Ali ran blindly through the pitch-black forest, going so fast she barely felt the trees as they picked at her bare arms. It wasn't until she finally reached the road higher up the hill that she even thought to put her coat on. The wind was rougher away from the trees, the storm now beating down on the night like a hurricane’s son. Ali could barely hear her own thoughts.
Standing for a moment to get her bearings, she looked down both ends of the street for any cars. In this town, if someone passed her, they would certainly stop, but she would need to make sure it wasn't Grant before she approached them. Although, it seemed tonight everyone had the good sense to stay indoors.
Overhead, the sky opened like a cracked bathtub. Ali thought this night couldn't possibly get any worse, but that was until she’d walked barely ten minutes and had to take her heels off. The wet, gravelly road wasn’t as bad as the shoes rubbing on her blisters. But by the time she reached a familiar house—that she knew was just around the corner from home—the road had worn deep cuts into the balls of her toes. She walked on the sides of her feet, pushing against the wild wind as it shoved her and knocked her about, ripping her coat open and lifting her skirt so high the lightning could see her undies. As her hair whipped around her face, it stung her eyes, and the rain came down like a waterfall on her icy, feverish skin, making every step into it feel like needles. It seemed the higher into the hills she walked, the worse the storm got.
An earth-shattering crack seemed to split the air then and she saw a sharp beam of white cut the sky somewhere near her house, the light from it so vivid it lit up the entire street and made Ali realize she almost passed the shortcut home.
With sticks jamming between her toes and clay sticking to the grazes on every step, she wadded through the patch of forest and up onto the base of Hamilton Street to her cul-de-sac. It wasn't until another flash of lightning illuminated the sky that she noticed Sam running toward her house.
It went dark again, every light in the street out, including all the ones that normally lit up the town, so Ali didn’t see just how panicked Sam was as he ran, and she didn’t see why he was rushing to her house in the first place.
He stopped outside of the house and put both hands on his head, face folding in an ugly grimace as a cold rush of fear immobilized his chest. He screamed out her name, but it was useless. Anyone could see it. Any idiot knew she wouldn’t answer. Her bed was right under that window—just a flimsy wooden wall and a glass pane separating her fragile little body from the ancient old tree, now laying on the house. Sam thought about all the horrible things he’d ever said to her and how sweet she’d looked in those red boots the other night, and as much as he wanted to run up the unstable foundations of that house and see if she was still breathing, he just knew better than that. He knew she was gone. How could she possibly be alive?
Sam’s legs almost gave out when the power came back on, forcing him to compose himself as a few people crept from their homes, looks of devastation washing over their faces when they saw the house. No one saw Ali walking like a zombie up the street behind them. No one saw her stop dead when she noticed the tree, bent from the base of the trunk and laying hard on the bowed remains of what once was her bedroom. That entire wing looked shaky, ready to collapse, like the way Ali felt right now.
Shock and heartbreak mingled with her exhaustion, making it hard to even cry right now. She approached Sam cautiously, knowing what he was thinking—that she’d been sleeping when that tree hit—and it was obvious that appearing behind him suddenly would scare the daylights out of him. Clearly, he wasn't as angry at her as he played it, given his current state of devastation.
“Sam,” she said softly.
He spun around and his eyes cracked wide with another flash of lightning. “Ali. Are you okay? What happened, where have you been?”
She stumbled a few steps and he grabbed her arms. She was so numb and cold and tired and sick that she didn’t feel herself tip back for a moment before Sam caught her.
“Where have you been?” he asked again, bending to pick her up.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, everything coming into focus again. “Don't fuss. Please.”
“Don't be silly, you look like death warmed over.” He lifted her wet, lightweight body with ease and as the rain started up again, called out to Di to say he had Ali and she was okay.
Di ran over. “Is she alright—”
“She’s fine,” he said calmly, making up a lie for the next bit. He was intuitive enough to know something had happened to Ali tonight, but that she obviously didn’t want anyone to fuss over her. “She fell asleep downstairs on the couch and came out when she heard the tree fall.”
“Oh my goodness, look at her, she’s a wreck.”
Ali smiled to reassure Di. “I’m okay. A few things fell on me and I ripped my tights when I ran out on the road, but I’m fine,” she lied, not ready to admit what really happened.
Di nodded. “Well you go on inside, you two. I’ll speak to the boys from the fire department when they get here.”
Ali grinned at Di, and Di gave her a knowing wink. If there was one thing in this world Di liked more than cooking, it was men in uniform.
Sam didn't say a word as he carried Ali inside and up the stairs to the room right where hers was in her own house. He put her on the bed and wrapped a blanket around her, bending down to light the shared fireplace that sat between this room and what she assumed was his bedroom.
As the thunder rolled outside and the rain came down hard, Ali was just so glad not to be out there anymore that she wanted to cry. The warmth of the room burned her icy skin and her chest shook so hard she couldn’t say for sure if it was the chill or the anger and hurt inside her.
Sam looked up as she started crying. He obviously didn't want to ask her what happened but there seemed to be a sort of duty to.
He sat on the bed and pulled her toward him, letting her tears fall onto his wet T-shirt. “Please talk to me, Ali.”
