Page 3 of Rolling Thunder

“Being suspicious of your baked goods is not buying into a conspiracy theory. That’s just common sense. I’m almost done with the lighting in the front room. Let me know if you need a hand.”

“Yup!” Dan said around a cookie in his mouth as he donned dark blue safety glasses. But still he was going to start work in flip-flops. “Be here tomorrow at ten to talk to the TV people with me,” he added.

The next day, at the appointed hour, Evan came rumbling into Dan’s driveway on his Indian, wearing ripped jeans, a black Hog’s Breath Saloon shirt that he’d cut the sleeves off years ago, and his old black boots with cracks in the leather and worn-down heels. He steeled himself the whole ride over for the sight of a film crew, something he hoped never to deal with again in his life. Instead, it was just a couple of stiffs in suits with reams of paperwork and a black SUV.

Evan was as much a paradox as Florida itself. The super-rich built Spanish-style mansions on the waterfront or sprawling equine estates. The snowbirds took over the inland with their middle-class, deed-restricted communities of little cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre lots. You could drive through Florida seeing only these things and think that was all there was. But if you looked closer at the forgotten lands bordering the swamps, you’d see another world. Garbage-strewn trailers and small, dilapidated dwellings decorated with Confederate flags, haunted by dangerous rednecks who kept pet alligators in their backyard ponds. For all its glitzy facade, Florida, just like Evan, had dangerous secrets hiding in plain sight.

Dan stood in front of his cottage on the scrap of gravel and oyster shell that passed for a front lawn. Barefoot this time, he still wore board shorts and a half-buttoned tropical-print shirt. So much of Matlacha had been destroyed by Ian, along with Dan and Evan’s investment property. But Dan’s little teal cottage with purple shutters had survived unscathed. Anywhere else, this ridiculous brightly colored bungalow would stand out like a sore thumb, but in colorful, artsy Matlacha, it fit right in. The same went for Dan. It was only a one-bedroom cottage, but currently Dan still had one neighbor staying with him whose home had been destroyed. That was Dan in a nutshell. He would give a stranger the shirt off his back if they needed it. Or take in residents of Matlacha to sleep on air mattresses in his small living room because the hurricane had taken their homes.

Evan swung off his bike with a jingle of his boot chains, aware of how different he and Dan were.

“Christ, man! Are you trying to look like an ex-con?” Dan asked sarcastically.

“I’m trying to look like someone who doesn’t belong on TV, because I don’t. And if they see that now, all the better. Maybe they just sign you for the show and I’ll work behind the scenes.”

The suits were a slick-looking man and a prim, coifed woman. She had the artificial pout of lip filler, a look Evan hated. He hated everything about Hollywood and all it represented, except the chance for redemption. And nobody hated money.

Evan hung back a step and let Dan do the schmoozing, something he was famously good at. People loved Dan, loved selling him houses, and equally loved buying houses from him. Dan made people feel comfortable. He made them feel special. But soon enough, the focus turned to Evan.

“This is my business partner, Evan Holton,” Dan said.

Evan stood, hands shoved in his pockets. He kept his shades down to soften the mad-dog glare that had become a life-saving habit in prison. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Evan hoped they would see the error of their ways and offer this deal exclusively to Dan. Then he could go back to his solitary life.

“I like your look, Evan,” said duck-lips. “It’s very popular right now since that biker show did so well.” The words sank like lead shot into his stomach. So much for hoping they wouldn’t want him involved.

“I’m glad you think I’m hip,” he said, deadpan.

To his greater shock, the other suit laughed, genuinely amused. Evan wasn’t trying to be funny.

“Perhaps we could go indoors and look at some paperwork,” he said.

“This house has so much character,” duck-lips continued. “I think we could use it in the title sequence. I’m thinking we’ll have Dan standing out front with a surfboard. Evan, maybe you could drive in on your motorcycle and just pull up next to him. You two are an interesting contradiction. We can play off that.”

“It’s something really unique,” chimed in the other stiff. “The network was originally interested in making this about flipping houses, but they’re worried about PR flipping houses for profit in a hurricane-ravaged region. It’s not a great look.”

Dan perked up, surprising Evan. This wasn’t good news. Why did Dan look like they’d just dropped him a line?

