Storm Warnings

by Judi Lind

  He chucked her chin with his fingertip. “You’re getting pretty good at psychobabble. At the risk of making you sound perfectly normal, you were rightfully ticked off because I kept hammering at you. Telling you what you should be doing. And that’s my professional opinion, so don’t argue.”

  Reaching down, he took her fingers in his and lightly rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “Guess I’ve been passing out therapeutic advice so long I kind of let my mouth override my common sense. Chalk it up to that God complex—I think all doctors are supposed to have it.”

  She didn’t know about that, but he was responsible for a lot of wondrous things. Like the swarm of butterflies that had once more taken possession of the region south of her navel. But she couldn’t let herself give in to these achy yearnings. Too much was at stake. She couldn’t stand a broken heart right now.

  He stood up. “I think I have some aspirin in the bathroom. Might help with the pain until I can get your medication.”

  “Thanks. And a huge glass of water.”

  “Sure thing,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway.

  Elisa leaned back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Storm Delaney was a kind, gentle and generous man. And he was quite obviously sexually attracted to her.

  But she wanted more—or nothing. Her feelings for him had grown as swiftly as Jack’s beanstalk over these few days. Maybe she was particularly vulnerable right now, and needed someone to fill the void. Perhaps she was simply reaching out for kindness, any kindness. She didn’t think it was that simple, though.

  He came back into the room and handed her two pills and an old-fashioned aluminum tumbler that was beaded with evaporation. She popped the pills and took a deep swallow. The water was crisp, free of additives and surprisingly cool.

  “My cistern’s connected to an underground spring,” he said when she raised her eyebrows.

  She finished the water and patted the edge of the mattress. Obediently he sat. “So what do we do now?” she asked. “We know for certain there’s a second killer on this island, and I haven’t the foggiest idea who he is.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “Nothing about him seemed familiar?”

  She thought for a moment and shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “And he didn’t speak?”

  “Actually, he did say my name a few times.” Her mouth felt dry and scratchy as she recalled his eerie voice wafting through the swamp. “Even told me not to be afraid, at the same time he was doing his best to frighten me to death. His voice was high, like he was talking through a tin can or something, and weird. Almost supernatural. No, he didn’t sound like anyone I know.”

  He rubbed her forearm, as if he were polishing fine marble, and rose from the bed. “We’ll work it out later. Right now, I’m going back to the hotel and collect some of our stuff. I imagine Miriam’s worried sick about you by now.”

  Raising her head off the pillow, she struggled to sit up. “I want to go with you. I have no intention of facing that creep again. At least not without a gun—a big gun.”

  His large hand pressed against her shoulder, easing her back onto the pillow. “You’re staying here. Doctor’s orders. In the first place, I can make better time alone. Besides, I’m afraid you’re going to inflict some muscle or nerve damage if you don’t give that foot a rest.”

  “But—”

  He touched her lips with his index finger. “Secondly, I shouldn’t be gone long. I think we cleared a wide enough path that I can get the Jeep through. Finally, I have no intention of leaving you without a gun. A big gun.”

  Stepping into the hall, he came back with the biggest, most ferocious-looking firearm she’d ever seen. It looked like a small cannon.

  “I don’t think I could lift that thing, much less fire it.”

  “I doubt you’ll have to.”

  He pointed the muzzle toward the floor and kind of pumped a wooden cylinder along the part of the barrel. The distinctive ratcheting sound it made caused her stomach to clench in fear. Elisa cringed and knotted the edge of the sheet between her fingers.

  Storm set the safety on the powerful weapon and lowered it to the floor. “You know that reaction you just had? That’s one of the most recognizable sounds in the world. And, believe me, no man in his right mind wants to come up against a woman with a loaded shotgun.”

  She shook her head, doubt written all over her face. “I was really thinking of something smaller. Like a .357 Magnum.”

