Hurricane House by Sandy Semerad

showerhead and grabbed the Mane shampoo. The same brand she’d used on her beloved Beagle, Mesha, who died last year. Everyone teased Roxanne about the Mane. In fact, Tara had teased Roxanne about the shampoo the day they’d driven down to Dolphin for that tragic Fourth of July weekend. “You’re silly, shampooing with dog and pony stuff,” Tara had said.
    Roxanne lathered her hair and reflected on the ill-fated trip to Paradise Isle. She drove her Porsche. They listened to Fleetwood Mac—a gift from Tara’s mother—on the CD player. They stopped several times along the way, because Tara said she had to “pee.” Then made one final stop at the Dolphin Super Wal-Mart where they bought groceries.
    “Beautiful day,” Tara had said. “A cloudless sky the color of your eyes.”
    The trip turned sour when Roxanne confronted Tara about her drinking. “Too early to start bending your elbow, isn’t it?”
    Tara feigned surprise. “What are you talking about? “That flask you carry in your purse, your frequent trips to the Ladies Room. And I can smell it on you.”
    “Oh, come on, Rox, don’t spoil everything. Drinking is what people do on vacation.”
    “Your daddy drank himself to death, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow you do the same thing. You have a great future. Don’t screw it up.”
    “What great future?”
    “Your dancing. And the Miss America Pageant, to name two.”
    “Rox, you need to start paying more attention to your own life instead of trying to control mine. In case you haven’t noticed, Mason is as horny as the day is long. You need to give him some poontang before it’s too late, Ice Princess.”
    Tara’s cheap shot hurt worse than a torn cartilage. “Ice Princess” indeed, Roxanne had worn every sexy frock Victoria’s Secret sold to keep Mason from coming home late and falling asleep in front of the television. “Did Mason tell you that, Tara?”
    “Pretty much.”
    Roxanne’s face burned with anger. “First of all, Mason is the one rejecting me these days, and second, I’m disgusted to know my husband told my cousin—and best friend—he’s not getting any sex from me.” Roxanne slammed her foot on the brake to keep from hitting the car in front of her. “Kindly explain when and how often you and Mason have discussed our sex life.”
    Tara’s tears streaked her cheeks. “I guess I do drink too much and say things I shouldn’t.” She touched Roxanne shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
    Roxanne brushed Tara’s hand away. “Answer my question.”
    Tara sobbed, “We didn’t. I lied.”
    Roxanne scraped the fender of her Porsche while barreling into the garage.
    Tara jumped out of the car, slammed the door shut, stormed into the house and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the bar. “I’m going for a walk.”
    Roxanne spent the rest of the day on her third-floor deck, watching the ocean and fighting back tears with a gigantic lump in her stomach. At dusk she’d spotted Tara talking to a man too far off to recognize.
    Roxanne wished now she’d gone down there after Tara, but at that time, she was still fuming over their argument. If Tara wanted to get drunk and be a slut with every man she picked up, then fine, Roxanne remembered thinking. But when Tara didn’t come back that night or the next morning, Roxanne had walked out on the beach calling her name. Later she’d called police to report Tara was missing and told them about the man she’d seen Tara talking to, although she didn’t really have a good description of him. The police officer seemed unconcerned. “Too early to file a missing persons’ report,” he’d said.
    The pounding rain and whistling wind outside brought Roxanne back to the moment. Her painful memories, along with the hot shower, made her feel weak and disoriented.
    She plopped down on the Falorni Marni toilet and stared aimlessly at the stack of magazines on the shelf in front of her. A House Beautiful Magazine sat on top of the pile