“I’ve been thinking about that very thing,” Dan said, his enthusiasm catching everyone’s attention. “We started flipping houses as a business before the hurricane. Even we lost a big project to Ian. What if instead of flipping vacant houses, we rebuilt the ones that can be salvaged to get people back into their homes? People are struggling to get the insurance companies to pay, but you guys probably have a team of lawyers that could make it happen. There are so many house-flipping shows. We could do something different. We can save people’s homes for them by renovating after the damage. That would look great for the channel.”

Evan sat back, admiring Dan’s logic. And for the first time, he felt really good about the whole project. This was something he could get behind. The network could pull strings and finance projects that otherwise he and Dan could never afford to do. This would be a chance at something special, something that mattered. It would matter a hell of a lot to the people sleeping in Dan’s living room if they could rebuild their house.

Evan looked at Duckie, and even she looked impressed with the idea.

“That’s a really interesting spin on it. It’s not what the executives were planning to do with this show, but they might really like it. I’ll have to take it to a team meeting and see what they say. Let’s wrap this up, and we’ll circle back.”

As the suits packed up and left, Evan watched them go with a new hope that this might really happen. This was more than just an honest living, this was a chance to make a real difference in people’s lives. His life had begun like a runaway train that derailed, flinging him out into the middle of a wasteland he thought he’d never escape. All he ever wanted was a life he could hang his figurative hat on and stand proud. This could finally be it.

The network must have been equally taken with the idea, because word came back the very next day that they would figure out the details and they wanted to film a pilot as soon as possible, while the hurricane was still fresh in people’s minds. It felt a little bit like trying to profit off disaster, but people really did need the help. Evan and Dan had been trying to help Dan’s neighbor in their spare time, but they constantly felt the pressure of having to make their own living on top of it. What if they could do both?

Kayla stepped out onto her porch with a cup of coffee to watch the farm wake up. The cool morning air was a refreshing respite from the otherwise near-constant heat, and it gave her a moment to pause and look over the farm while she sipped her coffee. From somewhere came the eerie trill of a sandhill crane. The mornings and the evenings were often so magical at the farm that she could almost forget all the tragedy. The cool morning was thanks to spring, which happened here in name only. Soon enough, the unrelenting summer monsoons would return. Her property bordered on the wild, swampy lands that farther south became the Everglades proper. As if resentful that humans had transformed the land into farms, Mother Nature reclaimed it yearly with sheet flooding and violent summer rainstorms. The extra water welcomed gators in rut that were on the move in search of a mate. Any morning there might be a huge new prehistoric beast floating in the pond behind the house.

A black blur of a dog came flying around the side of the house, drawing a smile to Kayla’s lips. The skinny black lab mix had started visiting her a few weeks prior. Thinking the dog might be abandoned, Kayla had tried unsuccessfully to catch her. Instead, the dog just came and went, stealing small inedible items and creating random havoc. She’d been desperately thin the first time Kayla saw her. Someone must be feeding her now, though, because her ribs were showing less and less.

Some days, like today, the dog followed her around all day as if she lived there. She took lazy swims in the pond while Kayla rode horses. Once, she’d even trotted alongside Kayla on a group trail ride down to the end of the road through the orange grove.

This morning, Kayla managed to sit Rocket without triggering another wild ride. The previous day’s explosion didn’t seem to change the mare’s attitude much. It was just another day’s work for Rocket. This time, Kayla rode through a small bolt and calmed her into walking loops for a half an hour until the horse was thoroughly bored. For now, that was a victory. Kayla was starting to understand Rocket a little better. Running barrels was an adrenaline-fueled rodeo game that consisted of galloping a cloverleaf pattern, skidding around three barrels, and racing back to the end of the arena for the fastest time. Rocket associated a rider with running for her life without necessarily understanding the rules. Any slight movement from the rider that Rocket couldn’t immediately understand would trigger her to bolt forward wildly. More than anything, Rocket was a confused, nervous wreck. Kayla could totally identify. She spent the training session walking about and desensitizing Rocket to small movements of her hands or legs. The slightest motion, however unintentional, was interpreted as spurs or the reins being whipped against her flanks, even though Kayla neither wore spurs nor moved the reins at all. The mare’s full name was Red Bottle Rocket, and it was suitable. The horse had tons of natural speed without a spur ever touching her. Her teenaged rider, in an effort to show off to her friends, had probably ridden too rough and turned Rocket into a shell-shocked bolting machine.

After thirty minutes, Kayla had finally been able to let the reins all the way out, and Rocket was walking with her neck stretched out calmly for the first time. Kayla leaned down and rubbed her neck.

---