"When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in." Haruki Murakami
It was early spring in the south. The earth was waking up, turning green and sprouting flowers of every hue. The birds had returned from their winter quarters and were busily building nests in trees and shrubs. On farms everywhere there were new crops of calves, foals, and lambs. Students were getting antsy as spring break approached.
There had been several days of unseasonably warm weather which, while a nice break from the cold, gray winter, made people uneasy. In the south, this was often a precursor to an outbreak of severe weather, the possibility of which was being forecast for later that day. Already, though the day was sunny, the air was a taking on an unsettling threat as clouds began to build to the southwest.
After slipping the ancient muddy sneakers from her feet, Petra Donahue stepped through the back door into the kitchen then padded quickly to the bathroom, the old wood floor creaking a bit as she passed.. Once there, she stripped and took a hasty shower, washing away that part of the garden that had clung to her, before going next to her bedroom across the hall. Once there she rummaged through the walk in closet and chose a pair of faded, comfortable jeans and a loose white cotton blouse. Minutes later she returned to the kitchen, her wild tangle of red hair confined in a ponytail and only the merest hint of makeup accentuating her cupid's bow mouth and brilliant blue eyes. She looked considerably younger than her forty-five years.
With a quick glance at the clock on the stove she began to efficiently put together the ingredients of a chef's salad. Minutes later, as she was drizzling on the raspberry walnut vinaigrette, the doorbell rang. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
Her stocking feet were nearly silent as she passed through the living room to the front door. On the other side of the storm door stood a handsome man of about thirty who, like her, was dressed casually in well fitting faded jeans and a faded black t-shirt purchased long ago during a concert by a rock band on their final tour. His mohagony brown hair hung thick and rich to his shoulders and his warm hazel eyes reflected the smile lifting the corners of his mouth. In his hand he carried a red and white insulated jug.
“Michael, hi! Come in.”
“Hello, Petra.”
Michael Jameson stepped through the door, waiting until it swung shut behind him before turning to face her again.
“I know you don't drink wine so I brought sweet tea.” He held out the jug. “Is that alright?”
Petra accepted the jug with another smile, “Yes, it is. It's perfect.”
He followed her back through the living room to the huge eat in kitchen, looking about him with interest as he went. The décor was welcoming and homey with large, comfortable looking furniture and walls decorated with photos and paintings of the indigenous nature of the region. He paused before one to admire the peacefulness of a small waterfall spilling over into a stream scattered with a few leaves from the surrounding trees.
“Did you take this?”
She glanced up from filling two glasses with ice cubes.
“Yes, I did,” she said as she began to pour tea from the jug over the cubes. “Last summer in fact.”
“It's beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She motioned toward the table, already set with etched glass salad plates and gleaming flatware, “Please, sit.”
She placed the glasses down on the table then returned for the salad before taking her seat across from him. Michael noted the distance she'd put between them without comment, but couldn't help feeling a little exasperated. This was their third date, though the first in either of their homes. Surely she was beginning to relax by now?
“Oh! I forgot the bread!” She popped back up and hurried over to the microwave where she withdrew a basket of butter basted crusty rolls. When she returned to the table he waited until she'd set the basket between their plates before taking her hand in his.
“Petra, take it easy. It's just me, remember?”
She hesitated before taking a deep breath and smiling a little shyly at him, “Yes, I know. I'm sorry.”
“No worries,” he assured her before giving her hand a gentle squeeze and releasing it.
Once she had taken her seat, they began to chat about the history of the one hundred year old farmhouse she had inherited and what had transpired since their phone conversation the day before. She told him about her latest sale of a photograph taken in the Cades Cove area of The Great Smokies, while he spoke of how busy it had been the night before during his shift as an EMT with the local rescue squad. Gradually she relaxed as she became comfortable with his presence, her warm smile and sparkling eyes replacing the tension that had met him at the door. Once again Michael was enchanted with her unconscious beauty and felt the familiar stirrings to hold her, something that she had so far denied them.
He was all too aware of her reticence being due to their age difference. It had taken him two months to convince her to go out with him, made even more difficult by the censure and catty comments that found their way to her ears from members of her church and family. He knew there were others who either supported them or who were indifferent, finding nothing untoward in their burgeoning relationship. But by virtue of blood ties and lifelong spiritual bonds she was having a much harder time with those closest to her. His frustration bordered on anger and was making it difficult to maintain his patience. He understood and, yet, he didn't. Why should the opinions of a few narrow minded people matter so much to two consenting adults who were learning to care for one another?
