by Rickie Blair
And then—Mom was gone. The familiar sense of loss opened like a chasm in my chest. For a moment, I let myself fall into it.
But only for a moment.
With a sigh, I dropped the phone beside me on the ottoman. Everyone should stay home. The storm would pass.
Irma reappeared, carrying a varnished wooden tray hand-painted with more swirling designs. I moved to a high-back armchair, so Irma could set the tray on the ottoman.
“There,” she said, patting its edge with satisfaction. “You’ll feel better with a hot drink in you.” She pointed to the plate. “Ginger cookies. Not as good as Emy’s, but almost. Try one.”
Irma lifted the teapot to fill our cups.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting a cup and clearing a space on the table beside me to set it down. “I really appreciate you taking me in. It’s deathly out there.”
“Any time. I’m sorry it took bad weather to convince you to visit.” Irma sat opposite me, in an armchair swathed in colorful knitted afghans, to sip her tea. “It’s comforting to have company to wait out the storm with.” She glanced at the ceiling, puffing out air as she studied it. Smiling weakly, she picked up her teacup again.
Something in her tone set off alarm bells in my head. “We’re safe here, aren’t we?”
“Yeees.” She bit her lip again.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Irma set her cup down decisively, then leaned in. “It’s that tree. You probably saw it when you came up the driveway. The huge black walnut that shades the cottage?”
When I was struggling up the drive, I hadn’t noticed any one tree in particular. Irma’s cottage faced the Pine Hill conservation area. There were trees everywhere, groaning in the wind and laden with ice. They all seemed menacing to me. Nevertheless, I nodded. “What about it?”
“Last summer, I called a tree service to take a look at it. They warned me that big branch overhanging the roof should come off. In a wind storm, they said, it could snap and take out half the house.” She leaned back, groaning. “You wouldn’t believe the estimate they gave me. It was impossible.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Did you get a second opinion?”
“Yes. The second arborist wanted even more money.” She waved a listless hand. “They have to tie off the limb to make sure it doesn’t fall on the cottage before lifting it away and then—”
“It’s a dangerous job.”
“Yes.” Irma gave me a sharp look. “I understand that. I don’t want anyone to put themselves at risk for me. But artists in this country aren’t exactly rolling in cash, Verity.”
I decided not to point out she’d already told me that.
Glumly, Irma sipped her tea.
“Maybe your insurance would foot the bill,” I said. “If you do nothing and that branch comes down on the house, they’ll have to repair the damage. They might decide to deal with it before that happens.”
Irma scowled. “That won’t work. The cost of my home insurance was so high, I opted for a ten-thousand-dollar deductible.” She twisted the teacup around in her hand, watching the liquid swirl. “It’s never over,” she muttered.
“Oh.” I sipped my tea, wondering what to say to that.
“I was hoping to sell enough paintings at the gallery opening to pay for the work. But that’s not going to happen now.” She reached for a cookie, then munched on it morosely.
“I’m sorry, Irma. Your paintings are lovely. Couldn’t you sell them elsewhere?”
“Not without paying commission. It wouldn’t be nearly as profitable. Most of the time, it’s all I can do to break even. If my parents hadn’t left me this house…” She glanced around, pursing her lips, then resumed munching.
“And the bank…” she mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“The bank. They sent me a foreclosure notice.” Irma bit down so hard on the biscuit that a piece flew off and hit the carpet. I pretended not to notice. Rising, I picked up the teapot to top up our cups.
We finished the tea in near-silence, listening to the crackling fire, the keening wind, and the sleet tapping the windows.
With a sudden movement, Irma set down her cup. “Verity—your phone! I didn’t notice it before.” She pointed to my cell lying on the ottoman next to the tray. “I’ll plug it in for you. If the power goes out, you won’t have a chance to top it up later.”
I handed it to her with a dull sense of dread. “Is that likely? For the power to go out, I mean?”
“I’m surprised it’s stayed on this long.” Clutching my phone, Irma hurried out of the room. “I’ll plug it in on the kitchen counter,” she called over her shoulder.
Since the teapot was empty, I picked up the tray and followed her into the kitchen at the back of the cottage. Six wooden chairs—each a different color—surrounded a harvest table. The light fixture hanging over the table was made of jam jars with tiny, glowing bulbs.
I set the tray on the counter.
Irma reached for the tea kettle. “Should I add more hot water?”
“Sure. And I wouldn’t say no to another cookie.”
While she was prying open the tin, I wandered over to look at a collection of framed photos on an antique sideboard. “Are these your parents?” I asked, picking up a picture of Irma as a young girl with a man and woman standing behind her. The woman’s hand rested on Irma’s shoulder.
She glanced up. “They’ve been dead for years.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Father in a car accident, Mom to cancer. I was just a kid.”
“Where did you live after that? With relatives?”
“Foster homes, mostly. Both my parents were only children, and I had no aunts or uncles. I was eleven when Mom died. Older kids don’t get adopted very often.” The kettle boiled, and she picked it up to refill the teapot.
I replaced the photo on the sideboard. “Come to Rose Cottage and I’ll show you the photos Mickey gave me. There’s a startling resemblance to a person we both know.”
