No Judgments: A Novel (Little Bridge Island Book 1)

Listen to local radio, read local papers, and tune in to social media from official sources before, during, and after the storm for important information.

Nearly the entirety of the news coverage that night was devoted to the approaching storm. Marilyn had grown so large that the width of its cone of uncertainty encompassed the entire state of Florida, which meant that people wishing to evacuate its path had to leave the state completely. Sonny and his mother were not going to be much safer in Orlando than they’d have been in Little Bridge.

But with fuel growing scarcer, and freeways already jammed, escape was mostly an impossibility. Images were shown of long lines of cars at the few still open gas stations, and of grocery store shelves emptied of food and bottled water.

A few ubiquitous shots were thrown in of homes and businesses with their windows boarded up (Go Away Marilyn was spray-painted on a few of the plywood barriers), and of course of the now emptied beaches from Key West to Miami. News journalists interviewed Florida residents (none from Little Bridge) who confessed to being a little nervous because there was nowhere they could go “to escape the wrath of this fierce storm” (the reporter’s words, not theirs).

I’ll admit it was hard to take any of this very seriously when just outside my door it was such a beautiful, balmy evening, the sky streaked with tie-dye washes of pink and blue and lavender as the sun slid beneath the sea. A mockingbird had recently taken up residency in the top branches of our building’s frangipani, and he periodically burst into enthusiastic song, hoping to lure a mate, while somewhere nearby someone who’d yet to evacuate was barbecuing. I could smell the tantalizing scent of grilled meat every time I opened my front door.

But the constant pings of text messages from my phone kept me grounded, reminding me of the oncoming threat:

From Caleb:

They’re closing the Little Bridge airport to commercial air traffic tomorrow morning at 8AM. I can still arrange for a plane to be there anytime before that if you change your mind. I know you think I don’t care, Sabrina, but I do. We can still be friends, at least. Call me.

From my best friend and college roommate, Mira, who was spending the year abroad in Paris:

What is this I hear about you not evacuating Hurricane Marilyn and riding out the hurricane by yourself??? Have you lost your mind? I love you, but you’re insane. You know my aunt lives in Tampa if you need a place to hunker down in an emergency. And she loves cats. Call me. Luv u.

From Dani:

You need to get here ASAP. My room is huge, with a full minibar AND almost all the guys from the firehouse in Islamorada are staying at the SAME HOTEL. One of them is buying me shots at the bar at this very moment. In fact, I think there’s a fire right now. In my pants. Get in my car and get here SOON!!!

From my mother:

They’re evacuating the dolphins from the Dolphinarium on Cayo Guillermo in Cuba. This same hurricane is headed straight toward you, and yet you’re not leaving. You think it’s safer for you than it is for the dolphins? Please, please, I’m begging you, let Caleb come get you.

I’ll admit that this last message gave me pause. I wasn’t sure what a dolphinarium was, but I was glad the sea life in it was going to be safe. What precautions was the Cuban government taking to make sure that the people who lived near the dolphinarium were safe as well?

I was looking this up—after having changed into the third of the outfits I was considering wearing to the party—when there was a knock on my front door. I could see through the iron grillwork that covered the Spanish-style door viewer that it was my next-door neighbors Patrick and Bill. I opened the door to find them standing on my front step with a tray of vodka Jell-O shots.

“Hurricane Preparedness Response Team,” Bill cried. “Blueberry or cherry?”

“You guys are crazy.” I laughed and helped myself to one of the little plastic cups containing a blue vodka Jell-O shot. “Want to come in?”

“Oh, well, we would,” Patrick said, “but someone looks like she’s got somewhere fancy to go.” The owner of Little Bridge’s Seam and Fabric Shoppe, Patrick, eyed the black sundress sprigged with tiny yellow flowers that I’d only just finished lacing myself into.

Since Patrick also performed on weekends as the island’s most popular drag queen, Lady Patricia, at one of the local bars, I put a lot of value on his fashion tips, so I looked down as I fingered the edge of my admittedly very short skirt.

