Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(78)
Strong onshore winds also came across the area Sunday night, with the highest gust—64 mph—reported by the National Weather Service at Hatteras.
A coastal flood warning was set to expire at noon today, but winds on the backside of the storm still haven’t subsided. They are blowing in the 20 to 25 mph range, and forecasters believe they won’t taper off until Tuesday morning.
Water levels are still running 4 to 5 feet above normal on the oceanside and 3 to 4 feet for the sounds, but are expected to return to normal by Tuesday evening.
West of the sound, parts of northeastern North Carolina woke up Sunday with nearly three inches of snow on the ground.
Damage has been reported as far south as Charleston, S.C., and as far north as Cape Cod.
Chapter 17
Erik Rexford drew three résumés from the pile and tossed them into the wastebasket under his desk before looking up at his sister, Hillary, and sliding the remaining two résumés to her.
“Follow up with these two.”
She gave her brother a hard look before picking up the stapled pages. “Jacob Gilmartin and Edward Wireman.”
He nodded curtly.
“The other three were more qualified, and you know it.”
The other three are women.
He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. “I like these better.”
Hillary, who had come on board as his executive assistant last year, sighed. “I am the single raft of estrogen in this sea of testosterone.”
He continued to stare at her without comment. They’d trod this ground before. Many times. He knew what was coming in three . . . two . . . one . . .
“It wouldn’t kill you to hire a woman, Erik.”
And yet . . . it might.
Erik cleared his throat, using a dismissive tone. “Follow up with those two. Anythin’ else?”
“Yes, in fact,” she said, sitting down in the guest chair across from his desk as she rested the résumés on her lap. “Fancy called a little while ago.”
“And what did our dear mother have to say? Lookin’ forward to seein’ the ball drop in Times Square?”
“Nope. Amtrak’s all messed up from the storm. They’re stranded in Boston, and it looks like they’ll be snowed in for at least three days, so they’ve decided to go skiin’ with friends in Vermont. They’ll spend New Year’s in the mountains instead.”
“Good for them.”
“Erik,” she said, her voice gentle but urgent. “She said that Utopia Manor got hit hard with the storm out on the Banks. Mr. McGillicutty called. Power’s down. Pool’s flooded. Dock got damaged. The repairs are outside of his purview. One of us needs to go out there to meet the insurance company and manage things for a few days.”
Like he could give a shit about what happened to Utopia Manor. He hadn’t been back in almost six years. He shrugged. “Fine. Take a few days off. I’m sure Pete would enjoy the trip.”
His sister and Pete had gotten together two years ago after Hillary had graduated from UNC–Chapel Hill, Pete’s alma mater. They lived together in a restored Victorian house in Historic Oakwood, and it was just a matter of time until Pete, who had always been like a brother to Erik, truly was his brother by marriage.
He was happy for Hillary. Really and truly happy for her because no one had waited longer or shown more faithfulness of heart than his sister. She was rare among women, and therefore the only woman he allowed to get close to him in any way, shape, or form.
“Can’t do it, Erik. Cisco’s hostin’ the biggest tech conference of the year in two weeks. Pete’s up every night until after two gettin’ his presentation perfect. He’s not goin’ anywhere.”
“So you go.”
“First of all, I have New Year’s plans.”
And she knew very well that Erik did not.
“Second of all, I want to be here to support Pete. Get him dinner, be around while he’s workin’ so hard.”
Erik rolled his eyes.
“Not to mention,” she continued, giving him a look, “I know, literally, nothin’ about architecture and structure damage and all of that sort of stuff. I’d be less than useless.” She slumped in her seat. “Come on. You know you have to be the one to go.”
He clenched his jaw. He hadn’t been back to that fucking house in years. Not since the Thanksgiving when she didn’t show.
It still hurt. It still fucking hurt, all these years later.
He looked up at Hillary and growled, “Hire someone and charge it to Daddy.”
With his eyes locked with his sister’s, he watched hers soften to grief, and she took a halted breath before whispering, “They call you the Ice Man, Erik.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Ask me if I give a shit.”
“Even if you don’t, I do,” she said softly. “I want you to be happy.”
“You’re not the happiness police, Hills,” he said, twisting his chair away from her a little.
“You have to deal with this,” she insisted. “Purge your demons. Say good-bye. Move on. It’s been long enough now.”
For years Hillary had been saying the same thing: move on. As if moving on from the love of your life, who suddenly and without explanation banished you, then disappeared off the face of the earth, was possible.