Close to You

At twenty-four years of age, Kate Montgomery knew that a minimal hurricane packed winds of at least seventy-four miles per hour.

She knew that the clouds could put down five inches of rain an hour, generate dangerous lightning, and spin off violent tornadoes.

Most of all, she knew that a hurricane's greatest damage and loss of life came from the storm surge, a buildup of the seas that swept away homes, roads, and people who were stupid enough to think that a mere category one hurricane posed no threat and stayed in its path.

Which is why, as she waded into the surf at Galveston and turned to face the television camera, she felt like the biggest fool in Texas.

But someone had to be the sacrificial lamb, and as the cameraman had explained on the way down from Houston, it was always the youngest, prettiest newscaster who got the lousy assignments. Malik had made it clear that viewers liked to see girls with rain-wet hair buffeted by the wind. It was a lousy and indisputable broadcasting truth.

"What did you do to deserve this " she had asked.

"It's the black man's fate to be oppressed," he had answered in mournful tones that didn't fool her at all.

"Plus you're the strongest cameraman at the station and the only one who can hold the camera in this weather." She had peered out the window of the news van at the strengthening storm.

"That, too." He drove them over the causeway and onto the fragile barrier island to join the other news crews as well as the hurricane thrill seekers who'd taken hotel rooms on the island to watch the storm.

Now she stood in the surf up to her ankles. The waves crashed behind her with far too much force and the camera lights showed a roil of foam that blew away with the wind. Her yellow slicker whipped around her legs. Her hood barely protected her from the slashing rain. And fervently she wished someone would tell her news director that if he lost a junior reporter, he would get in trouble.

Or maybe it didn't matter, because there were a hundred pretty young aspiring news reporters who would take her job and gladly wade into the storm-tossed surf for their chance at fame.

She'd worked hard for this chance, graduating from Vanderbilt in Nashville with a degree in political science and broadcasting. Her agent had sent out her r ' sum ' and her interview tape and finally he'd found her a job at this station in Houston. None of it had been easy, and she wasn't walking out of the water until they had the shot.

"Ready for the run-through " she yelled at Malik.

He gave her the thumbs-up. From a safe distance, he lifted the camera onto his shoulder and pointed it at her.

"Three, two, one," she said into the microphone under her chin. Pitching her voice to be heard above the storm's roar, she said, "Here I am on Galveston Island, where once again nature's wrath has taken the beach hostage and transformed this usually placid vacation spot into -- " Without warning, a rambunctious wave struck her behind her knees.

She stumbled forward.

Her heart lurched.

The sand shifted beneath her feet.

She flailed her arms like a madwoman and gave a high, girlish screech.

The storm surge rose to engulf her. She almost...almost...went down into the crashing surf.

She caught herself. The water subsided, sliding back and gathering strength to fling itself at the shore once more.

Minimal hurricane, indeed.

She staggered up onto the beach to see Malik grinning and still filming.

"You big jerk!" Sweat trickled down her back, and her hands trembled. "I could have died."

"No. Worst thing that could have happened was that you drowned the mike." He nodded, once again solemn. "Butch would have been really mad at you about that."

Her sense of humor caught up with her, and she laughed. "That'll go on the blooper reel."