“Is that right?” Irma asked absently, adding more tea leaves to the pot. “I must do that.”
I walked over to peer out the back window. “The storm’s letting up. There’s not as much sleet falling.” By the light that spilled from the kitchen across the yard, I could make out a parked vehicle. It was a dark-colored SUV.
I chuckled. “Your SUV looks like the one that ran me off the road.” Noticing a flash of orange on the bumper, I peered more closely. Leafy Hollow Farmers’ Market. “It is the same one.” I swiveled to face her. “You ran me off the road. What were you thinking?”
Irma, her back to me, stiffened. Slowly, she turned around. “Was that—your truck?”
My mouth dropped open, wondering how anyone could fail to recognize my bright pink vehicle. “Why didn’t you stop?”
Irma grimaced. “I’m so sorry, Verity. I didn’t realize you were in trouble. I saw your truck skid, in my rearview mirror, but I didn’t see it leave the road. I assumed you were fine.” She pointed out the window. “My SUV had no trouble getting through.”
Because I got out of your way, I thought sarcastically. “Why were you in such a hurry?”
Irma shuddered. “I hate weather like this. My father’s accident happened during an ice storm.”
To my mind, that should have made her more concerned, not less, about potential collisions. I kept that to myself.
“I wanted to get home,” she continued. “I’m sorry, Verity.”
“No harm done. My truck’s only stuck. A tow truck will get it out eventually.” Forcing a smile, I pointed to the restocked plate in her hand. “At least we have cookies.”
We sat at the kitchen table, chewing. The ginger cookies had lost their appeal for me.
“Why were you out on the road at all?” I asked finally. “Where were you coming from?”
“Oh.” She waved a hand. “Errands. You know—groceries and stuff. You need to stock up for bad weather.”
> “You left it a little late.” You’re one to talk, Verity. Ruefully, I remembered my casual approach to the impending storm.
Irma shrugged. “I forgot a couple of items.”
Swallowing the last of my cookie, I got to my feet. “The wind’s dying down, too. I think the storm’s blowing over. I can walk home.”
Before I could take a step, there was a brief metallic whine overhead.
With a loud pop, the lights snapped off.
I swallowed heavily, with a hand to my throat. The pitch blackness was oppressive, like being in a tunnel.
“I’ll get the candles,” Irma said.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark. Really, I wasn’t. But the power going off unsettled me. Once the fridge in the corner had shuddered to a halt, it was eerily quiet. Only the groaning of that huge branch overhead broke the silence. Lifting my face to the ceiling, I tried to peer through the dark, envisioning a tree crashing through the roof.
As the blackness pressed in, the vein in my throat started to throb and my chest tightened. Was this claustrophobia? Or an anxiety attack? I closed my eyes momentarily, breathing steadily, determined to stave it off.
“Here we are.” Irma entered, holding a hurricane lamp that lit her face from below. It threw a warm glow when she set it on the table, but the corners of the table were in darkness. I sat down, tapping my fingers nervously on the tabletop, staring into the lamp’s tiny flickering flame.
“Tea?” Irma asked, heading over to the counter to fill our cups. “It’s still warm.”
“Thanks.” My voice lacked confidence, but I couldn’t help it. My breath quickened with every groan of that branch. “Listen to that tree,” I said, shuddering. “I didn’t notice it before.”
“Would you like to sit in the other room?”
“I’d like to go home, to be honest. The sleet has stopped, and it’s not far.”
“No, don’t. It’s dark out. What if a snowplow comes up the road while you’re walking? It might hit you.”
“They have headlights. They’ll see me.” The more I dwelled on it, the more anxious I was to get away from that darkened kitchen and the ominous creaking overhead. “Besides, the dog will be panicked.”
“What dog?”
“Oskar York’s. He’s staying with me at Rose Cottage until we can find him a home. I left an audiobook on for him, but it will have stopped when the power shut off. He’s probably upset.”
“It’s a dog. He’ll be fine. He’ll go to sleep.”
I rose to my feet. “Maybe, but I’d feel better if I went home. A dog can do a lot of damage in a brief time.”
“If it was going to damage anything, it’s already done it. Don’t go. It’s not safe.”
“Even so. I should leave.”
“Sit down and finish your tea, at least. Why an audiobook, by the way?”
“Huh?”
“Why did you get an audiobook for the dog?”
“I heard they were good for calming them. I read it somewhere.” The vein in my neck was pulsing. I was trying to ignore it. The mere act of ignoring it was stressing me out even more.
“Any author in particular?”
“What?”
“The audiobook. Which author was Boomer listening to?”
“I never said his name was Boomer.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Which book was it?”
“Dickens. Nicholas Nickleby.”
“Why did you pick that one?”
“It’s long. No dogs are harmed. And I don’t know, really. Irma, I have to go. I’m sorry.”
I bolted for the hall, grabbed my parka, and put it on, followed by my damp and chilly boots. The furnace grate was no longer warm. With the power off, my furnace would be off, too. Not only would Boomer be cold, but General Chang—I’d forgotten all about him, I realized with a pang of guilt—would definitely be out of sorts. Well, more out of sorts.
