Page 5 of Smuggler's Cove

By the second day, the family began to settle in at the farm. There was plenty of outdoor space for Jackson to kick a ball around, and Uncle George put together a makeshift fence so the kids wouldn’t wander off.

There had been no communication between J.T. and Rita. He hadn’t called looking for her, and she didn’t want him to know where she was. It wasn’t until noon on the third day when the heavy black phone in the dining area rang. It was the police. They were looking for Mrs. Jackson Taylor. The man explained they got Betty’s name from one of Rita’s neighbors, Lydia Foster. Betty handed the phone to her sister.

“Mrs. Taylor, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your husband was in a wreck last night, more like the wee hours of the morning. He is in the hospital.”

Rita began to shake. “What happened?”

Betty scurried to her side.

“He was intoxicated and slammed into a bulkhead.”

Rita didn’t know what to say or do. “How is he?” creaked out of her mouth.

“He’s unconscious. From what we can tell, he was pitched from his seat, smashed into the windshield, and then got thrown from the car after it hit the concrete. He’s still unconscious. Lucky to be alive.”

Horrifying images raced through her mind.What if he is incapacitated indefinitely? Would she, could she care for him?

“Which hospital is he in?” she asked.

“St. Joseph’s in Paterson,” the officer replied.

“I’m in Barnegat. I don’t know how I am going to get up there.” She looked at Betty.

“I’ll give you the phone number of the hospital. You can try to call them in a few hours,” the officer said. “Maybe there will be a change in his condition.”

Rita’s hands trembled as she scratched out the numbers. Again, her mind was racing.How would she get there? What about the children?She thanked the officer and ended the call.

“What happened?” Betty gasped.

“J.T. was in an accident. He was drunk and ran off the road. Into some kind of concrete thing.”

“How is he?”

“Unconscious,” Rita replied. “Betty, I don’t know what to do.” She began to weep.

“If he’s unconscious, there is nothing youcando.” Betty looked out the kitchen window.

Rita dried her eyes. “This might put the kids in a tizzy. They’re just beginning to get used to being in the country.”

Betty put a kettle on the stove. “Come. Sit down. Let’s talk this through.”

Betty convinced Rita to wait a few hours. Then she could call the hospital and see what the prognosis was.

“They’re going to think I am a terrible wife if I don’t go right away,” Rita said, sniffling.

Betty let out a raspberry. “You are worried what total strangers will think of you when they don’t even know what you’ve been through?” The kettle began to whistle. Betty began to fix tea.

“I often wondered why the Brits make tea during a crisis,” Rita mused.

“Gives them something to do.” Betty chuckled. “Come on, sis. This is clearly a sign from above. Imagine if you were home? The police coming to your door in the middle of the night? You missed out on a ruckus.”

“What am I going to tell Jackson? And Kirby?” Rita asked, as she watched her son enjoy the sunshine.

“Don’t tell them anything until you have some real information.” Betty brought the teacups to the table. “If you want, I will drive you to Paterson.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” Rita protested.

“You didn’t ask me. I am offering. Now drink your tea.”