Catherine Coulter - Riptide

“What do you mean?”

“My wife didn’t die. She just up and left me. She was here one day, gone the next. No word, no message, nothing at all. That was fifteen months, two weeks, and three days ago. She’s listed as a Missing Person.”

“I’m very sorry, Tyler.”

“Yeah, so am I. So is her son.” He shrugged. “We’re getting by. It gets better as the time passes.”

What an odd way to put it. Wasn’t Sam his son, too?

“The townspeople are like folk everywhere. They don’t want to believe that Ann just up and left Riptide. They’d rather think I did her in.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I agree. Now, Becca, don’t worry. Things will get better. I’m an expert at things eventually getting better, particularly when they can’t possibly get any worse.”

She sure hoped he was right. They made a date to go to the gym together the following day. His wife had just walked out-on him and on her own little boy? That had to be incredibly tough for both of them. Why did folks want to believe he’d kill her?

Three nights later, on June 26, Becca was watching TV, not to see if she was still a footnote in Governor Bledsoe’s ongoing story, but to check in on the weather again. The most violent storm to hit the Maine coast in nearly fifteen years was surging relentlessly toward them, bringing with it forecasts of fifty-mile-per-hour winds, torrential rains, and the probability of immense property damage. Everyone was warned to go to shelters, which Becca considered doing for about three minutes. No, she wasn’t about to leave. Being with other people up close and personal as one would be in a shelter would put her at greater risk of being recognized. She didn’t think many of the Mainers would even consider leaving their homes. They were incredibly tough, only nodding philosophically when discussing the incoming storm.

Becca paced the widow’s walk as the storm approached, watching the skies, the now disappearing stars as clouds blanketed them, the boats in the harbor, bobbing about in the rising waves. Then the winds suddenly increased and tore through the trees. The air turned as cold as a morning in January. When the rain finally hit, crashing down hard and fast, she was driven inside. It was just before ten o’clock at night.

The lights flickered. Becca had bought candles and matches and she set them on her bedside table. She paused to listen as the storm bludgeoned the shoreline. She heard a newscaster predict great destruction of lobster boats and pleasure craft if they hadn’t been thoroughly secured. She could imagine what the harbor looked like now, waves frothing high, whipping against the sides of the boats, probably sending water crashing over the sides.

She shivered as she pulled on a sweater and snuggled down into her bed. She kept the TV on nonstop weather coverage and looked at the light show outside her bedroom window. The thunder was deafening. The house rattled with the force of it.

The meteorologist on channel 7 said that the winds were strengthening, nearly up to sixty miles per hour now. He said people should go to official shelters away from the coast for protection. Oddly, he sounded excited. Becca still had no intention of leaving. This old house had doubtless seen its share of comparably violent storms in its hundred-year history just as the Piper Lighthouse had up the road. Both had survived. Both would survive another storm, she didn’t doubt that, although she couldn’t help but cringe as the house groaned and creaked.

Suddenly, with no warning, thunder boomed, lightning streaked through the sky, and the lights went out.

It wasn’t dark for long. The lightning and thunder kept the sky lit up for a good five minutes, without a break. She could easily read her clock. It was just after one in the morning. She finally couldn’t stand it any longer and reached for the phone, to call Tyler, but the line was dead. She stared at the receiver, then looked out her bedroom window as a huge streak of lightning lit up the sky. She felt the thunder deep in her eardrums as it boomed, almost simultaneous with the flash. It would be all right. It was only a storm. Storms in Maine were just another part of life, like the hordes of mosquitoes that occasionally blanketed a town. This was nothing to get alarmed about.

As Becca lay in the darkness, looking out the bedroom window, she swore that the winds were growing even stronger as they ravaged the land. She felt the house literally shudder around her. It shook so hard, she briefly worried that it would pull free of its foundation. A loud wrenching sound had her bolt upright in bed. No, it wasn’t anything, really. Had she come here just to be killed in a ferocious summer storm? She had wished earlier that she was closer to the ocean, listening to the waves hurling themselves against the high cliffs covered with pine trees bowed and bent from the winter winds, or beating against the clustering speared black rocks that lined the narrow cluttered beach at the end of Black Lane, a narrow, snaking little dirt road that went all the way to the ocean.

But not now. It was just as well that crashing angry waves weren’t added to the mix. She watched the lightning continue to tear through the sky, making it bright as day for long moments at a time. She felt the scoring of the thunder to her toes. It was impressive, utterly dramatic, and she was getting scared.

Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She lit the three precious candles, stuck them in the bottom of coffee mugs, and picked up the Steve Martini thriller she’d been reading until the storm had really gotten serious.

Was the storm easing up? She read a few words, then realized that she couldn’t remember the story line. This wasn’t good. She put the novel back on her nightstand and picked up the New York Times, carried only by a small tobacco shop off Poison Ivy Lane. She didn’t want to read about the attempted assassination, but she did, naturally. Page after page was devoted to the governor’s attempted murder. She was mentioned too many times.

Thunder rolled loud and deep over the house as she read: There is a manhunt for Rebecca Matlock, former speechwriter for the governor, who, the FBI says, has information about the attempt on the governor’s life.

Former speechwriter now, was she? Well, since she’d left without a word or any warning, she supposed that was fair enough.

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.

Suddenly, with no warning at all, the wind gave a howl that made the hair bristle on the back of her neck and set her teeth on edge. A flash of lightning exploded, filling the sky with a bluish light, and a crack of thunder seemed to lift the house right into the air. She nearly bit her tongue as she stared out her bedroom window. She watched the proud hemlock weave once, then heard a loud snap. The old tree wavered a moment, then went crashing to the ground. It didn’t hit the house, thank God, but some upper branches crashed into the window, loud and so scary that she leapt from the bed and ran to the closet. She crouched between a yellow knit top and a pair of blue jeans, waiting, waiting, but there was nothing more. What had happened was over with. She walked slowly back into the bedroom. Tree branches were still quivering as they settled just above a pale blue rag rug on the floor. The window was shattered, rain slithered in around the beautiful green leaves, dripping onto the floor. She stood there, staring at the huge tree branch in her bedroom, listening to another loud belt of thunder, and thought enough is enough. She didn’t want to be alone, not anymore.

She dressed and ran downstairs. She had to find something to block up the window. But there wasn’t anything except half a dozen dish towels with lighthouses on them. She ended up stuffing all her pillows around the tree branch. It worked.