Irritated, she changed the channel again, searching for anything that didn't seem vapid. Not that she would be awake much longer-she would doubtless fall asleep in the chair the way she did nearly every night-but she wasn't ready to succumb to sleep just yet.
When she clicked over to a Clint Eastwood movie she gave the remote a breather. Eastwood was just about the only legitimate old-time movie star left on the planet and she had always liked looking at him. Even as he aged he was still interesting to watch.
Within minutes, her eyelids grew heavy and her head slowly lolled to one side. Half aware, Martha shifted to get more comfortable, listening to Eastwood's throaty growl.
The phone jerked her awake. It jangled a tinny melody that she preferred to an old-fashioned ring-usually. This late at night it was intrusive and much too cheerful. Frowning, Martha rose and hurried as best she could into the kitchen, thinking it must be TJ, checking up on her, but by the time she picked it up, there was nothing on the other end. Hitting the ‘Flash' button several times, she could not raise a dial tone. The storm had knocked out the telephone line.
She'd gotten off her chair for nothing.
Standing in the kitchen, she thought about going up to bed rather than falling asleep in front of the TV. Instead, she wetted her lips with her tongue and went to the cabinet in search of the bag of Oreos she kept for just such moments. She imagined the cookies behind a special display case marked IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS and smiled.
She made herself a cup of tea, nibbling on a couple of cookies as the water came to a boil, then letting the bag steep in the hot water long enough to make the tea nice and strong. As she fished out another Oreo, a knock came at her front door. Martha jumped, startled by the sound, then glanced with a frown at the clock on the microwave. It was 10:51 P.M. What could this possibly be about?
Hurriedly discarding the used tea bag, she left her cup sitting on the counter, steam rising into the chilly air, and headed back through the living room to the front door. She knotted her eyebrows and peered at the darkened windows. Snow had accumulated on the screens and made little piles on the sills just beyond the glass. She tried to imagine who might be out and have reason to knock so late, and then she halted, five steps from the door, thinking about downed power lines and ruptured gas mains. Could there be some kind of evacuation?
The knock came again, and she thought of the phone call. Exhaling, laughing at her nervousness, she realized the only logical answer: TJ. must have tried to call to check on her and then when the line went dead he'd come out into this crazy storm, worried about her.
"You know," she said as she unlocked the door and then pulled it inward, snow flying in her face, "I really can take care of myself."
But, in truth, she could not.
And it was not her son at the door.
Cherie Manning was pissed. The power had been out for over an hour, and the way the storm had been slamming the house, she knew it would not be coming back before morning-and maybe not for a while after that. One of the trees in the backyard had already fallen over, a huge branch smashing against the cellar bulkhead. Another few feet and it might have shattered windows or even the wall.
"And where the hell is Doug?" she said into her cell phone. "Out drinking with the rest of the grease monkeys."
Curled up on the sofa with a thick blanket, talking with her best friend, Angela, she watched the way the candlelight played across the glass of the windows. She knew there were drafts in the little house she and Doug had bought in the fall, thinking it was time to start a family, but the way the flames flickered, it seemed like something was open somewhere.
"Did you call him?" Angela asked.
Cherie rolled her eyes. She didn't want to be a bitch, but sometimes Angela could be so dense.
"Five times. He's not picking up."
"Come on, Cherie. You know how guys are. He's drinking with his buddies and watching the game. He probably left his phone in his jacket or something. Or he's not getting reception because of the storm. I tried you twice before I could even get a call through. Cell service is all screwed up tonight."
"Maybe," Cherie allowed.
"You know Doug's not half as bad as some of these guys," Angela went on. "At least you know he's not with some hooker-"
"Do I?" Cherie said.
"Oh, please! Yes, you do! He might not always have the most common sense but the big doofus loves you and that's got to count for something."
Cherie smiled and shifted under her blanket, watching the candles flicker, thinking of times she and Doug had lit candles even when there wasn't a blackout.