“Do you think so?” I asked, uncertainly. “I’m only going to a hurricane party. I’ve never been to one before, so I didn’t know what people wear to those. You don’t think this is too much?”

“Not if your plan is to make every straight man there fall in love with you.” Bill, Patrick’s romantic partner of twenty years and the loan officer at Little Bridge State Bank, had leaned down and was trying to pry Gary off his foot. “Why is your cat so obsessed with me?”

“He does that to everyone. So do you think I should change?” I asked Patrick nervously. “Maybe shorts and a T-shirt would be more appropriate.”

“Don’t you change a thing.” Patrick leaned over to smooth one of my pink curls from my forehead. “Those yellow flowers bring out the brown in your eyes. And no one on this island bothers to dress up anymore unless they’re going to court. I’ve always considered that a crying shame. It’s refreshing to see someone actually looking like a lady. Now tell us why you’re still even here. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your lights on behind the shutters. I’d have thought you’d have evacuated hours ago.”

“I could say the same thing to you guys.” Why wasn’t I evacuating? What was wrong with me?

But the very idea of fleeing from this storm struck me as horribly wrong. Which was ridiculous, because only a few months ago, I’d run from my problems in New York without a second thought, barely considering where I was going, how long I was going to stay, or what I was going to do when I got there.

But then I’d arrived in Little Bridge, and suddenly I hadn’t felt the urge to run anymore. I wasn’t exactly sure where in the world I belonged, but at least I was done running . . . for now.

And despite what my mother said, I wasn’t being stubborn—or maybe I was being stubborn, for what felt like the first time in my life. I was standing up for myself, which meant running toward something. I didn’t know what, exactly . . . but maybe that’s why I was still here.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t go anywhere else . . . for now.

“Where are we going to go?” Bill helped himself to one of his own shots, expertly running a pinkie around the edge of the Jell-O to loosen it before gulping it down. “We’d have to drive to Georgia to get out of the path of this thing. And even then, who knows? That might not be far enough.”

“Last time we evacked to a hotel in Tampa,” Patrick explained. “We took the babies”—Patrick and Bill had three pugs they called their “babies”—“and all of my couture and stayed in a La Quinta and it cost us three thousand dollars in travel expenses, and in the end the damn storm came there, too.”

“Oh dear,” I said, sympathetically, trying to imagine Patrick, Bill, all of Pat’s drag ensembles, plus the three pugs crammed into one room at a Tampa La Quinta. “But you can’t exactly stay here, either, because I hear this place floods—”

“Oh, honey,” Patrick said. “Don’t you worry about that. We booked a suite at the Cascabel.”

“The Cascabel?” I raised my eyebrows.

The Cascabel was one of Little Bridge’s most expensive hotels . . . and also one of its only buildings that had been allowed to waive the two-story height restriction because it had been constructed way back in the 1920s, before such restrictions became standard. A gracious five-story hotel built in the Spanish tradition, it had since been upgraded to withstand Category 5 winds while also offering luxury amenities such as a rooftop spa and wine bar.

“We’ve got a suite on the fourth floor,” Patrick went on. “We check in tomorrow morning. We’ve got it through the weekend. We’re going to ride this thing out like true queens.”

“We’re taking our George Foreman grill,” Bill, who loved to cook, informed me. “Because my uncle Rick just sent us a batch of Omaha steaks, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to let them sit here and spoil when the power goes out.”

“But.” I was confused. “You won’t be able to grill on the balcony if there’s a hurricane.”

“No, we’re going to grill them in the room. Because the Cascabel has a generator. So even if there’s no power on the rest of the island due to the storm, we’ll still be eating like civilized human beings.”

“Oh.” I tried to picture the two of them grilling Omaha steaks in a luxury hotel room during a hurricane. “I’m sure the Cascabel staff will be thrilled about that.”

“Oh, it’s going to be bougie as hell,” Patrick assured me, “but fabulous. And you’re going to be fabulous, too, because you’ll be coming with us, of course.”

“What?” I burst out laughing. “No, I’m not.”

