Story Not As Simple As It Seems

Chapter Forty-One

Ben had stopped by to borrow the tractor when Bud received two trailer trucks of supplies for the new warehouse. (Bud had taken to calling the old one the “Barn” to differentiate the two buildings.) The first trailer carried steam-table military rations in tough cardboard cases on pallets—not the flimsy corrugated kind, but the sort so sturdy it was hard to break even with a pickaxe. Bud operated the telehandler while Ben worked the forklift inside the warehouse. The second trailer held bulk grain in food-safe pails, along with a variety of odds and ends from Emergency Essentials.

Afterward, Bud helped Ben hitch the land plane to the tractor. Ben planned to drag the improved trail that ran along the waterfront between Pete’s place and Bud’s. Regan had fallen twice on her bike there the week before.

“Why not just get her a four-by-four?” Bud asked.

It wasn’t two weeks later that Pete bought a Can-Am four-by-four with an enclosed cab. He used it mostly around his property, but Regan borrowed it whenever she could—usually to come up for impromptu cooking lessons from Bud or Patty.

Bud went ahead and hired a family-owned excavation and grading company to improve the trail properly: laying limestone aggregate and compacting crushed marl on top to create a solid secondary road. Pete was hiring the same outfit to do his marina parking lot later.

The yacht basin excavation was complete, and Pete said the channel would be finished in another week. The excess soil and tons of riprap had been used to build jetties along the channel sides to prevent quick silting. Soon the contractors would arrive to erect the warehouse, and more clearing would begin on the store site and parking areas. Pete’s general contractor showed up every morning at 06:00 and worked well past dark. Diana was getting in on the action too—handling landscaping. Her designer was collaborating with the architect on plant-bed placement. What Bud and Patty didn’t yet know was that the store would also sell seasonal flowering plants and shrubs for tourists to take home.

Charisse and Patty decided they needed to scout the tourist shops in Nags Head and on Roanoke Island to see how they were laid out—typical setups with locally owned boutiques, coastal gifts, T-shirts, beachwear, surf shops, and gaudy novelties mixed with a few antique stores. Of course, their men had to come along to find and secure parking. It was only a 45-mile drive, so they planned to leave early one morning and return that evening. Patty chose a Thursday, figuring the weekenders would start arriving Friday and turn the roads into a nightmare.

Wednesday afternoon, Bud fueled the truck, checked the tires and fluids, and prepared for the trip. He and Patty had BLTs and soup for supper, then settled in the great room to watch the evening news.

During a commercial break, Bud took his drink out to the deck. The evening wasn’t as cool as recent ones had been. The sun glinted off the breeze-driven, soft rolls on the sound. He did a slow 180-degree scan, then turned and scanned the other way. Patty paused at the screen door to watch him, then stepped out.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking. You know, I’ve dreamed of a place like this for a long time without even realizing it.”

“So what was one of the things that finally made you chase the dream?” Patty asked.

“You already know a few, but I think it came down to changes. I hate changes. Back when I was ‘busy,’ changes could mean danger. In that closed world, I adapted to get the job done and moved on. But in downtime, I noticed the bigger changes outside it. People I grew up watching on TV and in country videos were aging, which made me feel older. The rest of the world was dying slowly, and I’d been blind to it. Then colleagues started dying from stress-related issues or old injuries. In my last assignment, posing as a money-market manager, I dealt with a whole new class of people—hard workers who partied harder. They’d run you over for a moment’s pleasure.

“One day, resting after a run in Liberty State Park, I decided to build my own world outside the man-made mess I was drowning in. I had everything a young executive could want, and it still wasn’t enough—or maybe it was too much. I sold the art collection, ditched the suits, sold the condo, and planned my escape.”

“Are you happy now?” Patty asked.

“Happy as when I was a boy catching frogs in the creek. Deliriously so since I met and married you. I’m building my own world, knowing I’ll die someday—and my friends and loved ones will too—but on my terms, not those of people who suck the life out of you. I’ll live every day as it comes and thank God I have you to share them with.”

“You’re going to make me cry!”

“Then I hope they’re happy tears. I try not to make you sad.”

“With you, all my tears are happy ones—except when you get shot.”

“Well, that’s one of those potholes in life.”

Ben and Charisse arrived early the next morning for breakfast. Bud loaded everyone up with pancakes, sausage, and eggs. He warned them about too much coffee: restroom facilities were scarce between here and the Outer Banks, and many shop owners didn’t let customers use theirs. Charisse pulled a notepad from her purse and jotted a note.

They hit the road by 08:00 and reached Manteo by 09:00, delayed a bit by a huge boat being towed to the coast—probably some dentist from Raleigh.

Parking wasn’t bad, and for a while Ben and Bud stuck with the women as they browsed tourist traps full of T-shirts, beachwear, and novelties, plus a couple of antique shops. After what felt like 50 miles of walking, they drove to Nags Head and ate lunch at the Blue Moon Beach Grill before hitting more shops.

On the drive home, Patty sat in the back while Ben rode shotgun. The women whispered constantly, Charisse scribbling in her notepad. Bud figured they were compiling ideas from the trip.

Pete had a well drilled and consulted Bud on removing the rotten-egg/swamp-mud smell from the water. They settled on a reverse-osmosis system with carbon and remineralization filters for near-springwater taste, plus a 1000-gallon holding tank. The women decided a picnic area fit perfectly, so the architect added a large gazebo with tables. Bud and Pete harvested some pines, debarked them for rustic picnic tables, and set them aside to season. Pete stayed busy overseeing slip construction, docks, the ship store, and fuel dock at the marina. He knew exactly what to stock and where to source it.

To no one’s surprise, Joe and Diana were seeing each other seriously. Patty came back from the nursery one day and mentioned Diana was anxiously waiting for Joe to propose. That nudged Bud to revive a dormant plan. He checked the house on the new property he’d bought, noting needed improvements. A couple days later, he took Patty to inspect the off-grid solar system. It seemed undersized to him. Patty explained it was grid-tie: smaller because it usually drew from rural power and only switched to batteries during outages, with an auto-transfer switch for the backup generator. Bud said he wanted fully off-grid, like theirs. Patty called her brother Dan, and they started planning the upgrade—keeping the transfer switch for generator hookup if the batteries ran low.

The next time Joe came over, Bud asked about his plans with Diana. Joe looked sheepish, then admitted he was giving in to his feelings and looking for a place nearby.

“I was headed to Tennessee to set up, but I don’t want to drag Diana away from her family.”

“So have you popped the question yet?”

“Not yet. Waiting for the right segue.”

“What? You don’t need a segue—come on, I want to show you something.”

They went outside, and Bud motioned Joe into the Haflinger. He drove to the new property, showing Joe the six-acre corner with the house and outbuildings, and offered to lease it to him and Diana.

“It has appliances but no furniture. Maybe get Diana over on the pretense of picking some out, then ask her to make it permanent. And look—here in the side yard next to the field—you could build a hangar and keep your helicopter out of the weather.”

“Can I look inside?” Joe asked.

Bud unlocked the kitchen door. Their footsteps echoed through the empty rooms.

“It’s got enough bedrooms,” Joe observed.

