic for this year.

Plucking the phone up on her way, Twila settled in her Florida room. Taking another sip of coffee, she cradled her mug watching the old folks stroll past her trailer through the half screened, half glass wall.

A pen and pad of paper sat on the rattan table beside her. Five minutes of quiet bliss before the elderly residents of the Gold Pelican Trailer Park would start calling. She grinned as a head popped up and peered at her through the window. Morning, Salty.

The Sandhill crane blinked its bright, beady eyes, waiting patiently for his cubes of bread. Twila pulled the bag she kept close by and dumped a few into her palm. She opened the patio door and offered them to the bird. Salty stretched his neck to gently peck the pieces from her hand. Like many residents of the park, he’d lost his mate last year. Twila’s mother had befriended the crane, and now her trailer was one of his regular stops. Salty cocked his head as if asking, More?

See you tomorrow, Salty. He ruffled his feathers and with an elegant long-legged stride, moseyed across her lawn to the neighbors.

During the last year, Twila had gone from visitor to resident. She hadn’t intended on staying once her mother passed away, but now her days were full from sunrise to sundown. Thoughts of leaving the park had been pushed to the back of her mind, but decisions had to be made. Soon, she’d have to find a paying job. The funds from selling her business dwindled.

Interrupting her thoughts, the phone rang and she checked the number before answering. Mrs. Clancy reminded her she needed a ride to Dr. Aikens’ office at eleven. Twila wrote herself a note and patiently promised three times she’d be early before hanging up.

Three more calls came in rapid succession. She scheduled them; relieved Becka Addison’s number hadn’t shown up on her phone. At five foot nothing and almost seventy-years-old, Becka still had the impact of a hurricane. The woman had a huge heart, and Twila could never repay her kindness. During the last month of her mom’s life, Becka had stood by them both. She owed her so much. Avoiding Becka was unthinkable, but coming up with a good excuse to evade her son was imperative.

GOOD MORNING, TWILA, dear. Don’t forget our appointment this afternoon, Mrs. McCoy called from her Florida room as Twila jogged past her trailer.

The sweet woman’s dress, slathered with large blue hibiscus flowers, mimicked a shower curtain. She gave Mrs. McCoy a wave as she slowed to a quick walk. If she didn’t keep moving, Mrs. McCoy would wrangle her into lemonade and a three hour visit. I won’t, Mrs. McCoy. The traffic will be heavy in town, so we’ll leave a little earlier today.

I’ll be ready, dear. You look hot. Can I offer you a lemonade?

Twila grinned and jogged across her pristine lawn. Harvey Greenways’ grandson mowed it every week, and Mrs. McCoy kindly paid him with homemade tarts. If the smell of baking bread didn’t waft from her kitchen every morning, the residents of the park would be banging on her door with worry. On Tuesdays, she played cards with some of the other ladies in the retirement park, but walking had become a hardship for her. The widow McCoy didn’t venture out too often.

Twila shielded her eyes from the brilliant Florida sun. No, thank you, Mrs. McCoy, I have to help Mr. Dettweiler. His printer isn’t working.

Mrs. McCoy huffed. That old fool shouldn’t have a computer. He doesn’t even know how to use it.

Twila chuckled. He’s learning a little at his computer classes. I’ll be back to pick you up at two, okay?

See you then, dear.

Twila needed to move it. Mr. Dettweiler spent forty years in the Navy, and he got a little testy if she showed up more than five minutes late.

Oh, I almost forgot. Becka Addison was looking for you.

Becka’s net had been cast. Avoidance a pointless endeavor. Walking backwards, Twila asked, Do you know what for?

I think it’s about her birthday party. She wants you to drop over today.

The residents had a communication system that put Ma Bell to shame. Twila gave her another wave and jogged down the roadway. She didn’t have to worry about cars as much as being run over by wily eighty-year-olds speeding around in golf carts. The Gold Pelican retirement park mirrored hundreds in the state and brought retirees seeking refuge from the snow and ice. From November to late April the park bloomed to full capacity.

