Free Noah's Wife by Lindsay Starck Page A

possible.”
    â€œExcuse me?” says Mrs. McGinn.
    â€œAn evacuation plan,” repeats the weatherman coolly. “You need to leave.”
    Mrs. McGinn snorts, her fire-colored curls—stiff with hairspray—bobbing above her shoulders. “No one’s going anywhere,” she says. “Not on my watch.”
    The weatherman looks from her to Noah’s wife, and then to her again. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation,” he says. He removes a pack of cigarettes from the lining of his coat and pulls one out. Both women watch him light it up.
    â€œOh, I understand,” says Mrs. McGinn. “And I don’t knowabout all your other towns, but here, we’re not afraid of getting our feet a little wet.”
    â€œYour houses could flood,” he insists.
    â€œThen again, they could not!” she declares. “How do you know?”
    â€œWhat about that river running through downtown?” he presses her, tapping the cigarette on the plastic ashtray that sits in the center of the table. “What do you think will happen if it rises much higher?”
    â€œIt won’t,” she snaps. “It never has before.”
    Although she arranges her features to maintain a stern expression, she is beginning to feel the flutter of panic in her gut: one hundred butterfly wings beating against the walls of her stomach. She takes a deep breath, does her best to swat them flat.
    Everything will be fine, she reminds herself while the weatherman explains the situation in more detail. Soon the rain will end, as rain always does. In the meantime, there is too much here to lose. She has been witness to the exodus of this town for years; she knows that when people leave, they never come back. Those who have stayed have houses, lives, families here. Most of them have nowhere else to go.
    â€œIt’s been raining here for a long time,” she announces. “And we haven’t had a problem yet. I appreciate your concern, but we’re staying put. Now if you’ll excuse me—I’ve got to open up the kitchen.” She stands and shoves her chair under the tablewith an air of finality, hopes the weatherman will pick up on the hint.
    â€œFine,” he says. He drops the butt in the ashtray and sways to his feet with lazy grace. “But you haven’t seen the last of me. I’m being paid to get you out of here, and I’m not going anywhere until I’ve done it.”
    Mrs. McGinn makes no effort to disguise her contempt. “That sounds awfully mercenary,” she says.
    The weatherman grins. “Damn right it is.”
    At this, Mrs. McGinn spins on her heel and marches back behind the counter. “Thanks for stopping by,” she snaps over her shoulder. Then she slams through the swinging doors.
    In the kitchen, she flips the switch on the coffeemaker and places the griddle on the stove. She cracks a cartonful of eggs into a bowl with more force than usual, taken aback by her own anger. This man should not have had such an effect on her; she should not allow herself to be affected by his gloomy prophecies. What does he know?
    She glances through the round window in the swinging door, sees Noah’s wife gazing out at the street with an expression of relief. Like Mrs. McGinn herself, she seems glad that the weatherman has gone for the time being. Perhaps she is grateful not to have been asked to take a side. Her fingertips are resting on the open photo album, and Mrs. McGinn wonders which picture it is that she has paused upon; which husband is smiling up at her now. Abruptly she turns away from the door and whips at her eggs, the whisk gleaming in the ruthless white light of thekitchen. That is the problem with the photos, she knows—they are deceitful. They shine with the promise that a marriage will turn out to be something other than what it actually becomes.
    Mrs. McGinn knows a thing or two about