“How many do you need?” Bud asked.

Joe grinned. “Just one.”

“I’m upgrading the off-grid power system too, with a backup generator.”

“Good. The way they can pull sound through electrical circuits these days makes me want to stay off-grid. Not that I have anything left to leak.”



Patty sat on the edge of the bathtub, the small white stick balanced on her knee like something fragile and priceless. The bathroom light was too bright, the tile too cold, but none of that mattered anymore.

Two pink lines.

She blinked once, twice, waiting for them to vanish like an optical illusion. They didn’t. They stayed—clear, certain, almost defiant.

A small, startled laugh escaped her, the kind that comes right before tears. Her hand flew to her mouth as if to catch the sound and hold the secret a little longer. But the joy spilled out anyway, warm and unstoppable, filling every quiet corner of her.

Positive.

The word felt too small. It carried morning sickness she hadn’t yet felt, tiny socks she hadn’t bought, a name she hadn’t whispered aloud. It was the sudden awareness of a second heartbeat beneath her own—faint, secret, already loved.

She pressed her palm to her lower belly, not feeling anything yet, but saying hello in the only way she could.

“Hello, you. I’ve been waiting for you.”

There was fear, sharp little darts about bringing a child into this crazy world, about sleep, about being mother enough. But this morning hope roared louder. It painted futures in soft watercolor: a crib in a spare bedroom, the smell of baby shampoo, a small warm body against her chest at 3 a.m.

In the mirror she saw someone new—eyes shining, cheeks flushed, smile trembling with the size of the secret she now kept for two.

She whispered to the empty room, to the two pink lines, to the impossible little life already changing everything: “We’re going to be okay.”

Thinking of the man she had married, she knew it with her whole heart.
 
Chapter Forty-Two

Patty finished in the bathroom, slipped on a robe, and carried the pregnancy test to Bud’s office. He was browsing architectural salvage sites for the General Store.

She knocked lightly on the doorframe, stepped inside, and approached the desk. She set the stick beside his trackball mouse, covering it briefly with her hand before leaning in to kiss his right temple.

Bud’s gaze followed her hand as she pulled it away, revealing the test. He picked it up and whispered, “You’re…?”

She grinned and nodded.

Bud shot up, his chair spinning back into the oak filing cabinet with a thud. He pulled her into a fierce hug.

“Looks like we’ve got more shopping to do,” he said. “I’ll open a bottle of scuppernong juice!”

She laughed as he tugged her by the hand into the great room and eased her into her La-Z-Boy. “I’ll be right back!”

He returned with two wine glasses half-filled with the non-alcoholic juice, knelt, and handed one to her while gently stroking her cheek.

“Here’s to the next three years of diaper changes!” Bud said, clinking their glasses.

“Three years! You think I’m stopping at one?” Patty replied, rising from the chair. She took his hand, guided him around the coffee table, and pulled him down onto the couch.

Bud set his glass aside and wrapped his arms around her. “I love you. What are you going to name her if it’s a girl?”

“Renée Helen. I love the name Renée, and of course I’d like to honor my mother and grandmother. What about a boy?”

“Sean Michael.”

“Sean Michael? Who’s that after?”

“No one,” Bud said. “I want him to start fresh—no expectations tied to someone else’s name or achievements. He’ll make his own path with our love and guidance.”

Patty smiled. “Well, it’ll be a while before we know. I want to wait until the first sonogram to tell everyone.”

“But we could start on the nursery!”

She giggled. “Yes, we can.”

Later, Bud tallied his latest order on the calculator and processed payment. Patty and Charisse were transforming the General Store into something special—blending the best elements of every shop they’d visited. They’d insisted on large, mall-style bathrooms with changing stations and nursing rooms—no waiting. The décor leaned Art Deco, and Bud had just finished ordering the salvaged pieces to pull it off. Thank God for architectural salvage.

He rose from his desk and fixed himself a drink. Upstairs, Patty and her mother were sketching nursery plans. They occasionally called down for his opinion; he always agreed with whatever they suggested. He’d lived in too many rough conditions to care much about wall colors—as long as the roof held and no rats moved in, he was fine.

Bud stepped out to the garden. The corn stood armpit-high, vibrant green. He’d added lime after plowing in peat over winter, and it had paid off. The pecan trees promised a bumper crop this year. (Note to self: Get tarps ready to catch the nuts.)

He keyed the radio—his idea for keeping tabs on Patty when he was away—and told her he was heading to the construction site. His real destination was the General Store, but first he’d swing by Joe’s to check the hangar progress and the coastal Bermuda grass he’d planted in the adjacent 44-acre field. He’d hired a farmer with heavy equipment to plow and seed it; come fall, he’d bale the hay to sell, keep some for his two-cow herd (and maybe a future pony), and trade the rest for straw bedding.

The hangar was nearly done. Workers were hanging insulation and running power. Dan’s crew had installed Vortex wind generators and upgraded the battery bank earlier; Joe was now fully off-grid. The co-op must have valued their old transformer—the day after disconnection, a crew removed it from the pole but left the pole standing.

At the marina, Pete had a new partner: retired Chief Petty Officer John Dawson, who’d served under Master Chief Petty Officer Pete Midgett in the Coast Guard. John’s wife, daughter, and son-in-law were going to help run operations.

When Bud reached the General Store, Ben was outside directing island and curbing placement. Inside, Bud marveled at the progress: shiplap walls going up, tin ceiling panels embossed with sea creatures in the convenience area, recessed lighting above future shelves. A movie-set bar, cut down for the counter, waited in the warehouse—two POS stations planned. Charisse had hired an experienced shipping clerk to organize the warehouse. Bud slipped out before anyone could ask his opinion. He’d provide the funds, but the decisions were theirs. He just watched to keep things from going overboard.

Back home, Bud researched satellite internet for the store’s Wi-Fi. Starlink’s expanding constellation offered the lowest latency—far better than HughesNet—so he scheduled an installation from a Wilmington distributor to test it at the house. If it didn’t impress, he could switch back and return the gear. He liked that the dish tracked the satellites and they networked among themselves in orbit.

That evening, Joe invited Diana over to help choose furniture. She admired the recent remodel: huge kitchen, master bath with jacuzzi tub and oversized shower, massive walk-in closet.

“I only need half,” Joe said. “The other half’s yours.”

“Joe, are you asking me to move in?”

“Well… sort of. I want you to marry me. I’m all screwed up—I should’ve had a ring first.”

She smiled. “I can take Friday off. We’ll shop for furniture in Greenville and pick out a ring there.”

Joe exhaled. “I’m sorry. I should’ve planned better.”

“I wondered if you ever would.”

“There was never any doubt.”

“Liar!”


“Joe and Diana are picking out furniture Friday,” Patty said casually the next night.

“He proposed?!”

“I guess. Emma said they’re getting a ring in Greenville. Sounds like he pulled the same move you did with me.”

“I was afraid he’d chicken out,” Bud said, grinning. He headed upstairs to change into slippers. When he returned, Patty was watching a black-and-white film.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“How Green Was My Valley—Walter Pidgeon, Maureen O’Hara, Roddy McDowall.”