I should get home, light a fire, and crack open another tin of salmon for the General.
Good thing my can opener wasn’t electric.
Irma hurried down the hall behind me, holding the hurricane lamp. “Verity, don’t leave. It’s dangerous.”
She placed a hand on my arm, but I shrugged it off.
“I have to go before the sleet starts up again,” I said, wrenching open the door. I turned back to face her. “You should come with me. If that branch falls—” I shuddered again, glancing at the ceiling. “You’ll be safer at Rose Cottage.”
She took a step back. “I can’t leave my pictures.”
I stared at her, conscious of the wind wailing behind me. “You can’t—what?”
She muttered something under her breath, looking down at the floor.
“Okay,” I said, anxious to get out of there. “I’m going.”
“Wait. If I shovel out the driveway, I can drive you home in the SUV.”
“It’s not necessary, Irma. Stay indoors, where it’s dry.” I stepped out, closing the door behind me. With a shiver, I turned up my collar, flipped the parka’s hood over my head, and plunged into the storm.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was only a quarter mile to Rose Cottage. But that ten-minute walk turned into half an hour of battling snowdrifts, icy surfaces, and frigid wind. Lilac Lane’s steady upward slope made the footing even more treacherous. The few houses I passed were all dark.
Overhead, branches groaned and shifted, and power lines sagged under thick coatings of ice. At only a hundred feet from Rose Cottage, I paused, momentarily disoriented by the vista ahead. Then I realized what was different, and drew in a quick breath.
The magnificent chestnut tree was partially uprooted and leaning over the road. If it fell any farther, it would snap the power line beneath its branches, and the severed line would hit the ground. A transformer hummed and whined overhead. This wasn’t the feeder line that serviced Lilac Lane. It was a much bigger line, headed for a subdivision over the hill.
I gave the stricken tree a wide berth, detouring onto the opposite shoulder and trudging through the snowbanks, my boots sinking in with every step. It meant wresting my foot out of the snow with each stride, but I remembered Adeline’s advice about fallen power lines.
Stay well back. Electricity can travel through the ground.
My spirits lifted when the familiar outline of Rose Cottage loomed in the shadows, its dark fieldstone walls standing out against the white snow. Elated, I tramped up the driveway, picturing a roaring blaze in the fireplace. Both Jeff and Adeline had shown me numerous times how to make a proper Boy Scout fire. It began with twisted scraps of paper, then kindling, and finally logs stacked in a pyramid. I always listened with rapt attention.
Then, I generally unwrapped a preformed starter log from the corner store. They were foolproof—as long as I remembered to buy them.
I was trying to recall my last purchase when I pushed open the front door. As usual, it was unlocked. Like most people in Leafy Hollow, I didn’t take security as seriously as maybe I should. According to Jeff and Adeline, anyway. I attributed that caution to their chosen careers. Most of us didn’t worry about potential assassins.
Obviously, the power was out here, too. So, I wasn’t alarmed to find the interior pitch black. I shucked off my parka and boots, leaving them on the floor, before shuffling into the room on my stocking feet.
But the chill in the air did concern me. It was surprising how quickly the cottage cooled once the furnace was off. Remembering the fleece blankets and heavy-duty cardigans stored in my bedroom closet, I headed that way.
In the darkness, the kitchen door rattled, as if someone was trying to force it open.
I froze, unable to breathe. Until—
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
Sighing in relief, I realized it was only Boomer.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
“Be right there,” I yelled, padding through the living room. “Ow!” Pausing, I rubbed my shi
n where it had struck the coffee table.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
“I’m coming.”
I took two more steps, rebounded off the wall, and paused again—this time to rub my forehead.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I muttered.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
“Okay! Coming.” I waited a few seconds, hoping my eyes would adjust to the dark. That didn’t work. If I didn’t find a light source soon, I’d be unconscious.
I had bought candles, but where did I put them? With an uneasy feeling, I recalled storing them in the basement the previous summer, intending to bring them upstairs before the winter. Not a good plan, as it turned out. The thought of trying to negotiate the narrow basement stairs in darkness was not encouraging. Mulling over my options, I decided that a fire would give off enough light for me to reach the kitchen. But a fumbling search for the matches that should have been on the mantelpiece was also fruitless.
Wait—my phone’s flashlight app would work. I attempted the short trip back to the foyer. One step. Two steps. Three—
I tripped over the ottoman, pitching face-first onto the sofa.
Arf-arf-arf-arf-arf-arf…
With my mouth muffled by fabric, I couldn’t respond. Not that it would have made any difference. I didn’t blame Boomer for his distress. He was in a strange place, it was dark, and his escape route was barred. But I really wished he’d pipe down.
A series of whomps on the door, followed by furious scrabbling, got me to my feet again. At this rate, Rose Cottage would soon be an open-concept loft.
Carefully, I made my way back to the foyer and my phone. After getting down on my hands and knees and feeling along the floor, I finally found my parka. I plunged my hand into the pockets, one after the other. All of them, interior and exterior, were empty.
