incredibly tough, only nodding philosophically when discussing the incoming storm.
Becca paced the widowâs walk as the storm approached, watching the skies, the now disappearing stars as clouds blanketed them, the boats in the harbor, bobbing about in the rising waves. Then the winds suddenly increased and tore through the trees. The air turned as cold as a morning in January. When the rain finally hit, crashing down hard and fast, she was driven inside. It was just before ten oâclock at night.
The lights flickered. Becca had bought candles and matches and she set them on her bedside table. She paused to listen as the storm bludgeoned the shoreline. She heard a newscaster predict great destruction of lobster boats and pleasure craft if they hadnât been thoroughly secured. She could imagine what the harbor looked like now, waves frothing high, whipping against the sides of the boats, probably sending water crashing over the sides.
She shivered as she pulled on a sweater and snuggled down into her bed. She kept the TV on nonstop weathercoverage and looked at the light show outside her bedroom window. The thunder was deafening. The house rattled with the force of it.
The meteorologist on channel 7 said that the winds were strengthening, nearly up to sixty miles per hour now. He said people should go to official shelters away from the coast for protection. Oddly, he sounded excited. Becca still had no intention of leaving. This old house had doubtless seen its share of comparably violent storms in its hundred-year history just as the Piper Lighthouse had up the road. Both had survived. Both would survive another storm, she didnât doubt that, although she couldnât help but cringe as the house groaned and creaked.
Suddenly, with no warning, thunder boomed, lightning streaked through the sky, and the lights went out.
6
I t wasnât dark for long. The lightning and thunder kept the sky lit up for a good five minutes, without a break. She could easily read her clock. It was just after one in the morning. She finally couldnât stand it any longer and reached for the phone, to call Tyler, but the line was dead. She stared at the receiver, then looked out her bedroom window as a huge streak of lightning lit up the sky. She felt the thunder deep in her eardrums as it boomed, almost simultaneous with the flash. It would be all right. It was only a storm. 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 wasnât 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 treesbowed 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 werenât 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 couldnât 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 sheâd been reading until the storm had really gotten serious.
Was the storm easing up? She read a few words, then realized that she
Becca paced the widowâs walk as the storm approached, watching the skies, the now disappearing stars as clouds blanketed them, the boats in the harbor, bobbing about in the rising waves. Then the winds suddenly increased and tore through the trees. The air turned as cold as a morning in January. When the rain finally hit, crashing down hard and fast, she was driven inside. It was just before ten oâclock at night.
The lights flickered. Becca had bought candles and matches and she set them on her bedside table. She paused to listen as the storm bludgeoned the shoreline. She heard a newscaster predict great destruction of lobster boats and pleasure craft if they hadnât been thoroughly secured. She could imagine what the harbor looked like now, waves frothing high, whipping against the sides of the boats, probably sending water crashing over the sides.
She shivered as she pulled on a sweater and snuggled down into her bed. She kept the TV on nonstop weathercoverage and looked at the light show outside her bedroom window. The thunder was deafening. The house rattled with the force of it.
The meteorologist on channel 7 said that the winds were strengthening, nearly up to sixty miles per hour now. He said people should go to official shelters away from the coast for protection. Oddly, he sounded excited. Becca still had no intention of leaving. This old house had doubtless seen its share of comparably violent storms in its hundred-year history just as the Piper Lighthouse had up the road. Both had survived. Both would survive another storm, she didnât doubt that, although she couldnât help but cringe as the house groaned and creaked.
Suddenly, with no warning, thunder boomed, lightning streaked through the sky, and the lights went out.
6
I t wasnât dark for long. The lightning and thunder kept the sky lit up for a good five minutes, without a break. She could easily read her clock. It was just after one in the morning. She finally couldnât stand it any longer and reached for the phone, to call Tyler, but the line was dead. She stared at the receiver, then looked out her bedroom window as a huge streak of lightning lit up the sky. She felt the thunder deep in her eardrums as it boomed, almost simultaneous with the flash. It would be all right. It was only a storm. 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 wasnât 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 treesbowed 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 werenât 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 couldnât 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 sheâd been reading until the storm had really gotten serious.
Was the storm easing up? She read a few words, then realized that she
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