The Fourth Storm

By Mary Jane Arden

Racheal West, a guilt ridden young widow, is looking forward to beginning a new life in the isolated art community of Verateague. The quaint coastal town is already home to her best friend, Hoolie Daniels, as well as to the artistically gifted and sexually eccentric Gabriel family. But life is not going well in Verateague: the town is besieged by storms and an unsolvable murder that has everyone associated with the local art center (of which Racheal is the new director) targeted as a suspect. Racheal's new circle of friends include the last remaining members of Verateague's revered founding family: charismatic Brevet Gabriel, a man burdened by a celebrated artistic heritage; his half-sister Jesse, a fading beauty tormented by dark family secrets; and Scot and Denny Caltrider, men from the wrong side of the Verateague tracks whose lives since boyhood have been inextricably intertwined with that of the Gabriel family. Racheal's new life is a confrontation of secrets from the past that continue to haunt the present dangerously.

Read the book, wear the jewelry, visit the web site...The Fourth Storm is not only an exciting novel but also the inspiration for the narrative jewelry designs of author/artist Mary Jane Arden. Narrative jewelry is a three-dimensional illustration to its companion short story. The narrative (which can take the form of a miniature storybook, letter, diary, entry, or postcard) reveals new facets in the lives of the characters from The Fourth Storm. Please visit mjarden.com to learn more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 30, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469799162

Mary Jane Arden

Mary Jane Arden is an artist and writer. Born in La Grange, Illinois she lives with her husband Gerry Lamenzo and their dog Ben in Wilmington, Delaware.

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All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Mary Jane Arden

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN: 0-595-12873-4

ISBN: 978-1-4697-9916-2 (ebook)

Contents

Acknowledgements

The Second Storm

Homeward

Wet Welcome

At The Old Cardinal Cottage

Good Mourning

Rendezvous

Creatures of the Night

Nice to Meet You

A Funeral For A Friend

Life in the Arts

Peter

Settlements

Liz Again

The Games Children Play

Midnight Rides

One Last Interview

Simon Murder Investigation Closed

Social Highlights

Woman on the Floor

Funnel Cakes and Back Roads

Out There

Cobwebs and Kisses

Glamorama

The Darley James

The First Storm

Lotta and Jesse

Wedded Bliss

Spain

The Last Storm

Yucatan Peninsula, Fall

About the Author

Notes

For Richard Johnson Arden

Image267.JPG

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks from this extremely dyslexic author to the friends and family who attempted to correct my errors: Marjorie Arden, Susan Arden, Linda Gould, Lori Vitcusky, and Sheila Vincent Elizabeth Brown-thank you for always having the right words for me Eilene Maier-I’m so grateful you found the article Beloved sister and fellow author, Susan Arden, who always champions my work The most important men in my life, Gerry Lamenzo and Ben Arden Lamenzo

The Second Storm

Late afternoon, September. It was if a blanket was slowly being drawn across the sky: the pale light slowly smothered by a blue black void. The air was still, fragrant with salt and pine; warm with a tacky dampness. Even the insects, which had just begun their nightly chorus, had quieted. Something was coming. The stillness deepened into a perfect absence of noise.

Only a few people were still scattered across the narrow strip of beach. Most had long since had their fill of sand and sweat and had piled into hot cars and headed north.

The last remaining families turned and faced the blackness. Their movements seemed precisely choreographed. They paused, listened, turned, and jerkily placed hands to eyes. Jaws slackened and pulses quickened. It had come so quickly.

The first explosion of energy was human. Towels, soda cans, radios mixed and swirled as beaching accouterments are gathered and jammed into any space, under any arm, into any hand.

WE MUST LEAVE NOW.

The smallest children are jerked one-armed out of the berm and dragged up the beach.

WE MUST LEAVE NOW.

The black blanket continued to envelop the sky. As it extinguished the last remaining sunray, a tremendous wind announces its triumph and serves notice to humans hidden away in stores and homes. Thousands of panes of glass shiver in its presence. A jagged tear splits the heavens. Claps of thunder are expected but still jarring-the evening’s entertainment had begun.

Homeward

A stubby peninsula of land juts into the Atlantic Ocean on the east coast of the United States. Along this small piece of topography stretch two roads. The more scenic of the two is, oddly, the lesser traveled. It meanders north-south through small towns, wetlands, and soybean fields. Tourists use this road when traffic on the first is impenetrable or when they desire some local color. To outsiders’ eyes peeling paint and broken fences become rustic and charming.

The storm was born on the east side of the peninsula. With adolescent energy it raced over the ocean. Upon reaching land it expanded and began to run parallel to the two roads, soon engulfing them both. The storm front was relentless as it pushed and strained north, up the peninsula.