"It does," she admitted. "It counts for a lot. I just don't like being home alone in the dark. And I wish he'd stand up to Timmy Harpwell. The guy is such an-"
"‘Asshole,'" Angela chimed in.
"I was going to say ‘idiot,' but ‘asshole' works for me."
They both laughed. Cherie had been feeling sorry for herself, home alone in the storm. She wished now that when Doug had told her he would be out late, she had asked Angela to come over. But, of course, absurdly petite as she was-the girl still had the same body she'd had at twelve-she might have just blown away.
Barks erupted from beneath the coffee table and she jumped, heart hammering in her chest. Her little terrier bolted from beneath the table in a blur of reddish gold fur, yipping his head off.
"Oh, you little prick!" Cherie said, one hand over her chest, feeling the rapid thunder of her racing heart as she caught her breath.
"What's going on?" Angela asked.
"Brady's having a fit."
The dog stood in front of the front door, barking and sniffing. He turned to look at her and then erupted in another round of lunatic barks, edging closer to the door.
"What's he barking at?" Angela asked.
"No idea," Cherie said, throwing back the blanket and sitting up.
She wore an old, faded green Coventry High T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. Her red hair up in a ponytail and no makeup at all, she was not prepared for visitors, so she prayed that this wasn't Doug bringing one of the guys home from the garage. She could see it now, one of his buddies too drunk to drive in the blizzard, ending up sleeping on her sofa.
"Ange, honey, let me go. I think this might be Doug."
"If it's not, call me back. I'm bored."
"At least you still have power," Cherie said, walking to the door. "I'll talk to you later."
They said their good nights and Cherie ended the call. Brady kept barking, his nails scritch-scratching against the small rectangle of tiles by the front door. Cherie unlocked the door and opened it, hugging herself against the frigid air that swept in. Even the streetlights were out, but she could see there was no car in the driveway or on the street in front of the house.
Barking, Brady darted past her legs and squeezed out through the six-inch gap she'd opened.
"Damm it," Cherie snapped. "Come back here, you spaz!"
But there was no stopping the little dog. Brady rocketed down the steps and into the snow. It was so deep that he was practically lost, jumping and barking and spinning in circles as the wind swept brutally across the yard.
"Shit," she whispered. "Brady, please, come on! Get inside!"
For a moment she held out hope, but the dog just kept barking. She sighed, getting more irritated by the moment, and slipped her feet into the boots she'd kicked off by the door earlier in the day. Still clutching her cell phone, she stepped out into the storm, realizing immediately that it had been a mistake to come out-even for a minute-without a jacket.
The cold bit into her alabaster skin and her teeth chattered.
"Come on, baby," she said, descending the few steps to reach the dog.
It seemed like at least a foot had fallen already and she winced as the driving snow pelted her face. The cold sank its teeth into her, digging all the way down to her bones. Cherie started across the lawn, boots sinking deeply into the heavy, wet snow. The wind struck her so hard that she staggered, trying to keep her balance, and as it whipped past her ears she almost thought she could hear a voice, a hushed whisper.
Brady paused his barking, cocking his head, ears at attention. He seemed to be staring at her as he took a snow-shuffling step backward. Flakes had built up on his snout and now the wind drove against the little dog hard enough to ruffle his fur.
The wind whispered to her again and this time Cherie turned, eyes narrowed against the storm. In the blinding whiteness she could make out the warm lights inside her house, and that just pissed her off more. She spun on the dog, took a step toward him, and Brady erupted into a fresh round of barking. Cherie knew all his tones, just as a mother knows the difference in cries of hunger or panic or pain in her infant, but these were new to her, a plaintive, frantic barking that tugged at her heartstrings. If not for the storm she would have wanted to grab the dog up and snuggle with him, give him comfort. Right now, she just wanted to kick his ass.
"That's it!" she said, slogging toward him, turning her face away from the stinging brutality of the storm.
The dog barked fiercely, backing up, trying to elude her. When she was nearly upon him, he turned to try to run, but could not move quickly in the deepening snow, and Cherie snatched him into her arms.