“I’ll read instead. I don’t like the ending.”

“Why not?”

“All that hardship, and Angharad falls for the preacher but marries someone else. They never get together. It’s like salt in the wound.”

“My, my, Mr. Tenderheart.”

“Hush, or I’ll take the ash shovel to your pretty butt!”

“You’d spank the mother of your future children?” she teased, grinning.

Bud rose early the next morning, brewed coffee, and carried a mug to check the garden. When he returned, Patty had the kettle on for tea.

“Are you familiar with canning and freezing?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. I’ve helped Mom since I could shell peas and snap beans. We put up soup mixes, canned tomatoes, peas, beans, corn, gumbo mix, sweet and dill pickles, pickled melon squares, okra, chow-chow. Jellies, jams, preserves from grapes, strawberries, apples, peaches, pears. Applesauce, salsa. We froze corn on the cob, cut corn, broccoli, cauliflower, okra. Even made our own sauerkraut. Why?”

“Tomatoes will be ready in two or three days. I could start picking green beans now.”

“Momma will help, and I know Charisse and Regan will pitch in.”

“I’ll help too. I don’t want you getting too hot.”

“The pressure canner’s fine indoors, but for hot water bath we can use the outdoor kitchen.”

“Check your canning supplies. I might start picking beans tomorrow morning while it’s cool.”
 
Chapter Forty-Three

Bud had finished his coffee and was already out picking green beans by the time the sun began to climb. He’d filled a quarter of a bushel basket before the heat forced beads of sweat onto his forehead. Patty was just stirring when he finished the two rows he’d started, rinsed the beans under the outdoor spigot, and carried them to the shaded porch.

Inside, he washed up while Patty fried ham and cracked two eggs into the skillet. She served his plate, pulled a basket of biscuits from the warming oven, and poured him a glass of juice.

“How many beans did you get?” she asked.

“About three-quarters of a half-bushel basket.”

“We can do those in the water-bath canner on the porch.”

“I’ll start stringing after breakfast.”

“I’ll load the jars in the oven and come help. Charisse and Regan are coming over too.”

After a quick cleanup, Bud carried out two eight-quart enamel basins and began snapping and stringing. By the time he and Patty had half-filled their basins, Charisse and Regan arrived. Charisse took over Bud’s pan so he could set up the two-burner outdoor camping stove with boiling and ice-water pots plus a strainer.

The night before, Bud had filled the ice machine’s reservoir in the silo and hauled in a cooler of ice. The women would blanch a basket of beans, then plunge it into ice water to stop the cooking. Bud half-filled the ice pot with water, left the cooler and scoop handy, and reclaimed his pan from Charisse. Regan took Patty’s basin; the women rinsed the snapped beans and loaded the first basket. Patty set the digital timer and lowered it into the boiling water. Charisse stirred three scoops of ice into the waiting pot.

When the timer beeped, Patty lifted the basket, let it drain, and dipped it several times into the ice bath. Charisse fetched hot jars from the oven and fitted a canning funnel into the first one. They set up their filling station at the end of the picnic table and soon had jars packed and ready for the hot water bath.

By the end of the morning they had processed twelve quarts. Two went into the pantry; the rest found shelves in the silo.

They left the porch equipment in place for the next day’s work. Bud dumped the bean strings and tips onto the compost pile, turned them under, and watched earthworms already converge. After leveling the pile, he checked the old fig tree nearby and grinned. Dozens of small figs hung among the leaves. The tree—already a sprawling bush when he bought the place—had responded well to a hand pruning and a handful of bat guano worked into the soil.

The General Store was shaping up to be far more “general” than Bud had first imagined. With the ship’s store handling most of the hardware and marine supplies, the General Store filled the everyday gaps—no need to drive to Columbia for basics—while stocking plenty to tempt tourists. No fast food, but sandwich ingredients for the gazebo or a quick supper at home. A self-serve drink station offered cold and hot options, plus those addictive single-serve snacks. The freezer case held individual frozen yogurts, ice cream bars, Push-Ups, ice pops, and ice cream sandwiches in several flavors.

The tourist section mixed T-shirts, beachwear, decals, gaudy salt-and-pepper shakers, and a few antiques. The antiques were mostly decorative; prices carried enough markup (18% on sunshades, for example) to justify replacing a sold piece without regret.

The earliest tomatoes became sauce—spiced and plain—since they used far more sauce than crushed or diced. Bud de-stemmed and chopped them, ran them through the electric strainer, then simmered the juice on the porch’s two-burner propane stove until it thickened. The result went into the pressure canner. He was grateful the porch floor was composite; spills wiped up easily.

Up went the roof-level façade on the store. A local painter weathered the lettering into a graceful arch: South Side General Store. Inside, modern refrigeration would handle convenience items, but out front Bud planned an old-fashioned cold-drink cooler stocked with chilled sodas—and, in season, icebox melons and cantaloupes to lure hot passersby. Every proper General Store needed a porch crowd, so Patty and Helen hunted down straight-back chairs, rockers, and a couple of damaged pews Preacher Jeff donated after a roof leak. Bud shortened the pews, cutting away the rot, and the women painted everything to match.

Canning continued, sometimes with Charisse and Regan, sometimes Helen. Bud had the two beeves butchered, restocked the freezers with the packaged meat and fresh shrimp whenever a boat brought in a good haul. Next on the list: pork, with four salt-cured country hams hanging in room #1 by fall. Some trading lay ahead.

Bud hated picking okra. He loved eating it, but the fine hairs on the pods made his skin itch unless he wore gloves and long sleeves. So he harvested early, before the sun intensified. By noon the pods were usually washed, sliced, parboiled or partially fried, and safely in the freezer. Momentum mattered—once started, he didn’t want to stop.

Joe and Diana’s wedding was simple and heartfelt. Preacher Jeff officiated under a brush arbor the church men built in the couple’s backyard. Emma hired a string quartet; the reception unfolded under party tents with catered food. A few tears fell among the guests. Bud’s eyes watered too—from the heat. As soon as the ceremony ended, he loosened his tie and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

The couple would spend their wedding night at the farmhouse and fly out the next morning for Jamaica. Bud would pilot them to Elizabeth City Regional for an 11:00 flight connecting through Raleigh and Miami.

Champagne, water, and non-alcoholic punch circulated among the sweat-soaked crowd. Bud found Patty, Helen, and Emma in the shade of one tent, where a dance floor had been laid. He flagged a waiter for an ice-cold beer and settled beside them.

“Emma, the wedding was beautiful,” Helen said. “Simple, but so elegant.”

“Yeah,” Bud added, fanning his coat open, “a priest would’ve worn a speedo under his robes today.”

Patty shot him a look and sipped her punch.

“Where’d Joe and Diana disappear to?” Helen asked.

“Inside to change shoes for dancing,” Emma replied. “Diana couldn’t manage heels on the grass.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” Patty said.

“The floor’s plywood,” Bud pointed out. “You’ll be fine.”

“Are you dancing with me?” Patty asked.

“Of course. What kind of husband do you think I am?”

Joe and Diana opened the dancing. As they swirled, Bud caught a familiar face in the camera flashes behind the crowd—Don Waterbury. He rose, circled the guests, and tugged Don’s elbow.

