As a writer, Franklin Tern held a specific disdain for dark and stormy nights. They were nature’s taunt—an opening he was supposed to take advantage of, and fought against. No one, not even a prize-winning journalist, could surmount such a cliché.
Such nights were also unwelcome when he was driving.
Phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear, Frank turned the wheel just enough to guide his sleek black BMW Z3 away from the lake forming along the side of Route 447. More than an inch of standing water might swallow them whole.
Lightning flashed overhead and thunder boomed. His friend Simon shouted through the phone. “The story was great!”
“The story was depressing. The whole trip was depressing, which, as you well know, is not my thing. I am not hard-edged. I’m fluff. Pure and simple.”
“But that’s why the article was so effective. I could feel you, Frank. Your horror, and how out of place you were.”
“Gee, thanks.” Feeling the phone slip, Frank hitched his shoulder up a little higher. “I’ll have to send you the full piece when I figure out how not to sound horrified.”
“I was trying to tell you I thought it was good.”
“Whatever.”
“Are you still going down to Texas to cover the church bombing?”
“What? No. What would make you think I’d do a story like that?”
“Something you posted on Twitter.”
“You’re on Twitter?”
“Charlie signed me up.”
Frank ground his teeth—his instinctive reaction to any mention of Simon’s partner, with a little desultory weather hate slipped in on the side. “I haven’t posted to Twitter in weeks. Keeping my phone charged quickly became secondary to . . .” Not cringing at the devastation humanity could heap upon a natural disaster. Pushing those thoughts aside, “Can you believe I willingly flew coach to get out of there?”
Also, what had his idiot PA been posting on Twitter?
“I can’t believe you went to Puerto Rico,” Simon said.
“Neither can I.”
Where the hell had the road gone? He tapped the brakes, slowing from a crawl to a near standstill, and guided his precious around the river now spilling across the blacktop. The turnoff to Bossen Hill must be coming up soon.
“Listen, the storm of the century is blowing through the Poconos right now.” Mild compared to the tropical storm that had recently ravaged a still-recovering Puerto Rico, but enough to compel him to concentrate. “I have no idea where my earpiece is, and I need to focus on the road.”
“What are you doing in Pennsylvania? Is it bad up there? Wait, didn’t you land just a few hours ago?”
“Personal business. Maybe a story.” Because everything was a story, wasn’t it? “I’ll call you next week?”
“Come down on Friday. I’m learning to grill.”
The car jerked as Frank’s foot gave the brakes an involuntary tap. “You’re going to cook outside?”
“With hot coals and all.”
Frank swallowed the question about whether Charlie would be there. Of course he would. Simon lived with Charlie now, in an extremely cozy house with a ready-made family. “I’ll bring wine. And pictures of hell.”
“I promise not to say they’re great. Drive safe, hmm?”
“Will do.” Frank tossed the phone onto the front passenger seat and gripped the wheel with both hands. “C’mon, baby. Just another few miles and we’ll get you out of this storm.”
In response, rain lashed the windshield, blurring the road. Leaning forward, Frank peered through the fevered swish of the wipers. Had he missed the sign? A flash of white peeked out of the wet darkness. He didn’t need to read it to know what it said: Bossen Hill Family Resort. Turn right 1000ft.
The disquiet of his thoughts calmed a little as he remembered the day they’d planted the sign. His older brother, Matty, had made it in shop class—chiseling the letters into a plank before painting them black against white. Then he’d invited Frank to help him measure the distance back from the turn and dig a hole for the post. That had been a good afternoon and typical of summer in the Poconos.
Sudden thunder boomed, vibrating up and in from the road and the air. The car shook. Frank could just make out the turn ahead and flipped on his blinker to warn all the other idiots out on the road that he was going to attempt a right turn without hydroplaning or ending up in the gully that swallowed the forest on this side.
Except, no one else was out this late during a monsoon.
Not a monsoon, Frankie. You’ve seen what a real storm can do.
He managed the turn with a minimum of fuss and powered his way up the narrow and winding road. That the drive would have been any easier tomorrow morning was debatable. Returning home to claim a legacy left by his dearly departed uncle didn’t fit into such categories as easy or moderately difficult. It was what it was.
The forest lining each side of the road flashed into stark relief as lightning and thunder crashed together. The storm had moved right on top of him. Frank pressed his foot down, knowing it was probably the wrong thing to do. But he really wanted to be out of the rain. The pitch of the engine rose, and the rear wheels spun against the road before grabbing hold and propelling him over the crest of the hill. Lightning flared again, blinding in its intensity.
When the world faded back to reality, something large and bristly lay across the road in front of him. Frank blinked a few times, unsure if the sparking obstruction was an afterimage or something actually blocking the road. No, that was a downed power pole, and if he didn’t stop or turn or both, he was going to—
If not for the river flowing down the road, he might have safely avoided floating across the center line while white-knuckling the wheel, lips clamped together over the yell pushing against his vocal cords. For a moment, he thought he was going to make it. The world stilled and the thunder of the storm seemed to rumble more quietly. Time slowed, catching the flash of sparking electricity in single bright frames. His urge to shout was under control, not going to happen, so not going to happen . . .
Then the wheel jerked from his aching fingers and the car slid sideways. The shout cut loose. Watching himself flail and panic was like having an out-of-body experience. A terrible grinding scrape shuddered through the floor. Metal shrieked and the car came to an abrupt halt, sound cut in half by the dying of the engine.
