Grits And Glory. Ron Benrey

or seven hours, on and off. The doc stitched the cut on your scalp, ordered an MRI, and then decided you’d suffered nothing worse than a simple concussion and a painful bruise on your forehead. And in case you’re wondering why you’re yawning, we woke you up repeatedly throughout the night.”

      Sean glanced at the window behind Sharon. He saw sunlight streaming through the panes and blue, cloudless skies. Gilda had moved on during the night, gifting Glory with a beautiful morning.

      Her smile widened. “Are you hungry?”

      “Not particularly.”

      “Blame the concussion. Your stomach might be touchy for a few days. But I do suggest you eat a light breakfast. This could become a busy morning for you. Rafe Neilson wants to talk to you and a woman named Cathy McCabe at the Storm Channel began to call for you an hour ago.”

      Sean had no idea who Rafe Neilson might be and didn’t really care. But Cathy McCabe, his producer, was another matter. “What did you tell her?”

      “That I wasn’t your secretary and she should leave messages for you on your cell phone. She countered that she didn’t much like my attitude and that only an overzealous bureaucrat would refuse to give her any specific information about Carlo’s medical status.”

      Sean chuckled. Like most executive producers, Cathy had a low tolerance for being rebuffed. He imagined the increasingly annoyed tone of her voice. There were a dozen different things she’d want to know—starting with Carlo’s health and moving on to the condition of the broadcast van and the pricey camera and control room equipment they carried. He decided not to call her until he had more information.

      “What would you say to me if I asked about Carlo’s condition?”

      “I’d ask you not to give me a hard time. You’re not Mr. Vaughn’s next of kin, are you?”

      “Thankfully no.”

      “In that case, all I can tell you is what we’ve told the forty or fifty reporters who’ve already inquired. We’re treating his injuries, which are not life threatening.”

      She gestured toward an empty bed in the room. “He’ll be coming up from the ophthalmological treatment center in a few minutes, and then you can ask him yourself how he’s doing. I’m confident that he’ll be willing and eager to share.”

      Sean laughed. “Ah. You discovered that Carlo can be a trifle full of himself.”

      “A trifle?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re a master of understatement this morning. Fortunately, Glory is a gracious town, known for its Carolinian charm and civility. We strive to uphold our reputation even when challenged by an over-inflated northern ego.”

      Sharon showed him a laminated menu. “Poached egg and some Jell-O for you?”

      “Where’s the Carolinian charm in that?”

      “All of our breakfasts come with grits and a biscuit,” she said.

      “I stand corrected. Can I take a shower before breakfast?”

      “Sure thing—and a stroll down the hallway if you feel up to it. There’s a bathrobe hanging behind the bathroom door and paper slippers in the closet. But don’t get dressed yet. The doc wants to give you a final check before we discharge you.”

      Sean quickly got the hang of walking in paper slippers. Ten minutes later, he’d made it to the end of the corridor outside his room and reached a glassed-in balcony that overlooked downtown Glory. He tried to gauge the damage Gilda had caused. All of the windows he could see were intact, but roof shingles were missing here and there. Soon after Sean maneuvered past the heavy glass door and stepped onto the balcony, a tall, official-looking man introduced himself.

      “I’m Rafe Neilson. I’m glad to see you up and about. You looked awfully shaky last night, and they wouldn’t let me speak to you.”

      “What do you want to talk about?”

      “The fatal accident at the church.”

      “The fellow who took care of the church’s generator?”

      Rafe nodded. “Richard Squires. I sang in the church choir with him. We’d become good friends during the five years I’ve lived in Glory.”

      “That’s the one thing I hate about hurricanes—they kill people. No one told me that he was dead, but I guessed as much when I heard Ann Trask shouting.”

      “I understand that you tried to start the church’s generator.”

      “Ann asked me to.”

      “Why do you suppose she did that?”

      Sean shrugged. “I’d told her that we have a generator in our broadcast van. I guess she assumed I’d know how to work the church’s backup system. I showed her where the manual start button was, and things were fine for a few seconds. I gave up as soon as I saw the fuel system warning light blinking red. I had a broadcast coming up and didn’t have time to work on the engine. That’s when I told Ann to call Richard Squires.”

      “How did you know about Richard?”

      “A note tacked to the wall said to contact him if the generator didn’t work.” Sean felt a twinge of concern. The surprisingly formal tone of Rafe’s questions had put him on edge. “You’re beginning to sound like a policeman, Rafe.”

      “Can’t help it,” he said with a grin. “I’m Glory’s deputy police chief. We don’t have many fatal accidents in our little town. I’m trying to understand everything that happened in Glory Community’s parking lot last night.”

      “A gust of wind at the height of the hurricane tore the steeple down—a gust with a velocity of upwards of ninety miles per hour. The wreckage fell on Richard Squires and our broadcast van. What more is there to understand?”

      Rafe shook his head. “Probably nothing. Take care of yourself. Don’t overdo.”

      Before Sean could reply, Rafe pivoted on his heels and began to walk away.

      “Hey, Mr. Deputy Police Chief. I have a question for you. How badly did Glory get hit last night?”

      “Not badly at all,” Rafe said over his shoulder. “A handful of large trees are down, a few windows broken here and there, several dozen roofs were damaged, and the streets nearest the Albemarle Sound were flooded, including part of Front Street. We got off lucky except for Richard’s death and the fallen steeple. Other than you and your colleague, there were no injuries requiring hospitalization.”

      Rafe departed, leaving Sean to speculate what had prompted the string of odd questions. He returned to his room and sat down on the visitor’s chair in front of his bed. A short time later a nurse’s aide arrived with his breakfast tray and placed it on a wheeled table next to the chair.

      “I’m not usually a grits person but these look good,” Sean said as he grabbed a spoon to dig in.

      The door squeaked open and Sharon propelled Carlo, sitting regally in a wheelchair, into the room. Sean noted that Carlo’s forehead and left eye were both bandaged, the dressing on his eye smaller than the bandage Sean remembered from the night before.

      “Here you go, Mr. Vaughn,” she said. “This is your room. Can you manage to climb into bed, or do you need me to help you?”

      “I wouldn’t dream of saying no to anything you offer, Sharon,” Carlo said, punctuating his smarmy reply with an utterly sincere gaze. “Please, please, please call me Carlo.”

      Sharon seemed to tolerate Carlo’s obvious flirtation, although Sean could barely avoid throwing a spoonful of grits at him.

      “Good morning, amigo,” Sean said. “You look much better than you did last night. What did the doctors tell you?”

      Carlo gestured toward his bandaged eye. “This is the worrisome injury. A glass splinter