The line of demarcation between what had been a perfect September afternoon and the swirling mass was unnatural, horrifying.

Christ alive. Racheal West had chosen this route because she was sure it would have less traffic and ensure a safer, easier trip. Now it looked like she was about to detour into hell. She knew what surrounded her-picturesquely unpopulated farmland. No friendly fast food restaurant or hometown ice cream parlor. No motels, houses, or phones.

Damn, Damn, Damn.

Her choice of roads suddenly seemed remarkably poor and she unconsciously adjusted her seatbelt as if preparing for battle.

*          *          *

She’d started the day ready for an adventure. Seen to the movers as they loaded the last of her belongings, breakfasted with her elderly neighbor Mr. Phillips-funny how they’d never managed to get to first names.

Yet.

His hand had trembled in hers and she’d seen the glint of tears in his eyes as she said good-by. She’d never thought he’d liked her much-he’d always doted on Peter.

Then she was back in her vacant house: she’d been dreading that. Walking through THEIR home for the last time. But the memories stayed away. Devoid of belongings the brick-fronted colonial conjured no final thoughts, summoned no regrets about what she was going to undertake. Racheal hadn’t even finished this last tour but turned and walked out. She stood on the porch ready to lock the door-but stopped, hesitating, and considered going back in and calling Hoolie. No, she would see her tomorrow. Without ceremony Racheal removed the house keys from the leather case which had held them for fourteen years, and placed them in an envelope. She stuck the small package in her purse and checked her watch. Settlement was at 9 o’clock. In another hour or two it would be over.

*          *          *

Her stomach was grumbling ferociously. Too many hours had passed since lunch. At 1 o’clock she’d pulled into the Dover rest stop and bought a chocolate shake (medium), french fries (large), and a marvelously greasy cheeseburger (extra cheese, extra mayo, wonderful). Traveling food. That’s what her Dad would have called it. Screw the fat and cholesterol, when had she last had a milkshake? After the first long pull on the straw she held the frozen chocolate in her mouth, letting it slowly melt, and wondered why it was so hard to treat herself to good things.

She’d taken the food back to the car, clipped on Tommy’s leash and then settled down at a picnic table. For an hour she watched fellow travelers pull in, shake the rustiness from their joints and wander the grounds before setting out again on their journeys while Tommy roamed about examining interesting bits of litter. Everything had been so bright and pretty that it was easy to feel brave and adventurous.

To the southeast Racheal could see lightning ripping out of the black and purple mass. If she were at home she’d have sat down at her kitchen table and enjoyed the storm’s fierceness. But now she was alone and unable to rejoice in the power of nature.

And scared.

Racheal pushed the emotion away. She couldn’t allow the storm to penetrate her resolve.

The dense black clouds swirled above her violently, frequently cracking open to reveal a dark void filled with violent movement. Racheal had never seen the sky look so evil.

STOP OR GO.

Damn-it-all.

The realtor was meeting her at the house. Settlement was still a few days off but her new home had been vacant for years and the realtor had pulled a few strings so she could move in early. He’d insisted it was no big deal and had even promised to have the house cleaned and let the movers in. She couldn’t refuse such a generous offer and had fervently promised him she’d arrive promptly by 9:30 p.m. The idea of being homeless, even for just one night, was not an exciting prospect.

That does it! Her decision was made. Racheal rolled the windows up, which increased the claustrophobic aura in the car. She could feel sweat beading on her upper lip, and more of its kind rolling down her back and lying in pools under her thighs. A lightning bolt blew out of the sky. It darted and zig-zagged, causing the driver in front of her to swerve dangerously. A tremendous burst of thunder followed. Its force rattled her heart. Cars both in front and in back of her pulled off to the road’s shoulder.

I should be so smart. She felt damp and dirty. Tommy was awake now and growling his displeasure with the storm. Another lightning bolt illuminated the car’s interior and she glanced at her wristwatch

8:25 p.m. STOP OR GO. Racheal leaned forward and readjusted her grip on the wheel. She

missed Peter. The realization jabbed at her painfully. If he were here she would be safely ensconced on the passenger’s side. If Peter were here there would be no question of whether to continue or pull off. She brushed the sweat off her face and continued down the dark road.

*          *          *

Liz Simon was also alone. She pulled the last cigarette from the pack and with shaking hands, lit it, then carefully laid the spent match in an overflowing ashtray. She’d been waiting for two hours. Would he come? She retrieved the matchbook from the nightstand and opened it. In the fading light she couldn’t make out the words, but that didn’t matter, she had long since committed them to memory.

Tonight, Darley James.

She was ready. Thank God, she’d thought to stop and buy the bottles of gin and tonic. She’d never had it before, but she knew he liked them. The medicinal taste of the gin had grown on her and she’s lost count of how many times she’d slid off the bed and refilled her glass.

