Free Hurricane House by Sandy Semerad

a gentle breeze, but this is no gentle breeze, more like a tempest from hell.
    Ellen stretched out on the hammock and tried to accustom her ears to the clanging. She watched the cedar trees battle the wind. Rain had transformed the earth into a pond, creating a rainbow in the overflowing birdbath.
    The more she listened to the wind chimes, the more she thought of blue jays trying to sing, but she wouldn’t dare complain. Geneva’s house was a trillion times better than the road. And how sweet of her to leave fresh flowers with a note. Geneva even went to the trouble of hanging a terry-cloth robe in the bathroom with matching slippers and a bottle of milk bath. Sweet, sweet, sweet. Ellen couldn’t wait to soak in the tub. First she’d fix herself a sliced-turkey sandwich. She was determined to lose fifty pounds, if it killed her. No more soft drinks and candy. No more eating paper to curb her hunger.
    Yes, those days were gone. If she could get her voice back, change her life, and maybe start performing again. It wasn’t beyond reason.
    Ellen turned on the computer, thinking the Internet might hold the answer. Andrea Bowers at the Pascagoula truck stop thought everything could be found on the Internet. She had patiently taught Ellen all about computers and how to go on-line and do e-mail. It was Andrea who helped Ellen set up her own “Yahoo” account. Now she knew how to send and receive e-mails at public libraries using those computers for free.
    Ellen adored e-mail. How sweet, beyond sweet of Geneva to provide her with her very own computer.
     
    Chapter Twelve
     
    Maeva , Gerry, Alabama
          Despite my worries about the IRS audit, I cleaned my Alabama house and tried to adopt the “attitude of gratitude” my sister recommended, but the old cliché, “when it rains it pours” seemed much more realistic.
    If I felt any gratitude, it vanished while going through Adam’s things. I buried my nose in his leather jacket. His scent still lingered.
    I had a pity party, rereading all the letters and cards Adam had given me during our steamy ten-year relationship. In fact, I cried through a box of tissues. Then stuffed the memorabilia, along with his leather jacket, old FBI hat and “Roll Tide” sweat shirt, inside the cedar chest where I found the .357 Magnum he had given me on my birthday. I had forgotten about the gun, but decided to put it inside my duffle and take it on the road with me. Maybe I was paranoid after finding Tara’s body and finding out about the other missing women. Besides, I have a license to carry, though I prefer other means of self-defense like jujitsu.
    I glanced at the radio clock on the bed stand: 8:00 p.m. The day had zipped by and left me drained. I didn’t have the energy for anything except climbing into bed under the patchwork quilt.
    I soon drifted off to sleep, but my eyes shot open when I saw Tara’s body, as if it had been tattooed on my eyelids. My heart started pounding in my throat, like I was having a full-fledged anxiety attack. The stone in the crystal necklace felt hot. Lilah had said the stone possessed protective powers. Hoping it did, I willed its warmth to erase the horrible image of death, and before long, I fell into a deep sleep.
    An hour later, my growling stomach awakened me. I pulled back the covers, walked to the kitchen and fixed myself a bowl of honey-almond ice cream. When the ice cream didn’t satisfy, I fried a hamburger the size of a sirloin. “You eat like a farm hand, but weigh ninety-five pounds soaking wet,” Adam used to say.
    At 9:30 p.m., I carried the hamburger to the pine-paneled den. Bookcases filled the left side of the large room and family photographs covered the right wall. The photos were uneven, but I couldn’t make myself re-hang them, because Mom had agonized over every picture before she put them up like that.
    Holding my hamburger, I sank into the twenty-year-old cushy sofa in front of the big-screen television. I’d slept