“Long time, no see.”

Don grinned. “Looks like Joe’s been captured too. Heard you tied the knot not long after you left.”

“If you’re lucky, it’ll happen to you.”

The light in Don’s eyes dimmed. “Doubt it.”

“Come join us—grab a beer.”

Bud introduced him to Patty, Emma, and Helen.

“When did you get in?” Bud asked.

“Late last night. Parked the RV at Glamster’s Paradise, just before the US-17 business split.”

“I know the place.”

Joe and Diana invited others onto the floor. Bud took Patty’s hand and led her out. Don asked Helen; she accepted. When they returned, Don invited Emma next. Patty asked no more questions.

Joe eventually spotted Don and crossed the floor to shake hands. The dancing didn’t last long—the heat was brutal despite the fans. After cake and food, guests began drifting home. Bud, Joe, and Don shed their coats, revealing damp collar rings. Diana went inside to change into cooler clothes, taking the other women with her. The men stayed under the tent the cold beers.

“So you pulled the handle, huh?” Joe asked Don.

“Yeah. I finally saw what you two kept telling me. The old life wasn’t fun anymore.”

“Heard from Lili?” Bud asked.

“No. She’s on a deep assignment. I left my contact info with Harry for when—if—she surfaces.”

“She’ll surface,” Bud said. “She’s good.”

“If she wants to see me,” Don added quietly.

“I’d bet she does,” Joe said. “Where you headed?”

“Wolf’s Den for now, until I get my bearings.”

“Great. Shelly Brookes runs the place. I own about a thousand acres ten miles southeast on the Cumberland Plateau. Plenty of room if you want to build a cabin and play hermit.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Lili’s from Spain, right?” Joe asked.

“Basque Country,” Don corrected.

“Don’t you speak some Basque, Bud?”

“A little. The language is Euskara. Beautiful country. The mountain air is hard to beat.”

The women returned. They partied until the caterers packed up, leaving a big Styrofoam cooler of beer, champagne, and orange juice. When the tents came down, the group moved the cooler to Joe and Diana’s porch. As the sun dipped, everyone said goodnight. Joe and Diana stepped into their new home together.

“I’ll be ready at 0700,” Bud called to Joe.

Don followed Bud and Patty home. They settled on the porch, still talking.

“What did you drive down in?” Bud asked.

“Coachmen RV, towing the Jeep.”

“Long haul ahead.”

“Nine hours, give or take, if I push straight through.”

“Avoid Johnson City and Asheville if you can. Landslides and tourist traffic. Better to take I-77 to I-81 and skirt the mess.”

“Good to know.”

“You doing okay?” Bud asked. “Anything eating at you?”

“No more than usual for our line of work.” Don shrugged.

“PTSD is part of the package for all of us. You just live with it. Dreams fade over time. Booze, weed—none of it helps long-term. Setting a goal and sticking to it, plus someone like Patty… that’s what’s kept me level.”

Don grinned. “Guess I’ll have to find one of those Cumberland Plateau girls with more than six teeth to settle me down.”

“Good luck with that!” Bud laughed.
 
Chapter Forty-Four

While everyone else scrambled to ready the store, Bud seized a rare pocket of time. The vintage ceiling fixtures he'd ordered from architectural salvage firms had arrived, but the installation could wait. Instead, he turned to the yard: laying pavers around his fire pit.

The ground was already sandy, so he outlined the pattern, excavated four inches deep, and compacted the soil until it felt solid as a drumhead. Next came a layer of crushed limestone, tamped firm, followed by leveled sand. He set the granite pavers—dark against the beige backdrop—until the circle felt right. Then he swept polymeric sand into the crevices to lock everything in place and discourage weeds. A light mist activated the binder; he cordoned off the area for a week to cure.

In spare moments, he gathered cypress lumber for seating: low benches with deep, arched backs curving around the pit. Patty chose weather-resistant pillows in soft neutrals, turning the spot into a place to linger comfortably through evening fires.

Farther east, the winds began as murmurs but arrived around Columbia, North Carolina, bearing the full weight of the Atlantic.

It was mid-September. The small town—nestled between the lazy bends of the Scuppernong River and the broad, tea-stained Albemarle Sound—still carried the scents of fresh-cut grass and diesel from shrimp boats tying up at the marina each dusk. Kids pedaled bikes along cracked Main Street sidewalks, laughter echoing off white clapboard houses dating to the 1800s. Old Mr. Earl Ashcroft held court on the Tyrrell County Courthouse porch, whittling cypress and declaring the mullet thick this year. No one spoke the storm's name aloud. Yet.

The flags—Old Glory and the North Carolina state flag—snapped taut before the Confederate soldier statue.

The National Hurricane Center had named it Leon. Born as a tropical depression near the Cape Verde Islands three days earlier, it strengthened steadily into a Category 1, its eye a dark, watchful pupil on satellite feeds. Then it slowed—almost deliberately—to a crawl of five miles per hour or less. Forecasters repeated the warning like a chant: slow-moving… unprecedented rain… life-threatening floods.

Columbia felt the first shift Tuesday afternoon: wind swinging northeast, carrying the metallic promise of distant rain. Sarah Langley, stacking local history books in her Broad Street bookstore, watched pages flutter as if turned by unseen hands. Outside, the post office flag stood rigid, cracking like gunfire. At the Food Lion on the east side of town, the manager taped windows in bold X patterns and waved to Bud, who’d stopped for supplies—and a quick run to the ABC store. “They say it’s headed straight for us this time,” the manager called. “Slower than Floyd. Slower than Isabel.”

By Wednesday the sky had thickened. High cirrus streaked like mare’s tails; the air pressed heavier. At the old brick fire station—now the county Emergency Operations Center—volunteers set up cots and stacked water cases. Sheriff’s deputies patrolled the two-lane roads, distributing evacuation flyers. Columbia sat barely above sea level in spots—around three feet at its lowest—so direct surge might spare the core, but the low farmland and soundside hamlets (Alligator, Gum Neck, Creswell) were already emptying.

Leon lingered six hundred miles southeast, off South Carolina, its outer bands brushing the coast with squalls. Rain hammered down in twenty-minute bursts, leaving streets steaming. Temperatures dropped; cumulonimbus towers rose and flattened into anvil tops, glowing pink at sunset. The high school weather station read 29.60 inches and falling.

In the Langley house on Church Street, Tom—whose crab boat had been claimed by Matthew years back—studied a topographic map at the kitchen table. Ellie (nine) and Micah (seven) colored hurricanes: blue spirals, red eyes. Tom tapped a spot east of Hatteras. “It’ll stall here, then creep north. Days of rain. Days.”

The TV meteorologist, braced on Nags Head dunes, shouted over wind: “Leon’s at four miles per hour—slower than walking speed. Five to ten inches a day in spots. Flash flooding isn’t possible—it’s guaranteed.”

Thursday brought tropical-storm winds: steady thirty-five mph bending pines, scattering trash. The Sound turned restless gray, whitecaps forming. Shrimp boats hunkered in canals already swelling with pushed water. Captain Rayburn lashed his trawler tight, praying knot by knot.

