She looked at me for a few seconds, and I tried to project calm, reassurance, and confidence. But after thirty-odd years, I should have known better than to try fooling her. She nodded slightly, and I could see her jaw clench.
"Let's continue this back at the house," Michael said. "Can you walk?"
"No, dear," she said. "I think I must have done something unfortunate to my ankle."
I twitched up the hem of her skirt and took a look. Yes, unfortunate was a good word; the ankle had swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I also noticed that she wore the battered remains of a pair of high-heeled leopard-print sandals.
"Good grief," I said. "It's no wonder you hurt yourself, wearing these things. Why didn't you put on a pair of sneakers or something? Something practical you could walk in."
"I walked all over Paris in these," she said. "They're the most practical ones I have with me."
"You should have borrowed a pair of mine."
"At least these fit," she retorted. She had a point; her feet were three sizes smaller than mine. But still…
"We'll have to carry her," I said, turning to Michael.
Just then a wave, slightly larger than the rest, lapped over Mother's foot.
"I think I'm ready to leave now," she said, clutching Michael's hand.
I couldn't help thinking, as we half-pulled, half-carried Mother home, how much easier it had been with Resnick--even though he'd been a deadweight and Mother helped as much as she could. But the storm had gotten so much worse in the last couple of hours. And then again, we didn't have to worry about hurting Resnick; Mother was fighting back tears of pain by the time we finally staggered up the front steps of Aunt Phoebe's cottage.
Mrs. Fenniman leapt up from the couch when we sloshed into the living room.
"Good heavens, Margaret," she exclaimed. "I thought you were upstairs napping!"
"Napping?" Mother snapped back. "Napping, with James out there in the storm, and for all we know--" She stopped, and settled for frowning at Mrs. Fenniman.
"Well, what do you two have to say for yourselves?" Mrs. Fenniman said, turning on us. "Have you managed to find anyone?"
"We haven't found Dad, we haven't found Aunt Phoebe, and someone knocked off Victor Resnick," I said.
"Knocked off?" Mrs. Fenniman exclaimed. "As in murdered?"
"Oh my God," Mother murmured. "You should be out looking for your father."
"That's what we've been doing," I said. "But we can't possibly do any good right now; we'll go out again in the morning, assuming the storm has let up and there's a ghost of a chance of finding him without killing ourselves in the process."
"But we can't just leave him out there in the storm!" she protested, blinking back tears.
"Mother, he has his knapsack," I said. "Which means he's got supplies--food, water, Gatorade, flares, a flashlight, a first-aid kit, and even that silver blanket that's supposed to help you retain ninety-five percent of your body heat. He's got everything he needs to survive."
Except, of course, for the common sense that would have kept him from venturing out into the storm in the first place, but I wasn't going to bring that up.
Just then, the front door burst open and Rob stumbled in, bringing a gust of wind and spray with him. He had to struggle to close the door, then leaned against it, panting.
"It's impossible out there," he said finally. I glanced at Mother's face and had to look away.
"Come on, let's get you patched up," Mrs. Fenniman said, helping Mother toward the stairs. Mother stopped at the bottom step and fixed me with her sternest glance. She looked at me for a full minute, as if it were my fault Dad had gone off on another crazy expedition.
"First thing in the morning," she said. And then she shook off Mrs. Fenniman and limped up the stairs by herself, leaning heavily on the banister all the way.
Michael, Rob, and I fetched dry clothes and they chivalrously insisted I take first turn in the shower. I would have loved to stand under the spray for an hour, until I felt really warm again, but I knew the meager hotwater supply would barely let all three of us wash off our coatings of mud.
"I suppose I should fix something for us to eat," I said, slumping on the couch as I dried my hair.
"I'll do it after my shower," Michael said.
"Leave the cooking to me," Mrs. Fenniman said. "You come and tell me about the murder."
"Dinner sounds like a good idea," Rob said, disappearing into the bathroom. "I'll be out in half an hour."
"Don't you dare use all the hot water, Rob," I called. "Leave some for Michael."