  He pointed to the doorway, about six feet away. “Someone’s who isn’t familiar with firearms could be right where you are, aim for that door and miss it. Easily. But if that bastard’s anywhere in the house when you fire that twelve-gauge, you have a good chance of getting him. More important, he’ll know that and will probably hightail back to the swamp.”

  Against her better judgment, Elisa let him talk her into keeping the shotgun. He spent another twenty minutes showing her how to work the weapon. When he was finished, he laid it on the bed beside her.

  Although she still didn’t like the evil-looking beast, at least she was fairly certain she could defend herself without blowing off her own foot.

  After warning her several times that he would lock all the doors behind him and call out loudly upon his return, Storm left for the half-hour hike back to the hotel.

  She kept her hand on the smooth wooden stock and listened for unusual noises. The old cottage creaked and groaned as the wet wood siding started drying after the storm’s ravages.

  The hurricane was past, and she was truly grateful, but the aftermath of moist, hot air was almost unbearable in the small guest room. And she didn’t dare open a window.

  Looking up, she spied a narrow strip of compact windows running along the edge of the ceiling behind the bed. Since they were far too small to allow a grown man entrance into the house, she cautiously stood up in the bed and eased one open. Soothing fresh air billowed into the room, along with the tangy scent of the ocean.

  Ah…She drank in the salty fragrance. Better. Much better.

  Once she settled back against her pillow, her sharp hearing picked out the magnificent sound of the waves crashing into the rocks that lined the shore. She sighed. What a wonderful, completely peaceful spot he had chosen for his refuge. But a strong, vibrant man, with his desperately needed talents, shouldn’t be imprisoned on a lonely island. He should be back at work, using all the impressive skills he’d trained so hard to develop. Too many hurting children needed his help.

  But Storm wasn’t ready to let go of the hurt he’d been nursing for so long. He was so raw that the pain oozed openly from his wound, but still he wouldn’t share his heartache. And she wouldn’t settle for a man who couldn’t share his pain, as well as his happiness.

  Intimacy between lovers shouldn’t be confined to the bedroom. A hot flush glowed on her cheeks when she realized how easily she’d thought of Storm as her lover. Her subconscious hadn’t said, “if” they became lovers; the thought had burst forth like an accomplished fact.

  Elisa was so lost in her troublesome thoughts that she scarcely noticed the passage of time. Suddenly, she sat up, startled by a metallic clicking sound from the front of the house. Her heart thumped wildly, keeping time with the pulsing blood in her ankle.

  Easing her hand around the stock, she pulled the shotgun onto her lap.

  The front door creaked open, and heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor.

  Her hands trembling like small leaves in a gale, she raised the weapon, trying to remember the exact spot between her arm and chest where Storm had shown her to position the shotgun. Tiny rivulets of perspiration ran down the side of her face. She didn’t want to have to fire this weapon. Didn’t want to take another life. But she wasn’t willing to surrender her own, either.

  Heavy masculine footsteps reverberated across the hardwood flooring in the great room.

  She snicked off the safety.

  “Oh, my God! Elisa, it’s me! Don’t shoot. Ca
n you hear me?” He sounded more frightened than she was. “I forgot to yell from the door. Put the safety back on and lay down the shotgun. Gently!”

  More than happy to comply, she gently lowered it onto the bed. “I heard you,” she called. “The gun’s down. I was afraid to unpump it, though.”

  “Elisa?” He peeked around the door frame.

  She smiled. “Just call me Ma Barker. Boy, you were sure right. Just the sound of this gun is enough to scare a pack of thieves. You ought to see your face.”

  “I’m not sure I like the comparison, but you did exactly what I told you.” He stepped across the room and disarmed the weapon, keeping the barrel pointed to the floor. When he’d finished, he stuck it inside the closet.

  Crossing back to the bed, he examined her ankle and the two bruised lumps on her head. After pronouncing her nearly healed, he said, “Now that you’ve had a couple days of Miriam’s wonderful food, are you ready for some real simple grub?”