Most residents owned trailers of varying quality and size, but the cement block homes had been popping up at the park over the last year. Ninety-nine thousand dollars could buy a hurricane resistant bungalow which provided a whispers’ chance of standing up against a direct hit. Sadly, many of the residents had limited incomes, but they treated their trailers as if they were waterfront mansions. Without fail, every yard had at least one palm tree, flowering shrubs bordering the skirt of each trailer, and an orange or lemon tree to boast about.

Twila lived in her mother’s place, which resonated with a memory of her green thumb. Three months had passed since Twila and her brother buried their mom. A year ago, she had a minor stroke. Eight months later, Twila’s father died of cancer, and her mother’s will to live withered like her beloved plants without water.

Arriving at Mr. Dettwieler’s, Twila opened the screen and knocked. She heard the thump of his cane crossing the living room. He opened the door, turning his wrist to glance at his watch. Aging yellow eyes sunk deep in their sockets and the blood vessels on his nose mapped a complex puzzle, but his tongue hadn’t lost its abrupt Navy report. Thanks for coming, Twila. You know where the printer is.

I do, she said, climbing the one step into his space-saving entrance.

Most of the elderly who had problems walking or climbing steps installed a ramp, but Mr. Dettwieler refused. I’m Navy, he’d bark. I know how to walk down a step. I climbed plenty on the ships. Twila had given up suggesting it, but she was concerned that one day he’d fall, and it would be a hard landing on his driveway that awaited him.

Finished within ten minutes and a quick lesson on how to print a document, Twila hoofed it for Mrs. Little’s place. Becka Addison and her husband Gordon lived on the same street. A glance at her watch confirmed the possibility of a quick detour.

The Addison’s lot boasted two enormous palms growing on each corner of their lawn. They backed onto a sizeable waterway, and a large oak tree provided shade and a little privacy from the pleasure yachts that cruised through the murky water of the canal.

Becka had a tendency to talk to her Oleander and Crape Myrtle from the large back deck her and her husband, Gordon, built to entertain their friends and celebrate happy hour. The network of gossip spread as big as the trees some afternoons.

Becka retired four years ago, and this Saturday would be her seventieth birthday. Every one you reach means giving the cemetery the middle finger, Becka told her. Age didn’t hold the spry woman down, and her mind could shred a New York Times crossword puzzle in under fifteen minutes. She’d owned a restaurant on Broadway, and the New Yorkers who flocked to the plays knew Becka’s on Broadway as a place to find a good meal and divine desserts.

Before Twila reached the door, Becka opened it. Twila, darling. Come in, come in.

The Addisons had two sons. One, Layton, served as a special ops Marine, and the older one, Drake, had served ten years then threw his dog tags into a drawer. Since then, he’d become a jet-setting, wealthy entrepreneur. He manufactured yachts, and to hear Becka talk, the Marines must have been sad to see him leave. According to his mother, he walked on water.

Hi, Becka. I heard you were looking for me.

Twila entered the stylish trailer decked out with walnut floors and fine fixtures. Framed pictures of her two sons hung on every wall and sat on most shelves. Both were very handsome, but Drake’s green eyes seemed to follow Twila wherever she stood in the room.

Becka ushered her into the kitchen and plucked a glass off the counter without slowing down, placing it in her hand like a McDonald’s drive-thru. We need to talk, she said, and with quick steps headed for the back deck. Twila had no option but to follow.

Mr. Addison sat on his favorite lounge chair, gripping a newspaper. Dappled sunshine from the oak cast shadows across his nearly bald head. Whatever she’s about to try and talk you into, it’s all right to say no, Twila, Mr. Addison offered, without moving the paper away from his face.

Sit, please. Becka pulled out the chair and settled herself. Now, I know you have a policy about not attending the resident’s birthday parties.

I— Becka raised a hand and stifled her.