Downtown, the hardware store was generator-dry; people shouldered plywood like shields. Diner talk fixed on numbers: 982 millibars, 85 mph winds, landfall anywhere from Wilmington to Virginia—but Leon’s dawdle meant the whole coast endured it for days.

Speed—or its absence—became the true menace. Fast storms hit and flee; Leon loitered. Rain bands widened, drenching one area before the next rolled in. By Friday the sky was a concrete lid. Sheets of rain hissed on leaves. The Scuppernong swelled, carrying logs and upstream debris. Mosquitoes swarmed thick, driving folks inside.

At the elementary school, recess stayed indoors; teachers showed old storm videos, keeping voices bright. The kids weren’t convinced.

Leon reached Charleston’s latitude. Satellite views revealed a textbook monster: sharp eye, solid eyewall, feeder bands reaching hundreds of miles. Models converged on worst-case: closest approach to Columbia late Saturday or early Sunday, center fifty miles offshore but circulation blanketing everything east of I-95. Albemarle surge forecasts climbed to six to nine feet—enough to flood marshes miles inland. Rainfall projections rose: twenty inches possible in seventy-two hours, thirty in isolated spots.

The town held its breath.

Friday evening the wind pressed hard, creaking old houses like ships. Streetlights swayed; the courthouse flag tore free, vanishing into dusk. Power flickered out in swaths as oak limbs snapped. Crews chained stop signs by flashlight.

The Langleys huddled in the hallway—windowless, safest. Candles flickered. Tom positioned the generator on the porch but conserved fuel. Ellie gripped her stuffed dolphin; Micah asked if storms had hearts. Sarah read from an old The Perfect Storm, skipping the worst parts, while rain drummed the tin roof. The weather radio droned: forward speed now two miles per hour. Leon had parked offshore, unleashing moisture without pause.

Saturday dawned sickly yellow-gray—no true sunrise. Rain fell in curtains, visibility fifty yards. The river overtopped banks; jon boats ferried families from flooded trailers. In town, streets held six inches of water, but heavier bands loomed. The eye would graze east around 2 a.m. Sunday, placing Columbia in the worst quadrant all night and into the next day.

Memories of Floyd ’99 surfaced—water through floorboards, drowned livestock, pastures turned to seas. But Floyd had moved on. Leon was patient.

By noon winds hit sixty mph. Trees leaned; a huge loblolly cracked like cannon fire, blocking Route 64. The sheriff locked down the town—no non-emergency travel. The fire station overflowed with evacuees from Gum Neck, sipping coffee, listening to the hoarse meteorologist: “One mile per hour… this is a siege.”

Inside it, life fractured into small acts. Sarah and Tom checked the crawl space—water seeping dark through blocks—then sandbagged the back door. Ellie drew the family against a black swirl; Micah napped thumb-in-mouth against his father. Mr. Earl Ashcroft sat shotgun-ready in his living room, waiting for the Sound to climb his steps.

The final hours stretched. Rain roared; gusts touched eighty-five mph, peeling shingles, spinning debris. Power vanished; only flashlights and distant transformer flashes lit the night. Air tasted of salt, pine, ozone.

At 1:47 a.m. Sunday the western eyewall grazed them. Wind veered north and screamed. The house shuddered. Door and window seals held against horizontal rain. Outside, the Scuppernong became a mile-wide lake, swallowing fields and park. A panicked deer swam past the Langley window.

Then, slowly, the fury eased. Dawn brought forty-mph winds; rain persisted another day and a half, but the peak had passed. Leon crawled north toward Virginia, still drenching the Mid-Atlantic.

Columbia emerged soaked but intact. Streets ran brown with toys, shingles, dock sections. Neighbors emerged to pump basements, share chainsaws, brew camp-stove coffee. Sarah watched sun pierce ragged clouds, gilding flooded fields. The storm hadn’t stolen like a thief; it had taught humility, hour by hour.

Tom joined her, arm around her shoulders. “We made it.”

Behind them, Ellie and Micah splashed in yard water, laughing—children rediscovering joy after fear.

Up the coast, Leon weakened, eye filling. But for those who endured its slow siege, the memory lingered longest. Not the violence, but the patience. The long lesson in what it means to hold fast.

Rather and fighting refugee traffic, Don decided to shelter in place. Bud had him put his Class C RV in the barn so he would have double the protection during the storm. Instead of using one of the guest rooms, Don decided to stay in the Coachman.

Bud woke up to the kind of silence you only usually hear after something has exploded. He got up, made coffee, put on a kettle for Patty’s tea, then went out to check the buildings. Everything was in its place, having endured about twelve inches of water covering the yard out to the county road. The inside of the silo was dry, not suffering any seepage. All the vehicles, except for the Haflinger, had been stored in the barn, so they had no damage. Bud checked the Haflinger and it started right up. He had to let the tailgate down to drain the water. He got in the Haflinger and drove down to the barn to check on Don. Don hadn’t had any problems and said it was like spending time in a metal drum during a hailstorm. He had worn stereo headset during the storm listening to Willie Nelson’s STARDUST album. Bud and Patty rode in the Haflinger down to Pete’s to see how they had faired. They were fine. Pete had built to endure many hurricanes over the years. They all traveled down to the General Store. As planned, the runoff water from the parking lot had drained into the little canal and out to the sound. There was no damage to the buildings.
 
Chapter Forty-Five

Bud and Patty walked out to the parking lot hand in hand. A girl! Bud was grinning like a mule eating briars and Patty had an excited flush to her cheeks.

“Want to grab an early lunch?” Bud asked.

“No, let’s go home. I want to tell Charisse!”

Bud unlocked the truck and opened her door. Before he was seated she was on the phone with her mother. He didn’t mind the jabbering as he made his way to US-64 and on east.

When they got back to the farm, Charisse’s Outback was sitting in the parking area. Going inside, they found Charisse and Lili sitting on the porch drinking Earl Grey tea.

Charisse jumped up. “What is it?!” She squealed.

“A girl! Renée Helen Campbell.”

“Oh girl! I must have fifty pairs of onesies still in the package waiting for little Renée!”

“I guess I can strike those off my shopping list!”

Bud went to the kitchen and got out shrimp and Andouille sausage from the freezer to thaw. He wanted to make Shrimp and Sausage Jambalaya for supper. He set out the other ingredients on the island and began chopping onions, green Bell peppers, celery, and garlic and placed them in prep dishes. It only took about an hour to cook so he wouldn’t even start putting anything in the Dutch oven until around 4:30. Jambalaya was best eaten right after it had finished cooking the first day…..in reality, it tasted best the second day after all the flavors had completely intermingled overnight.

The women ate salads for lunch, Bud and Don had schnitzel sandwiches with lettuce and tomato and bowls of vegetable soup. Patty made dough for baguettes for supper. Don went out to get his pistol and he and Bud went down to the range and shot pistols for a couple of hours. When they got back, they cleaned their weapons, Bud washed up and went into the kitchen to start the Jambalaya.

