It always feels strange to go in through the front door instead of the back door, and today it feels particularly odd.
One of the hot pink shutters hangs slightly off the window and I jerk my head toward it.
“We’ll have to fix that,” I tell him.
“That’s easy,” he says. “Ten, fifteen minutes. Tops.”
“Okay. Let’s go see the rest.”
“It’s going to be fine no matter what happens when you open that door. We’ll fix it.”
I nod, and as grateful as I am for him, his words don’t have the soothing effect that they should. Nothing’s going to soothe me until I’m able to take stock of what exactly needs to be done to fix this.
I slot my key into the lock, the satisfying click turning, and it hits me how lucky I am to I still have a door.
Some of the shops down lower weren’t so fortunate. The floodwaters had burst through, knocking the doors off theirhinges and splintering the locking mechanisms open. Some of the stores that had floor-to-ceiling windows had broken glass.
None of us were prepared for this storm. None of us put up the typical plywood to protect our windows.
My hand shakes, and I force myself to drink more of the latte before the inevitable.
“Come on,” Caleb urges me.
I place my hand on the handle, depressing the lever and opening the door.
Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that meets my eyes.
Eighteen
Ipush Caleb into the shop and shut the door behind us, locking it just as quickly because Silverlight Shore’s not ready for what’s happening inside my shop.
Hell, I don’t thinkI’mready for what’s happening inside my shop.
I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life.
There are tentacles. Practically everywhere.
Well, that’s not entirely true, but one tentacle is a lot of tentacles when you’re used to seeing your candy shop with no tentacles in it.
“What in the world?” Caleb says.
“My thoughts exactly.”
I have no words. I simply look around in complete shock, trying to figure out what the hell it is I’m seeing.
A dozen, maybe more octopi cling to the window sills. Another sits at the base of the door. Towels in hand — the same towels I keep on hand for Gunner in the back room.
Well, I guess they’re not towels in hand. I suppose they’re towels in tentacles, and they’re slowly mopping up the floodwaters.
The huge fan I keep on hand in the back room during the summertime to help the heat of the kitchen dissipate out the back door sits between the counter and the front of the store, turned on and drying off anything that’s left inside.
“I knew octopi were smart, but I didn’t realize they could do this,” I say.
It’s a woefully inadequate expression, but it’s just about all I have because my brain has short-circuited.
I take a long drink of my latte.
Gunner plops down next to me, tongue lolling out as he surveys the strange scene before us.