  Her stomach growled in timely response. “Right now I think I’d settle for a seaweed salad.”

  “Don’t set your expectations so high. I’m a miserable chef—can’t even manage a barbecue. But I’ll see what I can scratch up.”

  While Storm was whistling like Happy the dwarf in the kitchen, Elisa limped into the bathroom. Because his cabin had its own cistern, there was plenty of water. None of it, however, was hot. He’d mentioned earlier that it was best to keep the gas turned off until the power company gave the okay.

  Still, after sweltering in this unseasonable heat for the past few days, the cool—actually chilly—bathwater was a welcome treat. After freshening up, she dabbed on a touch of makeup, wrapped her long hair in a chignon and donned the flower-print sundress he’d brought back from the hotel.

  She caught her reflection in the mirror and grinned. Elisa looked and felt like a new woman.

  Opening the bathroom door, she was immediately caught up by a wonderful aroma started wafting down the hall. Obviously, Storm had downplayed his culinary abilities. Following the tantalizing aroma to the kitchen, she paused at the door. Still whistling, he was chopping radishes and tossing them into a wooden salad bowl.

  He looked perfectly at home performing the small domestic chores, unlike most of the men she’d dated in the city. Most of them thought romaine grew in salad bars.

  “Smells wonderful,” she said.

  He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “I warned you, don’t get your hopes up.”

  Despite his dire predictions, the simple fare of steamed crab legs—compliments of Miriam’s freezer—and tossed green salad was delicious. Her stomach was already protesting when Elisa dunked a last succulent chunk of crab into the drawn butter. Wiping her mouth on the paper towel he’d provided, she declared, “Enough! I couldn’t hold another bite.”

  Storm glanced at her empty plate, and at the saucer heaped with crab shells. “Glad to see you could choke it down. How about some coffee? Or would you like more wine?”

  Actually, she’d gotten the tiniest buzz from the two glasses she’d already had, and she wasn’t ready to give up the soft, glorious feeling. “Maybe another drop of wine, but that’s my limit.”

  He gathered up the empty plates. “I’ll make a deal with you. You go find a CD or cassette that plays nice, relaxing music, and I’ll bring your wine in the living room.”

  “You got a deal.”

  Count Basie was tinkling the ivories in the background when Storm carried two glasses and a fresh bottle of chardonnay into the living room.

  “I only wanted a drop,” she protested.

  “How am I supposed to get you drunk and have my wicked way with you if you won’t cooperate?”

  “Guess you’ll just have to get creative.”

  He pointed to the sofa. “Why don’t you lie down right there?”

  “Uh, I know I said creative, but could you add subtle to your repertoire?”

  He chuckled and grabbed a couple of throw pillows off the floor. “Actually, I want you to elevate that ankle some more.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a hint of agitation. Keeping her back turned, so that he wouldn’t see the disappointment on her face, she climbed onto the sofa and stretched out her legs.

  Storm seemed willing to take the game just so far before withdrawing. His continued strategy of advance, then retreat, kept Elisa off balance and confused.

  After propping Elisa’s newly wrapped ankle on a throw pillow, he handed her a glass of the golden wine and hunkered down on the floor next to her. As he sipped slowly, his fingers plucked at the worn tweed fabric of the sofa. She felt as if he was trying to broach something important, but couldn’t find the right opening words.

  Finally he set his glass on the chunk of burled redwood that served as a coffee table. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the frayed thread he’d been picking. “This morning you said that I had no business telling you to face up to your past when I couldn’t do it myself.”

  “But I was mad, I—”

  He held up his hand, shutting off her protest. “You were right. So I thought maybe I could tell you and…unload a little.”

  When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Anyway, I think I mentioned that Karen and I were living in New York. We’d just moved from Baltimore, where I had a pretty good deal at Johns Hopkins. But when I was offered the position as head of the children’s psychiatric section at University Hospital, I leaped at the chance. I’d finally be able to focus on the very issue that had led me into psychiatry in the first place—abused and troubled children.”