Bud placed the heavy cast-iron Dutch oven sat on the stovetop and turned the flame on to a medium-high heat. He began by heating a couple of tablespoons of olive oil over the medium-high heat until it shimmered. Into the pot went a pound of andouille sausage, sliced into ¼-inch rounds. The sausage sizzled and popped as it browned, releasing its spicy, smoky oils and filling the kitchen with an irresistible aroma. After a few minutes, Bud scooped the sausage out with a slotted spoon and set it aside on a plate, leaving behind all those flavorful browned bits clinging to the bottom of the pot.

Next came the holy trinity of Cajun cooking: a large diced onion, a seeded and diced green bell pepper, and two ribs of diced celery. Bud stirred them into the hot oil, seasoning lightly with salt, black pepper, and a generous shake of Cajun seasoning. The vegetables softened and sweetened in about five minutes, their edges just beginning to caramelize as they scraped up those tasty sausage fond from the pot. A few minced cloves of garlic joined the other vegetables for the final minute, their pungent scent blooming without burning.

With the foundation built, Bud poured in four cups of chicken broth and a pint jar of crushed tomatoes. A couple of bay leaves, a pinch of dried thyme, and extra Cajun seasoning went in too, along with a teaspoon or two of Louisiana hot sauce to give it some kick. Bud brought the mixture to a lively simmer, then stirred in about 2 cups of long-grain white rice, making sure every grain was coated in the savory liquid. Back in went the reserved sausage. He reduced the heat to low, put the heavy lid on the Dutch oven, and let it gently bubble for 25 minutes. The rice slowly absorbed the rich tomatoey broth, swelling and becoming tender while the sausage infused everything with its deep, smoky spice.

When the rice was nearly done—just a hint of firmness left—Bud lifted the lid and gently folded in a pound of peeled and deveined medium shrimp. The shrimp nestled into the hot mixture, turning from gray to plump, rosy pink in about 5 to 10 minutes of gentle cooking with the lid loosely on. Bud stirred carefully to avoid breaking the delicate seafood, tasting and adjusting the seasoning one last time—a little more salt, another dash of black pepper, and a squeeze of fresh lemon to brighten it all.

Patty pulled the baguettes and placed them on a cooling rack.

Finally, Bud turned off the heat and let the Jambalaya rest for a few minutes under the lid. The rice finished steaming to perfect fluffiness while the flavors melded into one harmonious, spicy-sweet pot of comfort. Patty handed him bowls and he ladled generous servings into them, scattering sliced green onions on top. Steam rose in fragrant curls, carrying the unmistakable scent of the bayou: smoky sausage, sweet shrimp, and that perfectly seasoned rice.

Patty and Lili cleaned the kitchen while the men had drinks on the porch.

When the women came out, Don asked Lili if she would like to go for a walk. She agreed and they left by the deck steps, heading for the water’s edge.

They walked down to the dock and out onto it. The view of the sky above the sound was something that made you stop talking; so, they did. They stood there for a while watching the light leave the water and the stars slowly blink into view. That was the night things began to change between them, not dramatically, just a shift, quiet and certain, like a door opening that neither of them needed to force. Lili didn’t let Don off easy; right there on that dock, with the water black and still around them, and the stars burning overhead, Lili looked at Don like she was deciding something important, not just about tonight, but about everything.

“I need you to know something before anything goes any further. You’ve been there, you know the feeling when you come off of assignment; never letting go completely, needing the adrenaline rush.” Lili said. Her voice was quiet but steady. “I want to be able to lean on you and give you my trust and love to keep and cherish.”

“Lili, I have love you from afar longer than I can remember. It hurt me to leave, not knowing if I’d ever see you again. Since you arrived, I feel like I can breathe again. I’m just worried I won’t be enough for you.”

“Oh….you don’t need to worry about that! I’ve always daydreamed about what it would be like being on assignment with you on a desert island.”

A fish broke the surface somewhere in the dark.

“Well, I don’t know of any desert islands nearby, but I do have a Coachman RV parked next to the silo and we can pretend.”

Don reached between them and took her hand, she didn’t pull away. They kissed for the first time right there on that dock, soft, careful, like something they knew they could never take back and didn’t want to. When they pulled apart, Lili rested her forehead on Don’s.

“Is this a dream?” Lili asked.

“I hope not!” Don replied.

They sat on the end of the dock for almost an hour; Lili telling him about growing up in Hendaye, about college at University of Pompeu Fabra in Barcelona and her estrangement from her brother because he chastised her for her work; “No one wants a woman who can beat his ass!”

“Do you have any coconuts?” Lili asked.

“No, but there’s a can of coconut milk in the pantry.”

“Good enough!” Lili said. Taking his hand and interlacing her fingers with his, Lili turned and pulled Don back down the dock, heading for the silo showing above the Yaupon trees in the dim light.
 
hawkhavn said:
Great chapter! When did Lili show up?
Click to expand...
Sorry folks, this should have been Chapter Forty-Four:

Chapter Forty-Four


The residents of Sound Side Road had come out good in the storm. Yes, they received a lot of rain, but as usual it drained back into the sound and into the swamps, only to be drained back into the sound over time. It was the way of nature. It only took building in areas with a little high ground and structures stout enough to handle the winds to survive there.

Don came up for lunch one day. Bud had thawed out a large pork tenderloin and was slicing it up for fried pork sandwiches or schnitzel; it all depended on the ingredients and spices you used. Bud decided on Schnitzel Von Schwein (Wienerschnitzel ) and pounded out a couple of dozen pieces with a meat hammer. (He liked cold schnitzel sandwiches with lettuce and tomato late at night sometimes.) The rest of the loin was sliced up and the slices were packed into 12-slice packs, each slice separated with parchment paper and refrozen for use later. Using Bud’s recipes, Patty made German potato salad (Kartoffelsalat) and a basic green salad (Kopfsalat) with traditional dressing.

“When Don took his first bite he said, “God, it’s like being back in Bavaria!”

After lunch, Patty shooed the men out of the house. Bud produced cold beers and they retreated to the fire pit. After Bud lit a fire, they toasted fallen comrades and settled in.

“Bud, why did you settle here?”

“I’ve always liked living near the water, and having isolation. After seeing the original house, this place fit me to a ‘T’. I wanted to build something where I felt like I belonged, not just clearing the way for someone else’s empires.

“You’ve got a good setup here, but it seems like you are preparing for the end times.”

“There’s always an end to everything. What are you going to do when you get to Wolf’s Den?”

“I don’t know. I may look at Joe’s property and build a cabin. I’d like some isolation too. But it seems like you’re taking it to the extremes with all the stuff you’re storing up.”

“I’m just trying to look out for the future of my family and friends.”

“Yeah, well, it reminds me of that doomsday fella Ehrlich, who kept prophesizing from the 60’s all the way up until the 90’s that millions were going to die from starvation and even tens of millions here in the States. Overpopulation was going to kill everyone.”

“I agree with you, but we live with prophets of doom all the time.” Bud said. “Gold will go bust, Trump will kill everyone, you just take what they say with a grain of salt and stick to your personal plan. For some odd reason, humans process negative information more readily than positive, an evolutionary hangover that makes doomsayers inherently more compelling than optimists. Look at Democrats. Optimism isn’t even in their lexicon unless they are in power. You can do pretty much what you want if you put your mind to it. I just have a problem with crooked politicians and liberals turning criminals loose on the streets and feeding, clothing and housing those who won’t do what they can or assimilate. It’s those I’m bunkering up against.”