“I’m… I’m just so ashamed, Sam.”
“Why?” His arm tightened around her.
“I feel like an idiot. You were right,” she added with a nod, sitting up to wipe her face with two cold hands. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot. I was out of line—”
“No, you were right. How did I not see it? How did—”
When the penny dropped, Sam shuffled away as if she was diseased. “You were out with Grant tonight?”
Ali nodded, pouting. “You can hate me. You were right. If I was that stupid, I deserve everything that—”
“What did he do to you?” He grabbed both of her arms and spun the top half of her body to face him. “Tell me now, Ali—”
“Nothing.” She sniffled, clamming up. “We had a fight. He kicked me out and I had to walk home.”
“And that’s all?” He studied her eyes carefully.
Ali needed to think. She wasn’t really sure what had happened now, and under alcohol, pills, and exhaustion, she just couldn’t bear to bathe in someone else’s anger, so she said yes. Grant did nothing other than be a jerk.
Sam looked relieved—so relieved that Ali knew he’d have believed her if she told him what happened with the pills. Sam had obviously met that side of Grant and she was glad she didn’t tell him. This guy was sweet, but also quick-tempered. One word from her, no matter how much Sam hated Ali, and Grant would be toast. But that wouldn’t stop Grant or see him charged, it would only get Sam in trouble and make her look like a liar.
“Can I run you a bath?” Sam asked sweetly, looking down the length of her. “You’re a mess.”
Ali laughed. “That would be great. And don’t suppose you have any cold and flu pills, do you?”
Sam smiled softly, sympathetically. “No, but I can go into town and get you some.”
No Place Like Home
The fever consumed Ali. She tossed and turned all that stormy night, only vaguely aware of the man in pajama pants and a T-shirt wakin
g her to bring a straw to her mouth. At one point, she stirred to his hand brushing her hair smoothly off her face, soothing her back to sleep, but when she opened her eyes there was no one there and she could hear Sam snoring in the room beside her.
When the sun peeked in through the curtains with the promise of a new and better day, Ali shut her eyes tightly and pulled the covers over her head. Last night had been a disaster, but in some small and sick way she had Grant to thank for saving her life. Had she been at home, she’d be dead right now.
A deep chime from downstairs announced the late hour of the morning, and though she knew Sam’s car left his driveway promptly at six in the morning and two on delivery days, returning at five before setting off again at seven, she could still hear him downstairs. Her throat felt like a basket of needles and the fever was claiming her limbs again, making them shake, even under the cozy blanket. Still, feeling as awful as she did, Ali couldn’t help but smile at Sam when he walked in.
“Mother’s chicken soup,” he announced proudly, placing a tray on her nightstand.
Ali sat up a bit, stiff and aching all over, and Sam helped fix the pillows at her back before setting the tray down on her lap. He’d loaded a bowl with garlic and chicken soup, a plate of buttered bread, and a glass of water with two magic pills. Ali popped them down, swallowing the water over the razor blades in her throat, and sat back for a moment, already exhausted.
Sam moved around to the other side of the bed and sat down. He pressed his hand to her brow and scrunched his face in consideration. When he turned to the nightstand and picked up a stethoscope, Ali nearly fell out of bed.
“What are you doing with that? Did you get a medical degree last night while I was sleeping?”
Sam laughed, putting the tool in his ears. “I used to be an EMT,” he stated, shifting her shirt aside at the neck a little to listen to her chest. He wasn't awkward or weird about being so invasive, Ali noted. He was professional and it made her feel more comfortable with it, and less mortified that he’d helped her into one of his shirts last night when she fell asleep in her towel on the bed. She tried not to breathe into his face too much as he leaned so close, but she kept taking deep ones just to absorb the smell of him.
“When?” Ali asked.
“When what?”
“When were you an EMT?”
“About… uh…” He cast his eyes off to the right to think. “Must be twenty years ago now.”
“Wow.” Ali sat back against the squishy pillows. “So, how does my chest sound?”
“It’s okay, but I’d like to check your ears and throat too.”
Ali purposefully tasted her saliva to see if she had morning breath. That, plus sick breath and alcohol breath, would be enough to send him to China to get away from her. “Later, okay?”
“Eat then.” He tapped the tray. “And I’ll pop next door and see what was salvaged from the wreckage.”
That word sent a shock wave through her. She almost pushed the tray off her lap as she sat up. “My manuscript!”
“Your what?”
“My manuscript. It was almost finished,” cried the quiver in her voice. “I typed it up on a typewriter. It was the only copy I had.”
“It’ll be okay.” Sam firmly held her forearm, smothering her with calm. “If it got damaged by the rain, we can dry it out.”
Ali felt certain, looking into his eyes, that everything would be okay, so she nodded and sat back again, trying not to cry.
“Eat, okay?” Sam insisted, bringing his eyes to her level. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.” When Sam closed the door, Ali looked down at the soup and cried anyway. Her face was blotchy and red, and she could hardly breathe by the time Sam walked in again.
He held up a stack of only slightly wet pages, and smiled. “It’s safe.”