Once lunch was finished they lingered over their tea and a dessert of lemon bars as they shared experiences ranging from childhood memories to the books they had recently read. Eventually she stood and began clearing away their dishes, trying and failing to convince him she didn't need help. Because she didn't have a dishwasher she washed while he dried, their arms and bodies often brushing as they worked side by side. They continued to talk of inconsequential things but he couldn't help noticing that she was tensing up again, and decided the time had come to do something about it.
Petra finished rinsing out the sink, taking an inordinate amount of time to do so as she valiantly tried to bring herself under control. She had been increasingly aware of him throughout their meal and that awareness had only grown as they had stood close together, fingers often touching as he took a dish from her to dry. Close enough to continually brush against one another until it seemed her entire being was wanting nothing more than to turn to him and feel his body full against hers. There hadn't been many men in her life, and only one relationship twenty years ago that she could consider serious. She thought she had known what it was like to lust after a man, only to be supremely disappointed in the end. Michael, however, was stirring her in ways she never would have believed possible and somehow she knew he would not disappoint her, in any way. She was just so afraid that she would be the one disappointing him. How could a woman her age possibly satisfy a man such as him?
Suddenly he reached past her and turned the water off. Her breath caught as, without giving her an opportunity to dry her hands, he gently lifted her chin until her eyes met his. His voice was low and husky as his focus shifted lower.
“I think it's time we got this out of the way, don't you?”
The first touch of his lips was butterfly soft, a tender brushing that released her breath on a sigh. He drew away only far enough to watch as her eyes opened, languid with the beginnings of desire, before taking her mouth again, insistently demanding a response. And she answered, eagerly opening to him as she at last turned so she could raise her still drippings hands against his chest and allow his arms to slide around her waist. She gave him kiss for kiss, her self consciousness rapidly vanishing as passion long dormant filled her, driving her arms around his neck until his wonderfully sensual hair was meshed between her fingers. When they finally drew apart they were both breathing heavily, their hearts pounding against each other.
“Wow,” he breathed, his voice slightly hoarse. “That was certainly worth waiting for.”
He swallowed, hard, before lifting a hand to cup her flushed cheek.
“Lady, you carry quite a punch.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He drew her head down against his shoulder and held her for a long moment, giving them both time to cool off before reluctantly pulling away.
“I think I'd better go before things get out of hand.”
She noticed the darker patches on his t-shirt. “I got your shirt wet.”
He chuckled, “It's a small price to pay, believe me.”
She felt her doubts returning as she followed him through the living room to the front door then determinedly squelched them as he turned to face her.
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“They're having a showing of some of my work at the arts gallery in town next weekend. Would you like to come?”
A slow, very satisfied smile spread across his handsome face.
“I would love to .”
He gave her a quick kiss before reaching for the door.
“I'll call you tonight.”
She smiled in return, “Okay.”
Then she watched him walk away and climb into his pick up. With a last wave he backed out and drove away down the long gravel driveway leading to the main road.
In the distance, the clouds on the horizon had grown darker and more ominous as the afternoon passed. The wind was starting to pick up, causing the branches on the old oak out front to sway, but Petra barely noticed as she retreated into the house, her fingers lightly touching her smiling lips.
~
Midnight had long passed when the storm hit. The first brilliant flashes of lightening were followed closely by explosive cracks of thunder directly over the farmhouse. Petra was brought instantly awake seconds before the alert sounded from the weather radio on the chest of drawers announcing that the county was under a tornado warning and to get underground immediately. She could hear the wind gusting outside, rattling the leaded glass windows and shaking the guttering that she had been intending to have replaced. It blew the torrential rain sideways with its building fury.
Reaching for the bedside lamp she quickly learned the power was out so she took the heavy three cell flashlight from the bedside table drawer, turning it on as she stood up while at the same time grabbing the robe at the foot of the bed and slipping it on over her thin tricot night gown. The storm outside seemed to intensify as she raced on bare feet to the stairs and hurried down, somehow managing not to lose her balance on the way. She could hear the old oak moaning and making ominous cracking sounds as she rushed to the door that opened from the kitchen to the stairs leading down to the basement. From the bedroom she could hear the weather radio continuing to sound the alarm that there was a tornado in the area.
The steps to the basement were steeper than those between the ground and upper floors so she was forced to slow down, though her pounding heart and panicked mind would have had her going recklessly fast. Just as she reached the basement floor she heard the roots give way beneath the old oak and barely had enough time to dive beneath the potato bench before the tree fell, crashing onto the house and cleaving it in two.