“You know, you could make your stand here.” Bud said.

Don took a sip of beer. “I guess I’ll head on out to Wolf’s Den. I’m not into seafood that much.”

“When it gets tiresome, I eat something else. It’s all in the spices. We’ve got chickens, beef, venison, turkeys, ducks, geese, shellfish, all sorts of fish to choose from. I’ll bet we have more of a variety than they have at Wolf’s Den.”

“I imagine so.”

“Bud, we have a visitor!” Patty called out from the porch.

Bud turned his head and there, standing beside Patty was Lili Aldana. Bud stood as Don gulped.

"Kaixo, Lili" (“Hello, Lili”.) Bud said.

"Kaixo, Roberto, Don." (“Hello, Roberto, Don.”) Lili replied.

"Mesedez, eseri zaitez gurekin. Ardo pixka bat hartzera noa." (“Please, sit with us. I’ll go get some wine.”)

Patty went in with Bud. “One of your old girlfriends?”

“No, a heartthrob of Don’s. Come out and sit with us.”

“Does she speak English?”

“Oh yes! Just come on out.”

Bud took the wine and another beer for Don and Patty brought a glass along with her glass of Scuppernong juice. Bud was sticking to Killian’s.”

As he poured the wine, Bud asked, “How did you find us?”

Lili looked at Don. “Harry passed on the phone numbers you’d left and I had him ping your satellite phone.”

“I’m glad to see you Lili,” Don said.

“I was surprised to see you here on the east coast. Harry said you were heading to the Wolf’s Den.”

“When I got here, Joe Hemingway was getting married, so I stuck around.”

“Joe? Where is Joe?”

“He and his bride are on their honeymoon in Jamaica, but he has a house down the road.”

“Must be bad news for the neighborhood with you three bottled up out here next to the swamps.” Lili said, grinning.

“More like culture shock!” Patty said.

“So, is this a sojourn for you Don?”

“Well, I have been thinking of going out near the Wolf’s Den, but it is nice around here.”

“Then I will stay as long as you do.”

“When do you need to be back for work?” Bud asked.

“When Don does.”

“I’m through.” Don said. “I’ve pulled pitch.”

“Then I too have pulled pitch. You and I need to talk. I need to find a hotel though.”

“Lili, we have plenty of guest rooms. Please accept our invitation.”

“Well, since I don’t have far to go, I’ll have a little more wine, Roberto.”

Patty had plenty of leftovers so she went in to put supper together. Bud went with her to give Lili and Don some privacy.”

“Well, what do you think now?” Bud asked Patty.

“I think she followed Don here and not you. You have any idea of where they could live?”

“That couple from Connecticut that moved down in the Spring. It seems like the wife thinks the house is too near the water for hurricanes. It’s a two-acre parcel but it made it through the hurricane fine.”

“Well, you do your thing. Go bring them in for supper.”

When Bud called them in from the porch door, Lili and Don were sitting there holding hands and talking. They quickly got up when Bud called and went inside. Patty showed Lili where she could freshen up while Bud sat the food on the table.

Bud poured a Riesling into Don and Lili’s glasses and filled water glasses. When Lili and Patty got back, they sat down to eat. The food tasted better than it did for lunch.

“How was your last job?” Bud asked Lili.

“It was okay, not any challenges. I don’t even understand why we were involved.”

“Another appointed brainiac in State flexing their muscles.” Don said.

“Possibly, yes.” Lili nodded.

“That’s one of the problems.” Don said. “Those over-educated nimrods don’t understand what they don’t understand.”

“Have you ever sat through one of their meetings?” Bud asked. “It’s like a wet-behind-the-ears kid stringing together smart adult words without any idea of what they mean!”

“You know, for years we’ve been holding the structure of the organization together.” Don said. “With us gone, no one understands we had been holding the beams up to keep the ceiling from falling in and they have forgotten the beams don’t hold themselves up.”

“Well, I’m not going back to put the fires in their shoes out when they wake up.” Bud said. “You two had better change the SIM cards in your satphones, else you’ll get dragged back in.”

For dessert, Patty warmed up two small apple hand pies drizzled with caramel sauce for each person and served them with a scoop of vanilla ice cream between the pies.

After dinner, Don got Lilli’s bags out of her Lincoln Nautilus and Patty broke away from rinsing dishes to show her the guest room. Bud switched to rinsing and placing the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Is Don’s RV still in the barn?” Patty asked.

“Yeah, I’ll have him move it up next to the silo in the morning and run him a water hose.” Bud replied.

After checking the national and local weather forecast, Bud put on an Enya CD and the couples sat in the great room and talked about a little of everything.



The next morning Bud called Sharon Davis and enquired about the property at 430 Owens Lane. Sharon said she would get back to him. Bud didn’t know what it would cost but they had only been there a few months and had done some extensive renovations. He thought he might be able to get it for what they had put into it and the original cost.

Don brought his RV up to the silo, blocked and leveled it and connected it to the water. Lili finally awakened and Bud began preparing breakfast for her and Don. Lili loved the blueberry crepes and homemade cinnamon-raisin bread toast. She admired the antique crepe pan Bud had purchased on eBay.

“It seems you have done well here, Roberto, or Bud as they seem to call you here.” Lili said.

“You can call me Bud. Coming here has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, second to meeting and marrying Patty. Up until I stepped on this property, for too long I felt like I’d been holding my breath underwater. I finally surfaced and breathed clean air. It is exhilarating!”

“So, no second thoughts about leaving?”

“None whatsoever!”

“The area around the Wolf’s Den sounds isolated.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been there.” Bud replied.

“I was there once, but we flew in by helicopter and I couldn’t see much, especially after entering the installation. Lili said. “What’s to see from inside a mountain?”

“Joe has property near there.” Don said. “He seems to like it just fine.”

Bud grunted. “Joe was in his element living in that mud hut in Bolivia.”

“But he was performing a valued service for his country!” Don said.

“I hope you two can get along together without us in the morning. Bud and I have to go get a sonagram.” Patty said.

“You are pregnant?! Boy or a girl?!” A wide-eyed Lili asked.

”We don’t know. This is my first sonagram.” Patty replied.
 
Chapter Forty-Six

Shelving for the General Store was arriving that day, so Patty planned to spend the morning there arranging the interior. Bud had left early for Cresswell to pick up a couple of yearlings to replace the ones he’d had butchered. Since Don went with Bud, Lili rode with Patty.

While the men were loading the young cattle into the stock trailer, Sharon Davis messaged Bud that the Olivers were interested in selling their property. Sharon had enticed them by showing printouts of charming listings on the MLS down in Belhaven. Bud shook his head. It didn’t make much sense to him—Belhaven seemed far more exposed to storms than their current location. Before leaving Cresswell, he messaged Sharon back and told her to make the offer they had discussed. He would pay her commission.

