I strike a match and light a few candles, just in case the power does fail.
I am mesmerized as a sliver of lightning sprints across the sky, as if trying to impress its dance partner by sashaying across such a large span in a short amount of time, and the windows jar as another loud boom engulfs the quiet space. Weather’s as transformative as life—it can radically change in an instant, yet it’s completely out of our control.
Inhaling a deep breath, I will myself not to succumb to the overwhelming sadness that presses against my chest.
With a loud exhalation, I close my eyes the way my therapist taught me, remembering her words. “Don’t ignore your discomfort, Charlotte. Use the negative emotion as a teaching lesson and trace it back to its source before discounting it.”
As if memories were that easy to let go of.
Take a puff of air and they will dissipate, I think wryly, especially the unpleasant ones that destroy you and the ones you love.
When I open my eyes, I feel the sharp wooden handle digging into my side. Wincing, I retrace my steps back into the kitchen and glare at my reflection in the metal blade as I slip it back into its rightful place.
If anything can lessen my tension, it’s the smell of a timeworn recipe. I sniff the air, the space enveloped with the aroma of fresh cookies. In some ways, it’s as if my mother’s presence is felt. Inside the modern farmhouse, the glow of lit candles and the smell of cinnamon and vanilla are the antithesis of the looming storm. They signal warmth and a certain snugness.
I was fortuitous enough to inherit a sizable fortune from my family that allowed the purchase of a substantial place near Pleasanton Lake, a quaint part of the city that feels like its own small community on the outskirts of the sprawling metropolis. Walking trails wrap around the man-made lake. The residents who own homes here are encouraged to fish and rent paddleboats or canoes. It’s like its own city within a city, if that makes sense. A safe haven without crime.
It’s a slice of heaven, and I love it here.
When I’m not afraid.
But I’m petrified of a lot of things, and thrilled doesn’t accurately describe how I felt when Noah agreed that the commute to the airport would be worth it for his job. Especially since hotel rooms have become his home away from me. Work travel keeps him occupied during the week, and the airport is a mere half hour away—not a bad commute given the suburban sprawl that’s taken over the once-vacant farmlands and empty tracts.
The downside?
He’s gone more than he’s not. It’s hard not to feel resentful and, well, alone. I remind myself that it’s just difficult being on my own, tasked with shouldering most of the household responsibilities.
Lonely means something different to me, because you can be in a crowded room and still feel completely and utterly isolated.
At times I’m both, the majority of my hours spent near the majestic stone fireplace, reading steamy romance novels, the opposite of what I teach. I read Steel and lecture on Tolstoy. Characters in books become my friends and enemies, their ill-fated romances and forbidden love laden with obstacles I imagine myself a part of.
It’s an escape.
A beautiful, glorious escape from the life I’ve tried to rebuild without either of them holding me back.
He’s coming home soon, so stop feeling sorry for yourself, I command.
The timer beeps, signaling that the cookies are done. Deftly moving around the kitchen, I turn off the oven and transfer them onto a cooling rack in the middle of the island.
Another earsplitting crack trembles through the house, and white flashes split the tumultuous nimbus clouds open, followed by the sound of pounding rain hitting the roof.
At first, I don’t hear the loud knock until a sharp thwack draws my attention to the front of the house.
Pausing, I turn the faucet off as a loud pounding reverberates through the house.
“What the . . . ,” I murmur, wiping my wet hands on a striped dish towel. It must be the umbrella awning in the backyard swaying in the wind, brushing against the house, or that the storm’s uncustomarily close.
Assuming it’s the storm, I shift the cookies onto a plate with a spatula and slip the baking sheet into the large farmhouse sink to soak.
A shrill sound echoes as the doorbell chimes.
I hum a childhood lullaby that used to comfort me and peer out the small window overlooking the side yard. Glancing over my shoulder, I bite my lower lip in frustration. I then reason with myself, trying hard not to overthink why someone would be at the door this late in the afternoon. Maybe it’s the mailman, or a dog was startled by the thunder and got loose, and a neighbor is frantic to find their beloved pet.
But the unsettled feeling is more than that, more than a punch to my gut.
The past never lets me forget that someone could be watching . . . or trying to get me to let my guard down when I’m the most vulnerable.
Repeating my earlier gesture of grabbing the butcher knife, I wrap it in the dish towel and then pause between the kitchen and living room. My eyes automatically move to the basement door to make sure it’s closed and padlocked, behavior that is ingrained in me now. Gulping, I glance at my least favorite part of the house, one I avoid unless absolutely necessary.
After counting to ten, I tiptoe once again across the stained oak floorboards, the color picked to perfectly match the mantel over the fireplace. My bare feet barely make a sound as I close the gap between me and the unknown.
The fervent rumble of thunder matches the thudding in my chest.
A couple of stamps and another knock at the front door.
Ordinarily, I appreciate the heavy drapes covering the front picture windows on both sides of the door, since they’re meant to keep prying eyes out. But tonight, they prevent me from seeing what or who’s outside on the porch.
I touch the dead bolt, as if feeling the metal will alleviate any doubts it’s changed positions. Resting my head against the doorframe, I wish like hell that Noah were here to answer.
All I can manage is to yelp, “Hello?” But it’s not even loud enough to muffle the dramatic news reporter on the screen announcing that a tornado watch has now been issued.
“I need help,” a female voice shrieks. “Please!”
“Who is it?” I stammer, this time with inflection, staying put on my side of the heavy door between us, the knife hidden underneath the damp cotton.
“It’s getting bad out,” a distraught woman pleads on the other side. “Can you please help me?”
Shutting my eyes, I wonder if it’s a stranded motorist. My hand hesitates at my collarbone, where my beloved cross necklace rests. After saying a quick prayer with my hand pressed against the chain, I ask, “Who is it?”
My remembering that the screen door is also locked provides me with a small dose of comfort and some protection. After unlatching the dead bolt, I slowly pull the door open and come face to face with the outside elements. The torrential downpour’s strong enough that rain smacks my forehead through the screen.
After flicking on the porch light and illuminating the shadow of this mystery person, I peer through the darkness at the stranger. The unknown female’s face is tilted downward, hair covered by a dark hood, hand balled in a fist, poised to knock again.
“I was walking in the neighborhood.”
“Are you armed?”
“You mean, like with a weapon?”