  Elisa sipped her wine. “I can certainly understand. Nothing is more satisfying than being able to fulfill a lifelong goal.”

  Storm nodded. “Karen certainly didn’t understand. She was unhappy with my decision, although, like the perfect wife she’d always been, she let me decide for myself. Actually, Karen wasn’t into making decisions. She didn’t like heavy responsibility. Anyway, once we moved to New York I was so wrapped up in my new job that I didn’t notice when her depressive symptoms developed. She had the disorder for years, and was treated by an excellent doctor in Baltimore who kept her episodes pretty much under control. I’d assumed that she’d hooked up with another clinic in New York, but…”

  Elisa finished for him. “But she didn’t.”

  “No. I knew how she hated change, how she’d put off making the smallest decision until it was impossible to avoid it any longer. I should have taken the initiative myself. Except she never wanted to be treated by someone I recommended. It made her feel too vulnerable, like she thought we’d discuss her case or something.”

  Elisa set her glass on the coffee table, and looked down at Storm’s tousled chestnut hair. She longed to take him in her arms and comfort him, but knew this was something he had to do alone. Purge his pain, once and for all. “What happened then?”

  “After a few weeks, even I noticed the signs. She wouldn’t get out of bed all day. Wouldn’t shower unless I made her. Textbook symptoms of acute depression. Anyway, I got a referral for an excellent doctor who wasn’t affiliated with our hospital, and made Karen an appointment. She didn’t keep it. But I didn’t find out until much later. I was furious with her.”

  “I can imagine,” she said. “It’s frustrating when someone could help themselves so easily, but won’t make the effort.”

  He nodded. “I’ve never really worked with adult depression or bipolar disorder. The few depressed kids I see are usually that way because of their situation. It’s more hopelessness than anything else. But with Karen’s illness, she was too far gone to help herself. Anyway, I made a second appointment and blocked off time from work so I could take her myself.”

  Elisa was silent, feeling instinctively that he was finally approaching the heart of the matter.

  “I was too late,” he said, his voice breaking with unshed tears. “When I went home that afternoon to pick her up, she was lying in bed. Cold. She was so cold. I guess she’d hoarded pills for years. She’
d swallowed about a hundred and fifty different narcotics and over-the-counter medications.”

  “Oh, Storm, that’s just awful. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He laughed ruefully. “I’m sorry, too. But my wife is still dead.”

  “But that wasn’t your fault! You did everything possible to help her.”

  “That’s what I’d tell you if you were a patient, but it simply doesn’t hold true for me.”

  She reached down and cupped his chin, tilting his face upward. “That’s not fair! You can’t set up a second standard, a much higher standard, for yourself than you would for anyone else. Give yourself a break, Storm. It wasn’t your fault.”

  But she could tell he wasn’t ready to give up the guilt that was ground into his soul like shards of glass.

  “What kind of doctor wouldn’t notice his own wife’s mental deterioration until it was too late? Answer that, Princess.” The quiet anguish in his voice brought tears to her eyes. He’d suffered so long, absorbing and hoarding guilt that wasn’t his to take. But nothing she could say would ease his burden unless he was ready to lay it down.

  What kind of doctor was he? At least ten answers came to mind, but she didn’t offer any of them. He was so intent on blaming himself that telling him not to wasn’t going to make a difference. For now, she was pleased that he trusted her enough to share his pain. Maybe time would help him erase this dark, ugly blot from his soul.

  When she didn’t answer, he unfolded his legs and strode into the kitchen, returning with the half-empty bottle of wine. He topped off his own glass and poured the remainder into hers.

  He lowered himself to the floor and sat, cross-legged, facing her. “Confession’s supposed to be good for the soul, but I feel like I just upchucked.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Doctor, I’m afraid you’re going to have to chew on some more of your own advice. Remember telling me that purging was good? Like getting your stomach pumped and removing all that poison from your system?”