Looking out the windows toward the ocean, Tom saw the winds were blowing in a huge squall. Witnessing the storm’s beginning, he sat mesmerized as the black clouds rolled across the darkening sky. Lightning flashed in electric zigzags from the clouds’ dark centers, striking downward into the tumultuous waves far out on the horizon. Even though the storm was still miles away, the sound of thunder boomed and shook the house. The storm was gaining strength and momentum. It wouldn’t be long before it reached shore.
Not hearing Joe come into the room, Tom jumped when Joe said his name. “Sorry to startle you, Tom. Quite a storm. It’s gonna get nasty real quick by the look of those clouds.” He pointed out the window. "Want me to close the shutters? The winds get incredibly strong here, it’s best to be prepared.”
“I’m sure you’re right, go ahead. But leave these bedroom shutters open. If it gets too bad, I’ll close them later. I like watching storms. As a kid I remember my mom franticly shouting, convinced that the lightning would strike us, even though we were inside. She’d beg me to get away from the windows. I never would though. I loved the sound of the rain pounding on the roof, the lightning flashing and lighting up the room, the thunder shaking the walls. Poor mom finally gave up trying to save me. She gathered up my sister and the pets and hid in the kitchen pantry for shelter from the ‘wrath of the heavens’ that threatened to strike us down!”
“Sounds like your mom was sensible to me.” Joe glanced out the window, flinched when a lightning bolt hit the water, sending spray high into the air. “I’ll leave these shutters open, but I’m gonna close down the rest of the house,” said Joe. “After I do that, I’m heading to town—before the rain gets too bad. If the storm doesn’t lighten up, I won’t be back till tomorrow. The ocean highway’s way too dangerous.”
“You don’t need to come back today, Joe. Don't worry about things here.”
“All right then. I have things I can take care of in town. Don’t wait too long to close the shutters, that wind can blow the windows clean out, I’ve seen it happen many times.”
“I’ll pay attention, don’t worry.” Tom’s phone rang. “Hi, Nate,” he said. They talked for about fifteen minutes while Joe checked windows and secured shutters. Tom wandered downstairs looking for Joe, who was coming in the front door.
“Got the place secured. Anything else you want me to do before I go?” Joe asked, slipping his arms into the sleeves of his parka.
“No, I can manage. I have a lot to take care of this afternoon. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
“I should be here by nine. I’ll finish checking the wiring and look around the basement. Have a list of what you need from town?” Tom pulled a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Joe. With a backward wave, Joe was gone, the door slamming with a resounding crash in a strong gust of wind.
Chapter 8
Tom grabbed a cold beer from the kitchen and snagged the kitten from his blanket in front of the fire. He deposited the kitten on the couch and opened the front door. Bracing himself against the rain and wind, he opened and secured the terrace window shutters to the house so he could watch the storm. He built a small fire in the living room and waited for the full fury of the storm to hit. Sipping from the green, heavy-glass bottle, he listened, transfixed, to the wind howling across the rocky cliffs far below. Pounding torrents of rain, driven by gale force winds, hammered the house. Huge waves crashed onto the beach with immense power, sending spray high into the air.
A bolt of lightning struck a tree not fifty feet away. Tom leapt back, almost falling. Son of a bitch! That was close. It was time to shutter the windows again. But the wind was blowing so hard and the rain pouring so forcefully, Tom decided against going out and wrestling with the living room shutters. Picking the sleeping kitten up from the couch, he retreated to the safety of the kitchen.
Tom warmed himself before the kitchen fireplace, drank another beer. “A hot shower might relax me. Maybe the storm will be over by the time I’m out.” The kitten opened one eye, curled into a ball and dismissed Tom with a flick of his fluffy tail.
Though the storm had lessened somewhat when Tom came back downstairs, the thunder still rumbled, and the rain continued beating against the windows. Opening another beer, he carried it to the living room. As he stared vacantly into the fire, a horrible sense of despondency settled over him. He was alone—for the first time in his life—utterly alone.
“Well, Tom,” he said out loud, “are you going to sit here feeling sorry for yourself?” He downed half of his beer, got up and began pacing the floor. He saw his reflection in the storm darkened, living room window. “You look pathetic.” He took another drink. “Man, get over her. Elise is dead. Dead and buried. Dead and gone. Dead, as in pushing up daisies. Dead as a doornail. Dead. Dead. Dead!” He swigged his beer. “Need I say more? Thought not,” he chuckled, toasting his reflection with his beer.
“She drove you crazy. Remember? It was a hell of a lousy time. The worst you could conceivably experience. And man, you can’t go there again. No more loony bins for you. Face the music, move on. Right?” He argued with himself, alternately angry, then sad.
Tom knew it to be undeniably true. Elise was dead . . . but . . . a part of him was unwilling, perhaps unable, to let her go, to truly believe her gone forever. “How do I let her go?” Finishing his beer, he hurled the empty bottle into the fireplace relishing the splintering of glass, the hiss of liquid hitting the hot coals. He stared searchingly into the flames.
Crossing to the bar, he poured himself a shot of vodka from the crystal decanter. Tom turned back to his reflection in the darkened window, watched himself down his drink in one swallow. He spoke to his mirrored image, “You have to deal with the truth if you’re ever going to get over her.” He pointed his finger at his reflection. “It has to come to this, of course—this sad realization. Your love for Elise became your obsession. You wanted to possess her, she wouldn’t let you. You broke her spirit, held her soul hostage and made her hate you. You wouldn’t—couldn’t— let her go. She was your heart. Your soul. You were afraid of losing her.
“When you realized she no longer could love you, you killed her—as if by your own, bare hands. You snuffed the life out of her, took away her will to go on living. That’s what you did. How can you ever forgive yourself?” He turned from his haunting image, got another drink.
He whispered into the empty room, “Elise—my only love—you hated me so much you would rather die than stay with me. I did that to you. You took your own life—but the blood is on my hands. That is what I have to live with.” Tom dropped onto the edge of the couch and stared at the floor. “Forgive me.” A brilliant bolt of lightning lit the dark room, followed by a rumbling of thunder that shook the walls and the floor. Tom did not notice.
Chapter 9
On the night Elise died, Tom held her in his arms. His fingers gently stroked her golden curls, caressed her pale cheeks; he gazed into her unfocused, brown eyes. He watched her take her last breath, watched her eyes close for the last time. Begging her to forgive him his selfishness, he pleaded with her to understand, to believe he never meant his love to be a punishment.
Whether she understood, or even heard him, he did not know. She died quietly—never granting him final acknowledgment that she even knew he was there. All night he held her—not able to understand that she was dead, only glad to be holding her so closely. In the warmth of his arms, she was very much alive that long, quiet winter night. Elise, his cherished wife, was his again. He clung to her, praying morning would never come.
But it did come. A cold, sunless January day dawned. No birds sang this day. There were no peals of laughter from the children in the neighborhood, only hushed silence. A heavy snow had fallen in the night, shrouding the world in a blanket of white. Few ventured out, choosing to stay inside, sheltered from the icy cold. The quiet of night continued into the morning. Lily,