I’m not just any resident and this is my seventieth year on the planet. I expect you to be there.

Becka had a way of giving what Twila called a New York long-eye. Basically it comprised of a tilt of her head and a shrewd stare, but no one did it as well as Becka. The woman might only be five foot nothing, but her willpower topped out at Cat5.

Becka, I don’t have a policy about birthdays, I’m just beat at the end of the day.

Becka drummed her manicured nails on the glass tabletop. Then I want to hire you.

What? No.

Yes, Becka shot back. I need help, dear.

Her ploy couldn’t have been more transparent. Becka— Twila flopped back in the chair and stared at her. She’d do anything for Becka. Almost anything. You have two strapping sons.

But only one can make it for my birthday. God knows where Layton is, but he won’t be able to get here until later.

Then one strapping son.

Becka gave her the sweet but deadly old lady smile. Yes, and you haven’t met him yet.

Twila rose to her feet. I don’t need to meet him, Becka. Hence, the almost anything.

Darling, you are twenty-nine-years old. In my day, you would have been considered an old maid. Drake is thirty-five, and I know you two would hit it off.

Twila rolled her eyes, but ended with a grin at Becka’s valiant effort. You told me Drake has a girlfriend.

A loud snort emanated from Becka. Girlfriend! Bah! She’s a barracuda looking to replace her daddy’s money with Drake’s.

Didn’t you tell me they’re in Europe? Maybe they eloped, she said, pulling Becka’s chain.

Heather DeCourcy doesn’t love my son, Becka spouted. She flits all over Europe on her modeling jobs, then distracts him with all her rich friends. It just so happens Drake had to visit Italy to inspect a new diesel engine for his yachts at the same time.

Becka had old fashioned values, even if she had been twenty-something in the sixties. People didn’t fall in love anymore. Nobody had the time. Twila certainly didn’t. How do you know she doesn’t love him? If Drake is happy, then you should be happy for him.

Air whistled through Becka’s teeth. He’s not happy. I know. Mothers know. You’ll see one day when you have your own family.

I have a family.

I’m not talking about caring for the fuddy-duddies in this park. Now, give me one good reason why you won’t help me. It’s my birthday.

Mr. Addison chuckled from behind his paper. Give it up, girl. Ya know you can’t win now.

Becka, I will help you, but you’re not hiring me.

Becka beamed at her. It’s going to be a small gathering.

How small?

Becka’s pencilled brows lifted. Maybe fifty people or so.

Twila laughed. Where are you going to fit fifty or so people?

Becka’s thin arms spread wide. Out here and some will mill inside. We keep them fed and their tongues wet, and they’ll be happy.

Twila didn’t doubt Becka loved this. It allowed her to relive the times when her business flourished. All right, I’ll help with serving and keeping things cleaned up. Now, I have to run. She leaned over and gave Becka a peck on the cheek.

Thank you, Twila.

Twila heard Becka say to her husband as she escaped through the patio doors, I’m so glad Drake is finally going to meet Twila.

Stop the matchmaking, Mr. Addison admonished. Our son has no intention of settling down, and he’s got that hot, rich babe he’s dating.

"Pffft. I know what’s best for my son, and it isn’t that sun-soaked harpy."

Drake’s picture sat on a shelf beside the TV, and Twila slowed her pace to take a closer look. She’d seen it many times before. He stood behind the wheel of a sailboat, reminding her of a roguish captain. His open, white shirt billowed in the wind, exposing the ultimate ripped body. In most of his pictures, he wore his dark blond hair in a short cut, but in this one it was a little longer and his smile cracked a cut jaw on his handsome face. He seemed so carefree and happy, not to mention the aura of sexy beyond a woman’s wildest movie star dreams. Twila’s heart loped into an uneven beat. Not many men had that effect on her. No wonder he had a model for a girlfriend.

