Second Chance Sweethearts. Kristen Ethridge

her. She’d come to Port Provident six months ago after fleeing an abusive boyfriend in Georgia. Apartment L5 was technically leased to a friend who’d offered Tanna a couch to crash on. At her most recent checkup, though, Tanna shared with Gloria that her friend had been picked up by the Port Provident Police Department on a drug charge and hadn’t been home in two weeks.

      Tanna was all alone, except for the baby in her belly. Gloria always felt responsible for the safety of the mothers in her care, but somehow she felt unusually protective of young Tanna.

      Water was already lapping in the streets, so Gloria had decided to take her bike and stay up on the sidewalk as she made one final attempt, in person, to contact the last patient she had left in town.

      Gloria locked her bike to the handrail of the narrow steps that led to the landing in front of apartment L5. As she walked up, she noticed the rust on the railing and the peeling green paint along the wall. The worn-out building depressed Gloria as much as the thought of the impending hurricane. How would a building that appeared to be on its last leg on a sunny day fare when a major storm pounded it? Gloria didn’t hold out much hope for the future of the small dilapidated apartment complex or the residents and possessions inside.

      Gloria knocked at the door and waited for it to open, but it never did.

      She knocked again, and the thin wood quivered a bit under the force of Gloria’s hand. The door opened slightly, the safety chain still connected at the top of the door. Tanna’s left eye was barely visible, but not much more.

      “Gloria? What are you doing here?” The voice from behind the door sounded unsure.

      “The hurricane is coming and I need to make sure you’re safe. All my other patients have evacuated. You’re the last pregnant mama on the island and we’ve got to get you out of here. Can you open the door?”

      A warm breeze whipped up and slapped Gloria in the face, a small sign of what was to come.

      “Get out of here? Where am I supposed to go? I don’t have anywhere to go.” She started to shut the door. Gloria quickly stuck her hand in and gripped the frame.

      She reached up for the safety chain and poked it with a finger. “Undo this and let me in so we can talk, Tanna. We’ll figure out something, I promise.”

      The crack in the door narrowed a bit. Gloria tried to figure out how she could wedge herself in the small space. She couldn’t let Tanna cut herself off like this, not with her first labor and a hurricane coming together on a collision course.

      “Tanna, please. Don’t...” Gloria stuck her hand in the space and prayed Tanna wouldn’t slam the door shut on the now-vulnerable fingers.

      A scraping noise came from just above Gloria’s head, and then the chain dropped free. The door opened just enough to allow Gloria a tight passage around her very pregnant patient.

      “Oof. I’d really like to just go lay back down, Gloria. My back is killin’ me.”

      “Your back? Upper or lower?” The door closed swiftly behind Gloria.

      “Lower. Like right here.” Tanna pressed the top of her pelvis with her fingers. “I can’t get comfortable.”

      Gloria had seen the start of labor more times than she could count. Normally, it didn’t faze her at all—it was just part of the whole process. But the average first-time mother in her care spent around fourteen hours in labor.

      And according to the news reports, fourteen hours from now, Port Provident would be engulfed by Hurricane Hope.

      Gloria took Tanna by the hand and led her to the couch. “Come on over here, Tanna. Let’s talk. Tell me more about how you’re feeling.”

      The young mother-to-be moved a small cushion behind her back and sat down cautiously. Still holding her hand, Gloria sat next to her and asked a few questions about what Tanna was feeling and for how long.

      Tanna’s water hadn’t broken yet, but after observing her and timing things, then doing a quick check of dilation, Gloria made a very certain diagnosis.

      “Honey, those aren’t cramps. Those are contractions. You’re in labor. It’s still early and we have some time, but that’s a definite rhythmic and measurable pattern you’ve got going there. I’m getting you out of here.” Gloria reached in her purse for her cell phone.

      “So we’re going to the clinic?” Tanna’s eyes darted, quick and catlike.

      Gloria felt empathy for her. It was a lot to process.

      Gloria did some processing of her own and furrowed her brow. “Well, no. The clinic is closed. It sits close to Gulfview Boulevard and Dr. Shipley was very concerned about flooding later.”

      She’d come to Tanna’s on her bike, but clearly, Gloria would not be leaving on two wheels.

      She thought about calling the paramedics, but this wasn’t an emergency. And it was far too early to take Tanna to the hospital. Women in this early of a stage of labor were sent home to wait and progress. Thanks to the imminent hurricane, she didn’t know what to do. But she knew she had to do something. Thankfully, she knew people who would know the best options. Maybe instead of going to Provident Medical Center, which would surely be understaffed tonight, someone could get them an escort off the island and she could get a hospital in Houston to admit Tanna a little earlier than usual, in light of the circumstances.

      Gloria pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number she knew could bring help. It rang four times before going to voice mail.

      “Tanna, go pack a small suitcase with whatever you need. We’re both going.”

      She scrolled a little further through her contacts list.

      Straight to voice mail.

      Three more numbers, three more recorded messages.

      Gloria was running out of numbers in her phone to call.

      She scrolled through her list again. Maybe she’d overlooked someone.

      Well, there was one more number she could call. She just hadn’t planned on ever calling it again. In fact, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t deleted it out of her phone two years ago.

      Gloria’s fingers felt shaky as she connected the call. The phone stopped ringing and Gloria’s best hope for helping Tanna and her unborn child answered. “Vasquez.”

      Although she hadn’t spoken to Rodrigo Vasquez in longer than she cared to remember, his short salutation made time stand still, and Gloria realized she knew his voice almost as well as she knew her own.

      “Rigo, it’s Gloria. I need your help.” There was no time to catch up, which thankfully meant they wouldn’t have to discuss the night her husband died or why Rigo shut himself out of her life shortly thereafter.

      “Gloria.” Rigo paused. “Wow, it’s been a while. What do you need?”

      He didn’t hang up on her, so that was a start. Even though merely rediscovering his number in her contacts list made her shake with fear and memories, Gloria knew calling Rigo was the right move. She had to do whatever it took for the health and safety of her patient—even if it affected the safety of her heart. Quickly, in her mind, she prayed he wouldn’t leave her all alone again, not at this moment when she needed official help so badly.

      “I need an escort off the island. I have a client in labor and I need to get her some place safe before the hurricane gets here.”

      “I’m head of the Beach Patrol division now, Gloria, not back on regular patrol with Port Provident PD.”

      “Your aunt told me that at church a few weeks ago. But no one else is answering their phones and I can’t call 9-1-1 for this, not with a hurricane on the way. I figure a first-time mom very early in the first stage of labor isn’t an emergency priority.”

      “No, you’re right, it’s probably not. I was headed to check on a report of surfers on