The Storm and the Darkness (7 page)

How many men had it been? She had lost count after the first month, and then one month stretched into almost a year. The men she chose didn’t require conversation or understanding. They didn’t need to know who she was, why she was in a seedy bar in the Faubourg Treme, why she couldn’t connect in a normal way with anyone.

She had learned many coping mechanisms over the years; methods of controlling herself so she seemed calm to others, despite how she actually felt. Everyone thought she was so normal, at first. Her friends, teachers, family, her boyfriends. But most of them had not known how to handle her introversion once they penetrated the surface.
 

But there was nothing normal about her inability to hold a meaningful relationship, nor was there anything particularly normal about sleeping with dozens of random men as a substitute. If it were normal, she wouldn’t have chosen to hide it from the people in her world. She would not have experienced such shame.

Nicolas had known about it, of course, but Nicolas didn’t judge. It was only the last thing that had happened, the catalyst for her departure, that Nicolas would never hear about. Not from her, and likely not from the other party involved. The latter had too much to lose, and it was really to protect
him
–and to hide from her shame, in what she had done to him, and to herself–that she had left town.

Being in Maine hadn’t helped her to forget, nor had it given her any deeper understanding of how to forge a new path for her life. She felt like an outsider here, an interloper, and this only magnified her existing feelings of isolation and despair.

People had been less chilly to her as time went on, but she was still completely taken aback by the rudeness of Jon St. Andrews. She understood that it was not always easy to meet others...was she not, also, a perfect example of a societal defect? There were those out there who probably thought she was rude as well. But she had never–
never
–treated anyone the way Jonathan St. Andrews had treated her.

And for what?

Was he also one of those narrow-minded gossips who thought she was some spoiled rich girl here on her daddy’s money? Even if that were true, why did it matter? Why was that such an affront to others?

It wasn’t true, anyway. She had inherited her mother’s share of Deschanel Media, but she hadn’t touched any of it. She lived simply back home. She had her small Chartres Street apartment in the Quarter, but the rest of her money went into savings or investments. She was, after all, a member of one of the most famous of investment families in New Orleans.

She had insisted on taking over all expenses for the house during her visit, including Alex’s pay. She hadn’t mentioned this to Alex, because it was obvious he preferred being the savior of women, not the one beholden to them.

“Come home, Muffins. You can be a whore there or you can be a whore here, but
here
is so much more fun...” Nicolas said that night on the phone, when she told him she was having mixed thoughts.

To Nicolas, this was affection. “Pot. Kettle. Black,” she joked back. She flopped back in the tall, carpeted armchair in her sitting room.
 

“Come home.”

“Not just yet.”

“There’s
nothing
wrong with you, Ana. There are plenty of insecure assholes out there who blow themselves up with self-importance and opinions who will tell you that there is, but a healthy sexual appetite is nothing to be ashamed of.”

That’s not all I’m ashamed of
, she thought.
I’m ashamed that I brought someone else down into this mess with me, someone I care about, and I can’t take it back.

To make matters worse, she was distraught over what happened to Cocoa the week before. She had watched Cocoa saunter down the long driveway and out into Heron Hollow Road beyond, and then observed helplessly as a truck swerve out of its way to hit her. The truck then squealed off, leaving Cocoa hurt and broken on the road.

Ana had closed her eyes and placed her hands over the tiny body.
Heal...heal damn you!
She had focused so hard–imagining positive energies around Cocoa, seeing the little cells come together in harmony–that the blood rushed to her head and she fell back into a puddle.
Please Cocoa...please little girl...

When she failed to save her, she didn’t even think twice about taking her to see Dr. St. Andrews; didn’t think about how rude he might be to her when she showed up, or the possibility that he might even turn her away. She simply rushed to save the little cat that had become a part of her life in Maine.

In the end, he had saved her–
because I couldn’t; because when it came down to it I couldn’t even save a cat–
but Cocoa had some recovery ahead of her. It had been a week since she took Cocoa to Jon’s office, and Ana wasn’t sure if she would ever see the little kitty again.
 