Back at the store, Charisse supervised the installation of shelving in the convenience store area while Patty took charge of the main sales floor. Bud was supposed to arrive later to hang the wall display units.

Katy Dillon, the warehouse manager, dropped off a weekly printout of warehouse inventory. They were already receiving boxes of beachwear and novelty clothing. Charisse also had sample shirts and aprons printed with a rendering of the future General Store to gauge everyone’s opinion on the design. Soundside Original FWB Church delivered a case of their charity cookbooks, and Charisse gladly accepted them. She expected many church members to become both customers and employees.

Bud put a couple of scoops of sweet feed into the trough for the yearlings, then dropped the empty trailer at the barn. He and Don drove down to the store, hearing the metallic clanging of shelving being assembled as they reached the porch.

When they walked inside, Bud headed straight for Charisse. “Where do you need me?”

“Wall shelves in the sales area,” she replied.

“Oh, yeah.”

Bud and Don walked through the pocket doors. Patty and Lili were positioning a clothing rack.

“Which shelves are we mounting?” Bud asked.

Patty pointed to several long boxes stacked in the corner. The men opened one, and Patty showed them the diagram with dimensions and placement instructions. Bud retrieved his toolbox from the truck and pulled out a tape measure to verify the measurements while Don sorted the mounting hardware.

The system was straightforward: wall-mounted brackets were screwed into place, then the matching hardware on the shelves slid in and locked down. Using a laser level, they marked the walls, installed the brackets, and had all six units up quickly. With no further instructions, they broke down the empty cartons and carried them out to the construction dumpster. Bud gathered his tools and returned them to the truck.

Back inside the convenience store section, Charisse had already stocked the cold-drink cooler. Bud grabbed a Mountain Dew, popped the cap off using the mounted opener, and Don chose a Dr. Pepper. The two men retreated to the porch to relax.

Meanwhile, Pete and John Dawson were down at the marina watching the fuel tanks being lowered into the ground—one for diesel, one for gas. They had considered installing a propane tank with a wet leg but instead struck a deal with the fuel distributor to keep them supplied with standard sized tanks commonly used on boats. The insurance company preferred that arrangement.

The refrigerator and freezer units had been installed a couple of days earlier and were already running. Bud checked the battery bank; everything showed green. The system wasn’t drawing much power yet, but once the cases were fully stocked, the compressors would cycle less often. Dan had installed a substantial solar array, Vortex generators, and a large diesel backup generator. The concrete power building sat across the parking lot under a double roof. If a storm ever damaged it, Bud wanted to be nowhere nearby. That building was built to withstand anything nature could throw at it.

With no more tasks for them, Bud and Don headed back to the farm. They spent the rest of the day building supports for the logs Bud had cut for picnic tables. He planned to saw the largest logs in half for tabletops and use the narrower ones for bench seats.

Bud snapped a chalk line down the first log and sliced it in half with his chainsaw, then cut the halves into eight-foot lengths. He selected smaller logs for the supports and rough-cut them to four-foot pieces. Using a lumber scribe, he marked and notched the top logs so they would fit snugly over the supports. With the chainsaw and a wide wood chisel, he carved out each notch and test-fitted the pieces.

They built three complete tables, then took turns smoothing the tops with a battery-powered hand planer. After adding sturdy legs, they secured everything with lumber screws and construction adhesive. The finished tables were so heavy that no one in their right mind would try to steal them. They had to use the telehandler just to lift them onto stands for applying wood preservative.

Two days later, the benches were ready. The tables were loaded onto the equipment trailer Don towed to the store while Bud followed in the telehandler. Installation was simple: the telehandler lifted each table and carefully lowered it into the center of the new gazebo. Once in place, they screwed on the prebuilt rails to finish the structure.

Bud parked the telehandler beside the General Store and went inside. He helped himself to a grape popsicle from the ice cream chest, left a dollar bill in the honor box on top, and carried it out to the porch. The refinished rocking chairs and church pew were already in place, so he settled into a rocker. Don soon joined him with a Dr. Pepper.

“Well, what do you think?” Bud asked. “Could you live around here?”

“I guess. At least there are people here I know—unlike most places I’ve been lately.”

“How are you and Lili doing?”

“We’re doing well. She’s easy to be with. When she’s with me, she doesn’t need to fill every silence with words. We can just sit and listen to the breeze in the trees and the water lapping against the riprap, and she’s perfectly content.”

“That’s good. You still planning on heading to Wolf’s Den?”

“I don’t know. Lili says this place is growing on her, and to be honest, it’s growing on me too.”

“Well, I’m about to close on a house down the shore. I’d be more than happy to lease or sell it to you.”

“How far away is it?”

“By road, probably fifteen hundred meters. Just go down to the first right and it’s around the bend.”

“When can we see it?”

“I’ll check with the realtor. If you decide to buy, you might as well keep working with her as the buyer.”

“Let me talk to Lili first.”

Later that afternoon, Pete called Bud and asked if he had time to talk. Bud walked down to the marina, where Pete had six job applications spread across the desk. He wanted Bud’s opinion on who to hire for the refueling dock.

“Pete, that’s hard to do with just what’s on these forms.”

“What else do you need?”

“Background information—criminal history, personal conflicts, financial problems. I’d run checks on these three.” Bud handed Pete three applications. “They all served in the Coast Guard, so they’d have some experience with fueling operations. Less training required.”

Pete nodded and started making calls to line up a private investigator.

Bud stopped by the General Store on his way back. Charisse, Patty, and several temp employees were busy unboxing, pricing, and displaying merchandise. Each item carried a small barcode tag that fed data into the WiFi network every few minutes, building the inventory database for the POS system. Clothing racks and shelves were filling rapidly, including plenty of what Bud considered “junk tourist stuff.” The drink cooler was fully stocked, so he grabbed a Mountain Dew, paid Charisse, and headed for the farm. He made a quick stop at Joe’s place to check on things. Everything looked fine. Joe and Diana would return next week; he’d come back before their flight to turn the air conditioning down. Patty planned to stock fresh dairy and eggs from the store for them—the eggs came from a woman on the other side of the Soundside Community Center who raised brown-egg layers.

The convenience store area still wasn’t fully stocked. The most common canned and boxed goods were already in place. At the end of the week, it would be an all-hands effort when the big food distribution truck arrived. Each day, Charisse happily tallied the suggestion slips customers filled out recommending item’s they’d like to see stocked. The whole community seemed excited about the store opening. She planned to keep the suggestion pad visible for the first few months to gather input.

When Bud finally returned to the farm, he checked on the yearlings. They seemed content. He scrubbed out their water trough with a stiff brush and refilled it with fresh water.

Inside the house, he found a note from Don saying he and Lili had gone into Elizabeth City for the afternoon. Bud grinned and nodded as he headed into his office. The room smelled of leather, old books, and Break-Free. He turned on his computer and browsed the salvage catalog, remembering a set of interesting items. He found them: eight wrought-iron sconces he could rewire.

He copied a photo of one and texted it to Charisse: What do you think about me getting these, rewiring them, adding a solar power source and dawn-to-dusk sensor? We could have lighting in the gazebo from dusk till dawn.

Her reply came just as he was about to start supper: “Do It!”
 
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