Twila found it odd there were no pictures of Drake and his girlfriend, taking up space in the Addison’s living room. Shouldn’t there be at least one? Becka didn’t miss the chance to exude an ugly sound from her throat whenever she mentioned Heather.

Becka said Drake would only visit for a week or two, and although it was ridiculous, Twila hoped she wouldn’t have to meet him. Mothers were blind to their son’s faults. He was probably an egomaniac and had a personality to match.

He’s a handsome man, isn’t he?

Twila straightened and her cheeks burned hot. Sliding a gaze toward Becka, she nodded. Yes, he is. Why lie about it, she’d only insult Becka if she did.

Becka picked up the picture and looked at it with an expression of warmth. I used to worry myself sick when both Drake and Layton were deployed in the Marines. I thought when Drake left the forces I wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore, but I do.

Although she didn’t have children of her own, Twila understood. Parents never stop worrying about their children. If Heather and Drake get married, you’ll be able to worry about your grandchildren.

Becka pressed the frame to her heart. I want grandchildren so badly, but I don’t want Drake to make the mistake of marrying Heather. I know he’s a grown man, and he can make his own decisions, and he will, but Heather is not the one.

Twila shrugged. Will anyone be when it comes to your oldest son?

Becka placed the frame back on the shelf and eyed her. I hope so, Twila.

Drake’s mother held a very big soft spot in Twila’s heart, and she’d hate to break it. Becka, I know you want Drake to meet me, but... She cast a look at the heart-stopping image of the man smiling back from the picture. You mean well, but don’t try to set us up. I’ll help you with your birthday party, but it’s because you were so good to Mom and me.

Becka gave her a sweet smile. I miss your mom, but I have you. Although I never told Gordon, and I love my boys, I always wanted a daughter. I consider you part of this family and I love you, honey.

Twila’s eyes misted and so did Becka’s when they gave each other a big hug. She swept the tears from her cheek and gave Becka another quick hug. I have to get back to my rounds. I’ll call you later.

She closed the door and stood on the small stoop of the Addison’s trailer to sweep away another tear. Grief sucked, and it couldn’t be avoided when someone you loved passed away. She considered herself blessed to have Becka in her life, but falling in love with her son would never happen. Luck was for the Irish, and she was a southern girl.

Chapter Two

H ey, folks! Anyone here?

Drake, my oldest baby boy! his mother squealed, running through the house full tilt and into his arms.

Mom, I lost the diapers at two. He clasped her in his arms for a big hug and pulled her right off her feet. Love you, old girl.

Oh, put me down, she scoffed. His mom clutched his cheeks and planted one on him.

Hey, Dad, he greeted, as his father strode calmly across the living room and shook his hand then pulled him in for a hug.

How’s business, my boy?

Good. Can’t say I’m complaining about having a couple weeks off though.

His mom clapped her hands together. A couple weeks, that’s wonderful.

She reached for his bag and he stopped her, picking it up instead. I thought I’d give Dad a hand around here.

His dad looked toward the ceiling and counted without speaking out loud.

Oh my goodness! Are you going to extend the front patio for my birthday?

Drake leaned over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Happy birthday, Mom.

Oh, son, thank you. She narrowed an eye at his father. No more excuses, Gordon

Ya had to do it, didn’t ya? his father said good-naturedly. By the end, we’ll have to demo it and start again because she’ll want something different and probably add a replica of the Eiffel Tower.

Go on, ya old fool. I’m not like that.

Drake’s father grunted and crossed his arms. Your mother just put lunch out. We’ll get the tools together after I eat.

Drake tossed his bag in the spare bedroom and joined his parents on their deck, following the scent of the Panini’s she placed on the table. The one thing he missed joining the Marine Corp was his mother’s cooking. When he came home from sea, he headed straight to the restaurant. His father set a beer down in front of him and cracked his own.

Her brow quirked. That’s your second one today, Gordon.

Stifle it, woman. You’re not my keeper, his dad growled at her.

Could have fooled me.

