Hurricane House by Sandy Semerad Page A

use. So I got up, showered and dressed, and put back on the crystal necklace. I wore it instead of my Amethyst and Bloodstone, though I’d read the Amethyst increases intuitive ability and the Bloodstone promotes healing.
    On my index finger, I wore the Turquoise ring Adam had given me. The diamond-solitaire engagement band, I’d switched to my right-ring finger.
    It occurred to me I saw no other vehicles on the Bay Bridge. I found out why when I turned on the radio station and heard the local weatherman say, “All bridges are closed.”
    Not good, but I decided not to worry. I’d made it to the halfway point, going ten-miles-an-hour. Rather than “cry over spilt milk,” as Mom used to say, I thought about my assignments. One, in particular, I dreaded. It involved local developer John Peterson. According to Jan, he’d flown his private plane over Paradise Isle and called his insurance company with his own damage assessment.
    I hated to deal with Peterson. He owned several properties on Paradise Isle, and he’d built Paradise Palms, the tallest high-rise, adjacent to his gated monstrosity of a mansion, fifty-six feet and in violation of the height allowance and city ordinance.
    The city had ordered Peterson to comply with the building ordinance, meaning he needed to crop the top floor. Newspaper reports said Peterson’s lawyers descended on City Hall like vultures on road kill. They quoted Peterson as saying, “Whoever said you can’t fight City Hall doesn’t know me.”
    I can’t lie. I was bummed out about Peterson’s claim, but I couldn’t help but smile when the rain stopped and the clouds parted, revealing an orange sunrise. Beauty like this helps me live in the moment and I told my sister that when she called. “Hi, K.A. I’m totally in the now, practicing the attitude of gratitude.”
    “Where are you?” she asked in a high-pitched voice, unlike her usual soothing therapist’s tone. I almost asked her why she didn’t take her own advice about staying calm, but decided against it.
    “I’m driving over the Bay Bridge. I’ll be in Dolphin soon.”
    “How is that possible? The roads are closed. The bridges are out. CNN showed one of them floating in the bay.”
    I sighed but didn’t answer.
    “You be careful. I only have one sister. If something happens to you, I’ll have no one to abuse. How does it look out there?”
    I heaved another sigh as I made it to the other side. “Right now I’m looking at what used to be the Wendy’s? It’s a shell.”
    “Only you’d think of food at a time like this.” I heard Kari Ann turn up her television. “They’re calling Dolphin a ‘war zone.’”
    When I steered my truck onto Gulf Drive (the main entrance into Paradise Isle), soldiers with rifles motioned for me to stop. “Hold on a sec, sis. I’m facing men with guns.” “They’d better not be pointing them at you.”
    I stopped the truck in front of a mound of sand, covering what used to be a paved road. On my left, a few houses with gulf views had been swept away by the storm. To my right, I saw more sand mountains.
    The bulldozer driver, in the process of clearing it away, waved. I waved back before handing a rifle-toting guard my CAT license. “I’m here to assess damage and condemn unlivable structures,” I said, smiling. This usually gives me access.
    The soldier waved me through. “Thank you,” I said, before resuming the conversation with K.A. “I made it onto Paradise Isle without a glitch, not even a raised eyebrow.”
    “Hear that,” Kari Ann said, turning up her television. “The dunes are gone. I’m glad I bought that painting at May Fest to remember them by.”
    “You bought a painting?”
    “Yes, it’s beautiful, called ‘Sea Oats at Sunset.’ By a local artist. From this point on I’m holding my breath till you get to our places.”
    “Oh, my, most of the dunes and sea oats are gone, leaving behind stuff like the uprooted power pole wrapped in electrical wires