Then today, she accidentally broke the power cord to the fridge and spoiled nearly everything inside. For the first time, Alex did not answer her phone call when she reached out for help and advice.

If she was looking for signs telling her to go home, they were all around her. Frustrated and feeling hopeless, she threw her hands up in the air in submission. She snatched up the book she was reading and went out to the porch in hopes that reading would clear her head.

Finn knew he was tempting fate with his continued jaunts to sea. The weather was going to change soon, possibly that very day, and the experienced fishermen had given up back in October. But Finn kept watching as their food storage dwindled. There were days where all of it went to sale. He was starting to question the business arrangement he had made with Anders Cartwright–the Portland business mogul who had been the first to get Finn St. Andrews to sign on the dotted line–but he knew his father would have been proud that Finn managed to turn a less than academic endeavor into a successful business.

He locked up the boathouse. Instinctively, he looked east toward the Deschanel house and, as usual, Ana was there. He smiled and waved, and she did the same in return.

Today
, he thought.
I’ll do it today. After I shower.
Every time Finn had resolved to do it his nerves had gotten the best of him. Looking at the sky, he knew time was running out. He didn’t know why he was jittery about the whole thing; it was very unlike him.
I’m acting like Jon for god’s sake.

Finn started back toward the house, when he noticed that she had put her book down and was jogging toward him, tripping slightly over rocks on her way over. He thought to go help her, but both his hands were full, and before he knew it she was standing right in front of him.

Blue
, he thought.
Her eyes are blue
.

She was even lovelier than she had appeared from afar. Her red hair sparkled and cracked in the setting sunlight, and she was brushing it from her pale face as the wind fought with her. She had a splash of freckles over her tiny nose, and her lips were full and pale, not much darker than her skin. She pulled her cardigan sweater tightly over her thin frame. He could not help but notice how the hem of her sweater flared just around the hips, and her arms, folded against the cold, did nothing to hide the fullness higher up.

"I'm sorry, I was just wondering if you knew when the last ferry to town leaves?” Ana asked. She had her book in her arms, which were crossed tightly over her chest. He couldn’t help wondering if she realized a jacket would be more appropriate for November in Maine.

"Six, so you just missed it," Finn said amiably. "And unfortunately, there might not be another one for a while, depending on how bad this storm is."

"How bad do you think it will be?"
 

"If you ask the weatherman, he will say a few inches, and then over in a few days.”

"I'm asking you." Her eyes watched him closely.

Finn laughed. "Well," he said, "I think we might be here for a few weeks before things clear up and get back to normal. But I am no meteorologist."

"Even in New Orleans, they're no better than I am at predicting anything," she teased lightly, but then almost instantly frowned. She looked distraught. "And the stores close so early on the island…” She sighed. "Well, I suppose canned food is still food."

When he gave her a strange look, she added, "I did something...kind of stupid." Ana squeezed the book tighter, but didn't look shy or uncomfortable so much as cold and distressed. He sensed a change in the air, as she began her confession. "So...Alex gave me a list of things to do to ‘winter proof’ the house. The power cord for the refrigerator was older and I accidentally
broke
it. The food all spoiled before Alex could get here to help me."

She was nervous at Finn’s reaction. He guessed it took a lot for her to come over and talk to him. He could see she felt silly. "Don't feel too bad," he reassured her, “the house is very old, and those wires were probably original. It was bound to happen, it’s just an unfortunate coincidence that it happened to you."

"Terrible timing, though,” Ana said. He knew what she meant. With the ferries closed, the grocery store would not be getting any new meat or vegetables in from the mainland. Most islanders stocked a couple months worth of meat in their freezers for this very reason, and hers was now lost. Thinking of his empty freezer and sparse tanks, Finn knew he wouldn’t be much help. "Alex called a bit ago and said that the Farnsworths on the other side of the island have some extra food and he is going to see if he can buy any off of them,” she added with a sigh.

“You wouldn’t be the first person who had to dip into the town food storage,” he said.

