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Authors: Danielle Steel
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offered to take her with him or drop her off somewhere in a neighborhood out of the potential flood zone. But Grace was adamant and had her daughter to assist her, so he left. He hoped that Ellen would make her listen to reason in the coming hours and convince her to evacuate.
—
They were sitting in Grace’s bedroom, talking quietly that night, when the power went off. It was a precautionary measure by the city, and it seemed strange when the apartment suddenly went dark. The emergency generator in the building was operating only in the halls and for the elevator. Ellen lit candles, and Grace turned on a large battery-operated light that she had bought at a camping store for an occurrence such as this, or for one of the power outages that sometimes happened in New York, mostly in the summer.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Ellen asked her with concern, and Grace smiled. The bedroom was piled high with her fragile belongings and the coats from the closet downstairs.
“I’m fine.” Ellen was hoping to convince her to leave in the morning but didn’t press the point that night. It was too late to leave now, after midnight. And Blanche was perfectly content, sound asleep in Grace’s lap. As long as everyone was there, she didn’t care what else was going on, and the dog was exhausted by all the activity with both of them going up and down the stairs all night, moving things. Blanche had followed Grace every step of the way.
They went to bed shortly after the electricity went out, and Ellen took care to fill the bathtubs with water in case they needed it. They had bottled water too, though not a lot of it, and had thrown away any food that might spoil. They were as ready as they were going to be, and as she lay in bed, Ellen thought about George in England. He hadn’t called, and she didn’t want to exhaust her cell phone battery since she wouldn’t be able to charge it now, and they might need it in an emergency. She wondered if George was having fun at the house party. He seemed a million miles from what was happening in New York, and she was glad to be there with her mother. She wouldn’t have wanted her to be alone, although Grace didn’t seem in the least frightened or concerned. She had been totally matter-of-fact about their preparations for the hurricane and remained convinced that it would be far less dangerous than the warnings claimed. Ellen hoped she was right.
—
The building on Clinton Street on the Lower East Side looked old and ramshackle, and was in poor condition, but the rents were low, and students had been renting apartments there for years. There were one or two artists, but mostly students from NYU. It was one of those buildings that people heard about by word of mouth, and vacancies never lasted for more than a day or two before someone snapped them up. Peter Holbrook and Ben Weiss had been living there for two years. They were twenty-one years old, and juniors at NYU. The apartment was dingy and desperately needed a coat of paint, and they had furnished it from rejects off the sidewalk and at Goodwill. Their parents weren’t thrilled about it, and Ben’s mother worried about electrical fires in the dilapidated building, but both boys loved their apartment, their independence, and the fact that it was so cheap. It was a sixth-floor walkup, with no elevator, which only tenants as young as they could endure.
They woke up early on Sunday morning, and met in the living room. Ben was sitting on the beaten-up couch with his dog, a black Lab named Mike, sprawled next to him, as Peter walked into the room and glanced out the window at the rain. The sky looked heavy and dark, and the wind was blowing harder than the day before. They had admitted to each other that they found the hurricane exciting, and wondered what it would be like when it hit New York. They were safe from floods in their aerie on the sixth floor, and Ben had gone to the supermarket and stocked up on food and water. They had
—
They were sitting in Grace’s bedroom, talking quietly that night, when the power went off. It was a precautionary measure by the city, and it seemed strange when the apartment suddenly went dark. The emergency generator in the building was operating only in the halls and for the elevator. Ellen lit candles, and Grace turned on a large battery-operated light that she had bought at a camping store for an occurrence such as this, or for one of the power outages that sometimes happened in New York, mostly in the summer.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Ellen asked her with concern, and Grace smiled. The bedroom was piled high with her fragile belongings and the coats from the closet downstairs.
“I’m fine.” Ellen was hoping to convince her to leave in the morning but didn’t press the point that night. It was too late to leave now, after midnight. And Blanche was perfectly content, sound asleep in Grace’s lap. As long as everyone was there, she didn’t care what else was going on, and the dog was exhausted by all the activity with both of them going up and down the stairs all night, moving things. Blanche had followed Grace every step of the way.
They went to bed shortly after the electricity went out, and Ellen took care to fill the bathtubs with water in case they needed it. They had bottled water too, though not a lot of it, and had thrown away any food that might spoil. They were as ready as they were going to be, and as she lay in bed, Ellen thought about George in England. He hadn’t called, and she didn’t want to exhaust her cell phone battery since she wouldn’t be able to charge it now, and they might need it in an emergency. She wondered if George was having fun at the house party. He seemed a million miles from what was happening in New York, and she was glad to be there with her mother. She wouldn’t have wanted her to be alone, although Grace didn’t seem in the least frightened or concerned. She had been totally matter-of-fact about their preparations for the hurricane and remained convinced that it would be far less dangerous than the warnings claimed. Ellen hoped she was right.
—
The building on Clinton Street on the Lower East Side looked old and ramshackle, and was in poor condition, but the rents were low, and students had been renting apartments there for years. There were one or two artists, but mostly students from NYU. It was one of those buildings that people heard about by word of mouth, and vacancies never lasted for more than a day or two before someone snapped them up. Peter Holbrook and Ben Weiss had been living there for two years. They were twenty-one years old, and juniors at NYU. The apartment was dingy and desperately needed a coat of paint, and they had furnished it from rejects off the sidewalk and at Goodwill. Their parents weren’t thrilled about it, and Ben’s mother worried about electrical fires in the dilapidated building, but both boys loved their apartment, their independence, and the fact that it was so cheap. It was a sixth-floor walkup, with no elevator, which only tenants as young as they could endure.
They woke up early on Sunday morning, and met in the living room. Ben was sitting on the beaten-up couch with his dog, a black Lab named Mike, sprawled next to him, as Peter walked into the room and glanced out the window at the rain. The sky looked heavy and dark, and the wind was blowing harder than the day before. They had admitted to each other that they found the hurricane exciting, and wondered what it would be like when it hit New York. They were safe from floods in their aerie on the sixth floor, and Ben had gone to the supermarket and stocked up on food and water. They had
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