display case marked IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS and smiled.
She made herself a cup of tea, nibbling on a couple of cookies as the water came to a boil, then letting the bag steep in the hot water long enough to make the tea nice and strong. As she fished out another Oreo, a knock came at her front door. Martha jumped, startled by the sound, then glanced with a frown at the clock on the microwave. It was 10:51 P.M. What could this possibly be about?
Hurriedly discarding the used tea bag, she left her cup sitting on the counter, steam rising into the chilly air, and headed back through the living room to the front door. She knotted her eyebrows and peered at the darkened windows. Snow had accumulated on the screens and made little piles on the sills just beyond the glass. She tried to imagine who might be out and have reason to knock so late, and then she halted, five steps from the door, thinking about downed power lines and ruptured gas mains. Could there be some kind of evacuation?
The knock came again, and she thought of the phone call. Exhaling, laughing at her nervousness, she realized the only logical answer: TJ. must have tried to call to check on her and then when the line went dead he’d come out into this crazy storm, worried about her.
“You know,” she said as she unlocked the door and then pulled it inward, snow flying in her face, “I really can take care of myself.”
But, in truth, she could not.
And it was not her son at the door.
Cherie Manning was pissed. The power had been out for over an hour, and the way the storm had been slamming the house, she knew it would not be coming back before morning—and maybe not for a while after that. One of the trees in the backyard had already fallen over, a huge branch smashing against the cellar bulkhead. Another few feet and it might have shattered windows or even the wall.
“And where the hell is Doug?” she said into her cell phone. “Out drinking with the rest of the grease monkeys.”
Curled up on the sofa with a thick blanket, talking with her best friend, Angela, she watched the way the candlelight played across the glass of the windows. She knew there were drafts in the little house she and Doug had bought in the fall, thinking it was time to start a family, but the way the flames flickered, it seemed like something was open somewhere.
“Did you call him?” Angela asked.
Cherie rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to be a bitch, but sometimes Angela could be so dense.
“Five times. He’s not picking up.”
“Come on, Cherie. You know how guys are. He’s drinking with his buddies and watching the game. He probably left his phone in his jacket or something. Or he’s not getting reception because of the storm. I tried you twice before I could even get a call through. Cell service is all screwed up tonight.”
“Maybe,” Cherie allowed.
“You know Doug’s not half as bad as some of these guys,” Angela went on. “At least you know he’s not with some hooker—”
“Do I?” Cherie said.
“Oh, please! Yes, you do! He might not always have the most common sense but the big doofus loves you and that’s got to count for something.”
Cherie smiled and shifted under her blanket, watching the candles flicker, thinking of times she and Doug had lit candles even when there wasn’t a blackout.
“It does,” she admitted. “It counts for a lot. I just don’t like being home alone in the dark. And I wish he’d stand up to Timmy Harpwell. The guy is such an—”
“‘Asshole,’” Angela chimed in.
“I was going to say ‘idiot,’ but ‘asshole’ works for me.”
They both laughed. Cherie had been feeling sorry for herself, home alone in the storm. She wished now that when Doug had told her he would be out late, she had asked Angela to come over. But, of course, absurdly petite as she was—the girl still had the same body she’d had at twelve—she might have just blown away.
Barks erupted from beneath the
She made herself a cup of tea, nibbling on a couple of cookies as the water came to a boil, then letting the bag steep in the hot water long enough to make the tea nice and strong. As she fished out another Oreo, a knock came at her front door. Martha jumped, startled by the sound, then glanced with a frown at the clock on the microwave. It was 10:51 P.M. What could this possibly be about?
Hurriedly discarding the used tea bag, she left her cup sitting on the counter, steam rising into the chilly air, and headed back through the living room to the front door. She knotted her eyebrows and peered at the darkened windows. Snow had accumulated on the screens and made little piles on the sills just beyond the glass. She tried to imagine who might be out and have reason to knock so late, and then she halted, five steps from the door, thinking about downed power lines and ruptured gas mains. Could there be some kind of evacuation?
The knock came again, and she thought of the phone call. Exhaling, laughing at her nervousness, she realized the only logical answer: TJ. must have tried to call to check on her and then when the line went dead he’d come out into this crazy storm, worried about her.
“You know,” she said as she unlocked the door and then pulled it inward, snow flying in her face, “I really can take care of myself.”
But, in truth, she could not.
And it was not her son at the door.
Cherie Manning was pissed. The power had been out for over an hour, and the way the storm had been slamming the house, she knew it would not be coming back before morning—and maybe not for a while after that. One of the trees in the backyard had already fallen over, a huge branch smashing against the cellar bulkhead. Another few feet and it might have shattered windows or even the wall.
“And where the hell is Doug?” she said into her cell phone. “Out drinking with the rest of the grease monkeys.”
Curled up on the sofa with a thick blanket, talking with her best friend, Angela, she watched the way the candlelight played across the glass of the windows. She knew there were drafts in the little house she and Doug had bought in the fall, thinking it was time to start a family, but the way the flames flickered, it seemed like something was open somewhere.
“Did you call him?” Angela asked.
Cherie rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to be a bitch, but sometimes Angela could be so dense.
“Five times. He’s not picking up.”
“Come on, Cherie. You know how guys are. He’s drinking with his buddies and watching the game. He probably left his phone in his jacket or something. Or he’s not getting reception because of the storm. I tried you twice before I could even get a call through. Cell service is all screwed up tonight.”
“Maybe,” Cherie allowed.
“You know Doug’s not half as bad as some of these guys,” Angela went on. “At least you know he’s not with some hooker—”
“Do I?” Cherie said.
“Oh, please! Yes, you do! He might not always have the most common sense but the big doofus loves you and that’s got to count for something.”
Cherie smiled and shifted under her blanket, watching the candles flicker, thinking of times she and Doug had lit candles even when there wasn’t a blackout.
“It does,” she admitted. “It counts for a lot. I just don’t like being home alone in the dark. And I wish he’d stand up to Timmy Harpwell. The guy is such an—”
“‘Asshole,’” Angela chimed in.
“I was going to say ‘idiot,’ but ‘asshole’ works for me.”
They both laughed. Cherie had been feeling sorry for herself, home alone in the storm. She wished now that when Doug had told her he would be out late, she had asked Angela to come over. But, of course, absurdly petite as she was—the girl still had the same body she’d had at twelve—she might have just blown away.
Barks erupted from beneath the
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