“Oh! Here I am asking you questions and I haven’t even introduced myself...I’m Anasofiya Deschanel, but Ana is fine.” With one hand gripping her book to her chest, she thrust the other one toward him.

Finn laughed and shook her hand. “I know who you are,” he said. “No offense, but everyone does. I’m-”

“Finn, yes, I know, too.” She watched him, and he couldn’t read her expression. He was suddenly reminded of Jon. “I mean…sorry…that was rude–I just meant that yes I know who you are, too.”

He looked down at the lobster he was carrying. The bug’s claws had been moving the whole time and he noticed she had adjusted a few times to avoid being snipped. He remembered that Jon was working late that evening, to watch over the McElroy dog.

"Want to come over for dinner?" Finn asked her. He wasn't sure how she would take an invitation like that.

Ana blushed but quickly recovered herself. "I'd love to, but I actually need to keep an eye out on stuff at the house. I have the fridge airing and the freezer defrosting." She laughed. “You know, really interesting stuff.”

"We can eat at your house then," he said.

He could see her good breeding come through as she said, "That would be lovely except I have never prepared a lobster before, and I feel a little ill-equipped to receive you with the house as it is."

Finn laughed. He had been studying her through the entire conversation. How she looked, acted. She wasn't flirting, and she wasn't nervous. Uncertain, perhaps, but otherwise she was very...normal. "Ana, I could care less how the house looks, and I'd never let anyone cook my lobster, anyway. Not if I intended to eat it after."

Ana laughed and accidentally dropped her book. He reached down and picked it up for her, and as she took it she said, "If I wasn't so hungry, I'd never allow the insult, but as it stands, I haven't had any meat in three days and I'm a little desperate."

He was pretty sure there was no intentional double meaning, but her words excited him anyway.
She's very pretty
, he thought. And he knew he was good looking because everyone always told him so. Had he not been Mr. Summer Island four years running? But there was something very different about Ana Deschanel, something that kept him from seeing her in the ardent way he saw most women. He didn’t know what to expect from the evening, but he was looking forward to it. He forgot about his shower, and Jon, and the problem of their winter food storage.

Ana took the lobster from him–maybe she wasn't afraid of the claws after all–and they walked back to her house in comfortable silence.

Mr. Jenkins lay on the table, still sleeping from his tumor surgery. His owner, Jessica McElroy, had left to get something to eat. She offered to get something for Jon as well, but he politely refused. It was past six already, and he was hungry, but he felt uncomfortable saying yes so it was silent starvation for him tonight unless Finn saved some leftovers.

Mr. Jenkins' chest rose and fell as his body filled with each breath. Jon ran his hands across the dog’s face, and Mr. Jenkins responded with a low, happy sigh. Jon hadn't thought the dog was going to make it, but everything went better than expected. It looked as if he would survive the night too, and maybe live to see his tenth year. Jon smiled in the darkness; a rare thing, and something almost always reserved just for moments like these, and for the little hairy beasts on his table.

Jessica returned an hour later. She had brought extra for Jon anyway, and left it in front of him even after his polite refusal. He ate in spite of himself. She ate in silence and he was grateful for it. He wasn't sure why human interaction was so painful for him. He had friends growing up, and in college. In medical school, even, though he didn’t like to think about that time of his life. It might have been around then that he started to change and grow into himself more.

"I'll be right back. I just need to call my husband," Jessica said, before heading into the reception area. Everyone was so comfortable with each other on this island that no one bothered asking unimportant questions about whether it was okay to use someone's phone or not. He both loved that and loathed it. Loved the quiet, loathed the familiarity.

No, that wasn't entirely true. There was comfort in familiarity too. When you were familiar enough with someone, you understood them in ways others did not. People on the island understood that Jon was a good man, and a reliable man, but also knew that he wanted to be left alone. They didn't question why he didn't come to town events, or celebrations, or that he wasn't yet married–or even in a relationship–at the age of thirty-three. They didn’t exactly understand it, but they accepted it. He was one of them, and they protected their own.