She grabbed the beer and poured half of it into a glass for herself. They’d done this for as long as Drake could remember. His dad would grumble, then stick his tongue in his cheek with a grin. His parents never stopped bickering or loving each other.

Tell us about Italy, Drake, his mother prompted.

It’s old, he said and took a bite of his Panini, savoring his mother’s skill in the kitchen. Italy didn’t have a thing on her cooking. Didn’t do much sightseeing. Went to a few wineries and visited the Vatican City. Spent most of my time at the manufacturers.

You going to use their engines in your next line of yachts? his father asked.

I think so. They’re willing to deal on price. Not that it seems to make much difference to my clientele.

We’re so proud of you, Drake, his mother chimed. But you work too hard.

Living in the Keys and working long hours turned days into weeks of endless details, but he didn’t begrudge the time or the hard work. When he did have a night off, Heather was there to drag him out to some party. She traveled a lot with her modeling, but she kept him busy in the bedroom when she landed back in Miami. Their arrangement worked for him, although lately she’d been pressing him for something more permanent. While on the road, Heather didn’t let one day lag without a phone call, and she blasted him with text messages into the early morning hours. Seeing someone every day and pointless phone calls came too close to a slippery slope into a wedded nightmare he wanted to avoid.

Up at five, at the dock office looking over plans by six, and most nights he didn’t put his feet up until nine. Settling into a domestic role wasn’t an option. His list of clientele grew by the month. Heather bragged about his yachts to anyone who would listen. Most prosperous Floridians wanted a boat. Her father’s list of endless wealthy associates helped, and they got along, but Drake got a little nervous with the guy always referring to him as son.

She’d made a big deal of coming to his mother’s birthday party, although he’d tried to dissuade her. Not only did they come from opposite ends of the food chain, but sharing family parties seemed a little too much like a relationship.

I have the best news, his mother said, drawing him from his thoughts.

He nodded for her to carry on.

You’re finally going to meet Twila.

Hell bent on another mouthful of Panini, his mom’s words halted the attack. As if he hadn’t heard that name a million times. Mom, seriously. I know you like her, but the business has found its feet, and I put in a lot of hours. I don’t have time for—

Nonsense. I’m not saying marry the girl, I’m just saying she’s going to be here for the party, and you can finally meet.

He knew his mother. She wasn’t shy about prodding him about grandbabies, something she’d always wanted, but his brother was going to have to pull his weight. When’s Layton getting here?

His mother darted a suspicious glance at him, sensing his diversionary tactic. Not sure, but he won’t make it for my birthday.

Maybe Twila would like to meet him? He smiled at her, picking up his cold beer. When his mother started to give him the look he remembered from childhood it was time to retreat. I’m sure she’s a great gal, but I’m seeing someone right now. Gutless, yup, but no matter how old you got, a mom could wither twenty-five years with one glare, especially his.

That woman is not your type, she said briskly.

Dad, you gonna help here or what?

Nope, he said, filling his mouth with Panini to seal the deal.

His mother grunted. Your father thinks your girlfriend is hot.

He choked. I’d agree, but— He stopped himself before saying she wasn’t his girlfriend and giving his mother any ammo to use against him.

There are lots of ‘buts’ when it comes to that girl. I hate how she’s always draped over you like a curtain. Can’t she stand on her own two feet?

Mom, try to be nice. She wants to celebrate your day.

What if I don’t want her here?

He shrugged. She’s coming. He wiped his mouth and sat back with his beer cradled in his hand, taking in a breath of responsibility-free air. He could smell the sea only a half mile away. The sun filtered through the trees, and the September afternoon wasn’t sweltering hot. His father finished his beer and smacked his lips. You ready to start on Mom’s birthday present?

With a grumble, his dad said, I was going to go for a round of golf after lunch.

How about we put a few hours in, and I’ll go with you after dinner?

His father grinned. Deal.

Mom collected the plates from the table. "I’ll get