When I peer out the window, though, the weather is hardly welcoming. When I went to sleep last night, it was calm and peaceful. Today, the wind rumbles outside the house, palm trees bending in the heavy breeze. A sinking feeling enters my stomach, the scene a familiar one. It looks like a hurricane is about to hit us, and suddenly, all thoughts of pretty dresses flee.

I hurry downstairs, searching for Anthony. It’s difficult to appreciate how bad a storm can be if you haven’t experienced one for yourself. It’s like revolution—on the surface, it seems scary, but only those who have lived through it fully comprehend its true horrors.

Anthony stands at the bottom of the stairs, speaking to Gus in low, urgent tones. I’m too far away to make out everything they’re saying, Anthony’s back to me, but I hear enough of their conversation—

“. . . barometer falling . . .”

“. . . going to be an ugly one . . .”

Gus glances over Anthony’s shoulder, and his gaze connects with mine. He tips his hat to me before scurrying out the front door, a grim look on his face.

Anthony turns, and his solemn expression tells me everything I need to know.

“The storm changed course?” I guess.

“The locals seem worried. The barometer’s falling. I don’t know exactly what that means,” he admits, “but Gus seems concerned the storm will hit us.”

“Should we evacuate?”

“I asked him, but he said there’s nowhere to go. The storm’s coming. Soon.” Anthony grimaces. “We didn’t get all of the hurricane preparations finished last night; they said the storm was going to miss us. It was so late, and everyone was tired, and I thought it was safe. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Storms can be unpredictable. It might still miss us, and even if it doesn’t, it might not be that bad. Often these storms are all bluster and trouble, but they peter out when they actually make landfall.” I take a deep breath. “We have enough food and supplies. I suppose the best thing for us is to ride it out and see what happens.”

“I’m going to help with any last preparations we can make before the weather gets really bad. I let the staff leave so they could go back to their homes and families. There are a couple men finishing up boarding the windows for us. Gus is assisting them and then they’ll be on their way.”

“Be careful.”

Anthony leans into me, pressing his lips to mine in a movement that is already becoming familiar.

“I will.”

* * *

—

Outside the house, the weather kicks up with startling intensity. Inside, the house creaks and moans, thuds and clanks sending a shiver down my spine. In Havana, I knew the home I grew up in, was assured the strong walls would protect us. But this house is wholly unfamiliar to me, and with each moment my unease grows.

After an hour has passed without an update from Anthony, I step out onto the front porch, surprised as the wind picks up the sand from the beach, stinging my eyes.

The screen door slaps against the frame angrily.

The storm isn’t even here yet, and already the wind is this strong. I—

“Get inside,” Anthony shouts, coming around the house, gripping the railing, his knuckles white.

My husband is by no means a small man, but at this moment, the wind blowing his body, it seems his grip on the railing is the only thing giving him the necessary purchase to keep from floating away.

He climbs the stairs up to the front porch quickly despite the wind pushing against him, panic in his eyes, his body tense like a bow.

I start to step back, but I can’t make myself fully retreat inside the house until he’s at the front door, his chest heaving from the effort. Behind him, something that appears to be a piece of a roof flies by.

The trees sway in the wind, bending as though they would snap and cleave into two at any moment.

Anthony hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me inside before releasing me and throwing his body against the front door to push it shut, turning the locks with force.

He pivots to face me. “It’s going to hit us.”

There’s a vulnerability etched across Anthony’s face I haven’t seen in our short time married.

His gaze runs over my face, and he frowns. “You’re bleeding.”

“The sand,” I reply after a beat, staring down at my hands, surprised to see he’s right.

Angry drops of red cover my skin.

“You shouldn’t have gone outside.”

“I was worried about you.”

“We were only able to board up a couple more windows. The wind is blowing so strong, it made it pretty much impossible. It’s not safe to be outside anymore. People are blown around like they weigh nothing at all.”

Not only people. I watch through the window, horrified, as the roof of one of the outbuildings peels up like paper, before waving in the wind and flapping back down again.

This storm isn’t going to miss us, and it’s going to be bad.

We walk into the kitchen, and Anthony cleans my wounds with soap and water, my raw skin stinging. He has a few cuts on his face and arms as well, and I locate a makeshift first aid kit in the kitchen and use some iodine to clean his injuries while the storm outside grows stronger, the unmistakable sound of debris flying around becoming louder and louder.

“How long will the storm last?” he asks me.

“I don’t know. Sometimes they move quickly; other times they’re slower. It seems like this one has to be close since it’s so powerful.”

“What do we do now?”

In this moment, for the first time in our relationship, I am the experienced one, the one being looked to for guidance.

“Now we wait.”

Eighteen

Elizabeth

In a matter of hours, we have gone from ominous weather to a dangerous hurricane. We are surrounded by a cacophony of sounds—creaks and moans, groans and screeches, the heaving and sighing of metal and wood. It’s as though the inn is saying, “Enough,” the force of the storm coming on like a freight train, the strength of it simply too much for these old walls to bear.

The guests downstairs—an older married couple and a family of four—are arguing with Matthew, the man who works the reception desk, over whether we should stay here or evacuate.

Sam leaves me and joins the fray, his calm voice a balm compared to their panicked ones. The children cry, their parents valiantly trying to comfort them. The noise and fear grow to a crescendo, and I retreat to the small sitting room off the main reception area, desperate for a moment of quiet. There’s an octave people reach in their most dire moments, the pitch of a wail that fills your ears, a resonance to terror that’s unmistakable, and with which I am all too familiar.