As relieved as Ali suddenly felt, a new wave of worry dried her tears instantly. “Did you read any of it?”
“What do you take me for?” he said with a laugh. “I know better than that.”
“You do?”
He nodded, placing the manuscript and her laptop on the bed, which had both been on the counter downstairs and not on the desk in her room, where they usually sat. “My mother was a writer.”
“Wow.” Ali sat up and actually thought about eating some soup. “Would I have read anything she wrote?”
“Not likely. She lived in Poland when she wrote. None of her books were translated.” He sat down on the end of the bed, one hand on either side of her ankles, his body turned to face her. “How are you feeling now?”
“I’m… I’m better now.”
“Good.” He nodded, but it seemed like he had something to say.
“Spill it, Sam.”
“Huh?” He looked up guiltily.
“What is it? What do you have to tell me?”
“Uh… The foundation is unstable, Ali. Even when they pull the tree back, the house isn’t safe. I have to terminate your lease.”
Ali felt her own foundation rock. That house was the inspiration for her story. How would she possibly finish it if she had to go back to the hotel?
“I’ve got to go call Mrs. Denver,” Sam said, cupping her ankle in that calm, comforting manner of his. “Will you be okay?”
“Sure.” Ali nodded. “Um, did you happen to find my phone over there?”
“Yeah.” He got up and reached out the door and into the bags he’d brought up with him. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Ali dialed her sister’s number, waiting until Sam left the house before she wailed loudly about almost everything that happened—leaving out the bits that would result in her sister calling the police on Ali’s behalf. Mel was horrified but so glad Ali was okay, and insisted that she come home immediately.
“I can’t,” Ali explained. “My novel—”
“Your novel can write itself for all I care, Al. I miss you, and—”
“I know. But I can’t leave yet.” And she couldn't admit that a big part of that decision was based on the feelings she was developing for Sam. How could she not, after how great he’d been? She wasn't ready to fall in love with him or anything, but she sure as hell wanted to ask him out on a date. “I’m gonna call the hotel and get my room back. You guys can come out here to see me if you like—”
“You met someone?” Mel said, her voice pitching high on the end.
“Huh?”
“Oh my lord! You met someone. You're falling in love. I know you are, I can tell! Is it Mr. Charming?”
Ali knew Mel wouldn't call him that if she told her “Mr. Charming” had made her walk home in a storm. And that he’d tried to drug her. “No. And no. There’s no one.”
“Oh, you big fat liar!”
Ali laughed. “Okay, so maybe I met someone. But I’m not falling in love—”
“Liar. I know that tone.”
“Yeah, well…” Ali huffed, hating her easy heart. “I like him a lot. But I haven't even been on a date with him and we’re only just on speaking terms, so—”
“So it’s new-new.”
“Like just-drove-off-the-lot new,” Ali said.
“Well, all right then. Charlie and I will drive down to you for Christmas, and you can introduce us to this new guy. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” Ali squeaked, coughing up half a lung after.
“You better go rest. Take care okay, sis?”
“I will. Love you.”
“You too.”
After a few sips of—rather amazing—soup to ease the burn in her throat, Ali called the hotel and requested her old room. It took three different conversations and ten minutes to determine that her room had been rented out, and twenty minutes later she was finally told that all rooms were rented out until late-November. After making a tentative booking for the 20th, Ali hung up the phone and sat there staring at the wall, lip quivering. She would have to go home until then, and once she did, she wouldn’t bother returning. What would be the point? Her story
would have died, lost its momentum, and none of it would matter in the same way. The magic would be lost. She’d be a failure and her headstone would read: Alice Mary Beaumont. Single. Responsible for the Missing Souls series. Never did redeem herself.
Sam walked in just as she buried her face to cry. She stopped herself and instead pretended to be coughing, but he knew better.
“I have three sisters,” he stated, shutting the door.
“And?”
“And I can tell when a girl is about to cry.” He sat down on a chair that he pulled from under the desk, leaning forward with his hands clasped. “What’s wrong?”
Ali pouted, sniffling. “The hotel’s all booked out.”
“Well, I could have told you that.” Sam laughed. “It’s Leaf Peeper season. They’re booked solid for months in advance.”
“But even the honeymoon suite is booked.”
“Well, so?” He shook his head, unclear why that made her so sad.
“I can’t get a room for a few weeks, and that means I’ll have to go home, and my entire novel is based on that house and if I can’t stay there then the magic will die, and I’ll be a failure again.”
If Ali expected sympathy from Sam, she knew nothing about him. He laughed loudly instead, his white teeth showing as he rocked back a little. “Ali, don't be such an idiot. You can stay here.”
She stopped sobbing and looked at him. “I… really?”
“Of course,” he said with a nod, resting one palm on his upper thigh and bending his elbow out. “This house is exactly the same as Mrs. Denver's, in case you hadn't noticed. It might not have the same magic, but—”
“No, it does.” She nodded, eyes wide. “It really does. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Well then, it’s settled.” He nodded once and stood up.
“And Sam?” Ali called as he went for the door.
“Hm?” He looked back at her.
“It’s just until the end of November. I won’t stay any longer than that, I swear.”
Dead and Gone Page 10