Adam Levine endeavored to fill the pause, detailing what lovers did. Frank stared dumbly at the radio. His heart was beating too rapidly for the song, and the sound of his yelling and cursing echoed in his ears. But he was alive. That was good, right? And the storm continued outside the car, which could mean any number of things. It took a while to pin the most obvious: he hadn’t wrecked his baby too badly. The fact he was looking at the top of the trees rather than the middle of the trunks probably meant he was wedged halfway down a ditch, but he was breathing and thinking and still listening to Maroon 5.
“Jesus.”
Much as he did not want to venture out into the storm, he had to assess the situation. The door groaned horribly as he pushed it open. Doors only groaned on old cars, and his precious wasn’t even a classic yet. They had five years to go.
Rain pushed into his eyes the second Frank poked his head out. A minute later, standing in the gully, assessing bodily harm both to himself and his car, the rain finished drenching him and moved on to the worthwhile task of spilling through the open door. Frank eased it shut, wincing at the corresponding moan.
Long story short, he wasn’t going to be driving anywhere tonight.
Short story long, the rear end of his baby was buried in a rapidly filling creek, while the front end barely crested the verge. He’d slid backward off the side of the road into a gully the depth of his car. Fantastic.
At least the thunder and lightning had moved on, still clashing against each other, but not right over his head.
Frank patted his front pocket, fingers absently seeking the outline of his phone before he remembered tossing it into the front passenger seat. He opened the groaning door and leaned across the center console to feel across the seat. The phone wasn’t there. He’d cry over what he was doing to the leather upholstery, but his face was so damn wet, he wouldn’t feel the tears, and tears should never be wasted.
Head tucked under the front passenger seat, ass soaking in the wind, he finally found his phone, and of course he had no signal. Not even a measly 1x. How was one supposed to call a tow truck at . . . 8:37 p.m. on a Friday night in the Poconos? Hmm?
Frank whacked the phone against the dash a couple of times before tucking it into his pocket. He could feel his throat moving, meaning he was muttering. Stuff and nonsense. Curses. Something between a whine and a moan. A plea to the God he didn’t believe in to show himself and offer to put Frank on an ark with two of everything.
He couldn’t be more than a mile from the resort, and without a working cell phone his only option was to walk. Frank wrestled his carry-on out of the cramped back seat. Later, he’d thank the missing God that he hadn’t put it in the trunk. Now, he’d thank his own foresight for the fact the small suitcase was of the hard-shell variety.
He’d only repacked it a few hours ago; dumping ripe laundry from Puerto Rico into the laundry bag for his service to deal with, replacing it with lightweight “summer in the Poconos” linen and wool. All hopefully dry within the bright-blue shell. He shouldered the well-worn leather satchel he used to carry the essentials and splashed through the gully until he found a place to climb back up onto the road—avoiding the downed power pole which had, thankfully, stopped sparking.
Head down, though it made little difference—he was soaked in an utterly proverbial way—Frank pushed into the rain. After the tenth collision between case and knee, he dropped it to the ground, pulled out the handle, and wheeled it through the storm. Yes, he probably looked like an upmarket hobo.
He’d have to throw these shoes away. Leather did not suffer repeated soakings. His pants would survive, though they’d undoubtedly lose the tailored look he liked so much. The shirt—linen and rain did not mix, and he suspected his jacket, which also suffered under the effects of the storm, was leaving marks around the collar and cuffs that would not wash out.
He had greater concerns than the state of his outfit, but preferred the head-down method of coping. His reason for drowning along the road to his long-lost childhood could remain unexamined until he’d found a fireplace, a towel, and some quaint flavor of tea only served in dusty old family resorts.
The road dipped, prompting another memory: clutching his middle as he bounced off the back seat of his uncle’s car—Robert Tern laughing as everyone complained about leaving their stomachs somewhere below them. One more bend and the road widened slightly as the familiar driveway came into view.
The storm must have loosened the sign, but the fence was still there, still ridiculously rustic—a curve of stacked slate to either side of the drive, rising toward an arch. The sign welcoming visitors to Bossen Hill Family Resort hung from one end of the arch, blowing in the wind, the letters obscured by rain and age. Frank ducked around it and started the long trek down the rutted drive. He couldn’t see the sprawling lodge or make out any of the surrounding buildings. The power must be out.
As he drew closer, the ghost of the lodge separated from the night, an indistinct bulk of stone and slate. He could make out a single light flickering in a window to the left of middle. That would be the office. Was someone up? Or had the generator kicked in, powering the only light left burning in an otherwise dark building? The rest of the place looked empty and . . . empty. Vacant. Hollowed out and lifeless. Frowning, Frank crunched across the unkempt circle of gravel in front of the lodge. The wind picked up, blowing him up the wide steps to the porch. He stood shivering, cold and wet, air sucking at and ruffling his hair and clothes in an entirely unsensual manner. In the fractional pauses, he could hear the distant rumble of a generator.
Frank tried the door and found it locked. He rapped his knuckles against the damp wood. After shivering on the porch for another few minutes, he kicked the door with his ruined shoe. Another interminable minute passed. Frank stalked to the wan light of the office window and tapped on the glass. A shadow moved behind the curtain, jerking up, turning, and finally waving in the direction of the front door.
Frank splashed back across the porch to await salvation. The door swung open, revealing a dimly lit lobby and a slight figure beckoning him out of the rain. Frank hurried inside and reached to push the door closed behind him. Then he glanced at his rescuer.
It was as though time itself twisted, the storm plucking him out of the Poconos like a storied tornado. The light was bad, but he’d know that mop of hair and those dark eyes anywhere. It was Tommy. Thomas Benjamin. His best and only childhood friend. His first love. The first person he’d kissed.
The guy who’d repaid him with a broken nose.
Frank dropped his suitcase. “What the hell are you doing here?”