The storm was long gone by the time dawn broke and people began emerging into the now gentle rain to assess the damage. One of her neighbors saw in horror the tree lying through Petra's house and called 9-1-1. By the time the first responders arrived it seemed the entire neighborhood was on site, calling Petra's name and trying to find their way through the wreckage. When the rescue squad arrived people were crawling like ants all over the house and tree, voices raised, urgently calling out Petra's name and shouting to one another as they dug. Chainsaws were cutting their way through splintered wood to gain access to the inside of what remained of the house.
Michael was in shock as he emerged from the rescue squad's emergency vehicle, temporarily stunned by the devastation before him. Less than a day before he had been inside the house and the image of Petra's face as they had held one another flashed through his mind. Panic threatened but he ruthlessly shoved it aside as he joined in the search. Grimly he made his way through debris, bloodying his hands and calling her name with every handful he threw aside.
Inside the basement, Petra peered cautiously out from beneath the bench. Using the flashlight she took stock of her surroundings, noting that the bowed and splintered floor above her had not settled any further as time passed. Water dribbled from broken pipes and the smells of dust and mildew caused her nose to wrinkle. She was absently gratified that she didn't use gas. How much longer before the floor came crashing down into the basement? She prayed as she cried for help.
It was the muffled sound of a chainsaw that broke the oppressive silence of the basement. Immediately her cries became screams but she forced herself to remain beneath the bench as protection against anything that might fall. Eventually she heard the distant sounds of people calling her name and her cries grew louder as sobs continued to shudder through her. Then, suddenly, only her voice could be heard in the silence.
“Listen,” someone finally cried, “I think I hear her!” and Michael immediately stood, looking for the source of the voice. All around him, everyone went quiet. Even the chainsaws stopped as they listened for her to call out again. Then, they heard her and everyone converged on the spot where her voice was coming from. Before anyone else could answer her, he was scrambling over the debris in the direction of where the kitchen once had been.
“Petra! Petra, sweetheart! Where are you?”
There was a pause before she answered, “In the basement! I'm in the basement!”
Relief flooded through him.
“Hang on, honey! We're coming to get you!”
It took another hour before enough of the tree and its surrounding debris was cleared away so that a hole could be cut through what remained of the floor and a fireman could be lowered down. Inside, Petra watched as light pierced the gloom, temporarily blinding her before a shadowed figure appeared, inching down at the end of a rope. Dropping the flashlight she scrambled out from beneath the bench and met him on the run, sobbing as she fell into his arms.
“Oh, thank God!” she whispered in the midst of her tears, “Oh, thank God!”
Overriding his need to be at the hole when she emerged, Michael retreated to stand anxiously beside the ambulance. There he waited until she was lifted free of the hole then placed on a stretcher and carried across the debris. As soon as they were on stable ground, he ran to meet her. Taking her hand, he peered down into her grimy face.
“Petra? I'm here, honey.”
She opened her eyes and her tears began anew, “Michael?”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I'm here.”
He walked alongside as they carried her the rest of the way to the awaiting ambulance, their grips on each other's hands never loosening.
“Oh, Michael, I was so scared.”
“I know honey, but you're safe now. Are you hurting anywhere?”
She shook her head, “No. I hid under the potato bench but the roof never fell in. I was so scared the roof was going to fall the rest of the way on top of me.”
The stretcher was lowered onto a waiting cot and the EMTs began to check her over. Releasing her hand, Michael stepped aside but remained close enough so that she could still see him, smiling encouragingly to further calm her as she answered their questions. Eventually, once she was found to be uninjured, she was allowed to sit up and immediately he was there to take her into his arms. They held tight to one another until she pulled away and looked beyond him to what remained of her home.
“Oh my God, my house!”
She started to drop down from the cot but he forestalled her, pointing at her bare feet.
“No, honey. You can't.”
Suddenly she became aware that her robe was missing and she wrapped her arms around herself to hide the view of her body through the thin fabric of her nightgown. She began to shiver until a blanket was dropped across her shoulders.
“I need to put on some clothes, but how will I ever find them in that? And where am I going to go? I have no where else to go.”
He leaned in close and lifted her face with his injured hands.
“Don't worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, “You're coming home with me. We'll find you some clothes, you'll rest, then we'll decide where to go from there. Okay?”
Tears again threatened, but she met his gaze with complete trust before she nodded. After a gentle kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the rescue squad's emergency vehicle. It never entered her mind that there would be some who wouldn't approve. Somehow, it no longer mattered.
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It was early spring in the south. The earth was waking up, turning green and sprouting flowers of every hue. The birds had returned from their winter quarters and were busily building nests in trees and shrubs. On farms everywhere there were new crops of calves, foals, and lambs. Students were getting antsy as spring break approached.