“Girl, yes, you are. We couldn’t in good conscience enjoy our steaks knowing that you’re here, possibly drowning in disgusting harbor water. Of course you’re coming with us. We’ll have them set up an extra cot in the suite. And you’re bringing this bad boy.” Patrick stooped down and gave Gary a scratch under the chin. Gary let out a small mew in protest since he hadn’t finished marking their feet, but then allowed himself to be stroked, mostly because the area under his chin was his most sensitive spot, and any stroking there sent him into spasms of ecstasy, and Patrick knew it. “You know he gets along with the babies.”

It was true that Gary did, indeed, get along with Patrick and Bill’s three pugs.

“That is the nicest invitation.” I watched as Gary fell over onto his back, showing his round white belly, all four paws up in a gesture of complete surrender. “I just might take you up on it.”

“Oh, perfect!” Patrick straightened, and Gary promptly rolled back onto his feet and went after their toes again. “Well, we have to go finish delivering these.” He indicated the Jell-O shots. “It’s important to keep up people’s spirits during these trying times.”

“I understand,” I said. “Thanks again.”

When they were gone, I made sure Gary was well stocked with food and water, checked out my reflection one last time in the mirror to make sure Patrick was right about the dress, swallowed the Jell-O shot, then got on my bike. I’d decided it would be best to bike rather than take my scooter to Mrs. Hartwell’s party since I knew I had to continue to conserve fuel. Plus, I would be consuming alcohol.

Fortunately I only lived directly down the hill from the Hartwells. As I pedaled by the boarded-up homes of my neighborhood, not a single car or pedestrian passed me. It was as if I lived in a ghost town. Over my head, fast-moving purple clouds were beginning to pile up, flashing brilliant fuchsia with heat lightning here and there behind the trees. The storm was still too far out to sea for this to be one of the “rain bands” the meteorologists kept warning us about, though the wind had picked up significantly.

After locking my bike to an ornamental streetlamp close to Mrs. Hartwell’s house, I pulled the bottle of champagne I’d brought along as a house gift from the basket of my bike and climbed the long flight of white wooden steps to the Hartwells’ wide porch. Fans swung lazily overhead as I pressed the old-fashioned brass buzzer bell beside the Victorian door and heard a corresponding ring inside the house—along with the steady rhythm of salsa music and loud conversation.

Nothing happened. No one had heard me. Behind me, far off in the distance, thunder rumbled. Maybe that hadn’t been heat lightning after all. Maybe the meteorologists had been wrong, and the first of Marilyn’s rain bands was coming sooner than they’d predicted.

There was a large window in the front door, but it was covered by a lace curtain, so I couldn’t see what was behind it. I could, however, hear laughter. People were having a good time, despite the impending threat.

Encouraged, I laid my hand on the door handle, and let myself in.

I found myself in a long entrance hallway filled with dark-stained wood and an elaborate crystal chandelier. A strong scent of pine hit me. That must be the extinct wood the house was made of that Mrs. H had mentioned.

The home clearly hadn’t been renovated much since the day it had been constructed by the original Captain Hartwell, but that’s because it didn’t need it—unless you were someone who was into modern décor, which I wasn’t, necessarily.

The walls were wainscoted and wallpapered in traditionally nautical patterns and colors, pale blue with crisp white stripes or shells, the furniture heavy but comfortable looking, the original wood floors carpeted here and there with Persian throw rugs. Gold-framed portraits of ancient Hartwell ancestors lined the walls, the ship captains and their wives glaring down at me sternly in their dark frock coats and gowns, in which they must have been quite uncomfortable, considering the subtropical heat.

There was about as little Floridian as you could imagine in the Hartwells’ home, except for a large parrot cage that I passed in the living room on my way toward the back of the house, from which I could hear the music. The parrot greeted me with a cheerful “Hello, Joe!” as I made my way past.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

The house was dark, thanks to all the windows being shuttered in anticipation of the storm . . .

. . . at least until I followed the cheerful flow of music and voices past the old-fashioned and ornate dining room, and then onto a wide, wraparound back deck, which opened onto a vast backyard and pool area, lit by tiki torches.

“Bree?” asked a deep, all too familiar voice.