Storms in Maine were just another part of life, like the hordes of
mosquitoes that occasionally blanketed a town. This was nothing
to get alarmed about.
As Becca lay in the darkness, looking out the bedroom window,
she swore that the winds were growing even stronger as they ravaged
the land. She felt the house literally shudder around her. It
shook so hard, she briefly worried that it would pull free of its
foundation. A loud wrenching sound had her bolt upright in bed.
No, it wasn’t anything, really. Had she come here just to be killed
in a ferocious summer storm? She had wished earlier that she was
closer to the ocean, listening to the waves hurling themselves
against the high cliffs covered with pine trees bowed and bent from
the winter winds, or beating against the clustering speared black
rocks that lined the narrow cluttered beach at the end of Black
Lane, a narrow, snaking little dirt road that went all the way to the
ocean.
But not now. It was just as well that crashing angry waves
weren’t added to the mix. She watched the lightning continue to
tear through the sky, making it bright as day for long moments at a
time. She felt the scoring of the thunder to her toes. It was impressive,
utterly dramatic, and she was getting scared.
Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She lit the three precious
candles, stuck them in the bottom of coffee mugs, and picked up
the Steve Martini thriller she’d been reading until the storm had
really gotten serious.
Was the storm easing up? She read a few words, then realized
that she couldn’t remember the story line. This wasn’t good. She
put the novel back on her nightstand and picked up the New York
Times, carried only by a small tobacco shop off Poison Ivy Lane.
She didn’t want to read about the attempted assassination, but she
did, naturally. Page after page was devoted to the governor’s attempted
murder. She was mentioned too many times.
Thunder rolled loud and deep over the house as she read: There
is a manhunt for Rebecca Matlock, former speech writer for the governor,
who, the FBI says, has information about the attempt on the governor’s life.
Former speech writer now, was she? Well, since she’d left without
a word or any warning, she supposed that was fair enough.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
Suddenly, with no warning at all, the wind gave a howl that
made the hair bristle on the back of her neck and set her teeth on
edge. A flash of lightning exploded, filling the sky with a bluish
light, and a crack of thunder seemed to lift the house right into the
air. She nearly bit her tongue as she stared out her bedroom window.
She watched the proud hemlock weave once, then heard a
loud snap. The old tree wavered a moment, then went crashing to
the ground. It didn’t hit the house, thank God, but some upper
branches crashed into the window, loud and so scary that she leapt
from the bed and ran to the closet. She crouched between a yellow
knit top and a pair of blue jeans, waiting, waiting, but there was
nothing more. What had happened was over with. She walked
slowly back into the bedroom. Tree branches were still quivering as
they settled just above a pale blue rag rug on the floor. The window
was shattered, rain slithered in around the beautiful green
leaves, dripping onto the floor. She stood there, staring at the huge
tree branch in her bedroom, listening to another loud belt of thunder,
and thought enough is enough. She didn’t want to be alone,
not anymore.
She dressed and ran downstairs. She had to find something to
block up the window. But there wasn’t anything except half a
dozen dish towels with lighthouses on them. She ended up stuffing
all her pillows around the tree branch. It worked.
She closed the front door behind her and stepped into the howling
wind. She was wet clear through before she’d taken three
breaths. No hope for it. She ran through the heavy rain to the Toyota