Another drink, please, and Liz helped herself again from the bottles on the floor.

An explosion of wind jolts Liz from her bartending. Knickknacks and cosmetics are swept off her dressing table and crash to the floor.

The curtains flay violently in the gust, and downstairs the front door bangs back and forth in its frame.

Naked, she moves from the bed and settles herself on the window seat to watch the storm, ignoring the plumes of baby powder that rise from beneath her feet. Sensations assault her-hot and cold breezes alternate sweeping across her body; the roughness of the cloth of the window seat cushion, its small buttons pressing into her bare skin. She watches the sky intently as the storm plunges the world into a peculiar kind of darkness that is neither day nor night.

Her attention shifts suddenly to a darting movement in the small woods that separate the road from her house.

COULD IT BE HIM?

She wants him.

NOW. HERE. WITH HER. IN HER.

But it’s part of the game to be unsure just when he’ll arrive. Liz lunges forward and claws at the white cotton curtains that partially shield her.

See me, and she raises herself onto her knees and exposes herself to view. No shame, no thought. She pleads with her body for him to come. Fireworks from the sky reveal a man running from the trees to her door. She sinks back onto her heels in relief. Gripping a curtain in each hand she winds them around her wrists and leans back from the open window spreading her legs as far as the window frame will allow. And waits. The heat from her body mingles with the cool rain.

The front door groans loudly downstairs.

IS HE HERE?

HURRY! HURRY!

A lightening bolt explodes out of the sky.

Footsteps on the stairs maddeningly slow.

HURRY! HURRY!

A tremendous clap of thunder rocks her and the moistness, the heat, seem too much to bear. Finally. He is in the room. She can sense him, smell him.

WANT HIM.

Liz tenses. Nothing must ruin this-no gesture, no spoken word. She waits. Then, she feels him behind her. Slick, wet, rubber jacket. Cool on her heat. His knee, covered in worn cotton, comes up between her legs and begins to move slowly back and forth.

I AM GOING TO…

A hand replaces the knee.

EXPLODE.

His hands leave her and rip the curtains that have been binding her wrists. Freed, he pulls her towards him. Her face in the wind and rain, her breasts gently swing. He drapes the cotton curtains upon her, pulling them across her, enticing her with them.

NOW. NOW. NOW.

His hand reaches back to his belt, she feels the cold metal fall free against her.

His hand moves to her shoulders and shoves her back against him. Again and again and again. Liz convulses with pleasure as his hand moves up from her shoulders, briefly stroking her hair, then down across her breasts, stopping at each nipple…squeezing roughly.

Without warning he suddenly withdraws and rolls her onto her back. MADNESS.

A pool of raindrops form in the hollow between her breasts, a slight shift in movement and she sends it racing down, mingling with her own moistness. Her knees are tightly pressed together now and he spreads them wide.

SEE ME.

He does-slowly, carefully, and precisely. He carries her to the bed. She sees he has brought some toys with him this time and trembles in anticipation.

*          *          *

Was it minutes or hours later…Liz is awake, some noise or movement has stirred her. She tenses, then she feels him next to her and the memory of what they have done filters back.

HE STAYED.

HE MUST LOVE ME, and her alcohol-numbed mind tries to fill in the blanks of their future together. Of the exotic places he has promised to take her.

TOUCH ME.

And she moves closer, feels his shirt against her damp skin.

TOUCH ME. In answer to this silent prayer she feels him move, feels his hand brushing her shoulder, searching for her breasts. His fingernails stroke her. Smooth.

His hand leaves her…

Liz is thrown off the bed and her attacker swoops down upon her. Two hands close around her neck.

WHAT IS HAPPENING!

She tears at her neck to remove the fingers choking her.

HELP ME!

OH GOD.

Liz’s agony is replaced by terror as she realizes the hands around her neck are not his, that they tighten about her to quell her sobs for help.

The storm illuminates the room with sudden daylight.

Don’t fuck with him. I saw you, hanging your tits out the window like some milk cow…what didn’t you understand about what I told you? I thought we had an understanding, and you do this to me…SO WHERE ARE THEY? WHERE ARE THE DRAWINGS? TELL ME!

Never. Liz whispers the word. Bile is rising in her throat to her tongue and she knows she is going to be sick.

But the earth, the storm, the house, the room…all are mute to her agony.

Wet Welcome

Racheal’s clothing had adhered to her skin like a veneer of plastic and separate oceans of sweat were fully formed under each of her thighs. Her purchase of real Corinthian upholstery was turning out to be less a luxury and more an insight into the Spanish Inquisition. And she’d chosen the leather over air conditioning.

Jackass. This was beyond horrible. The waterfall of rain made visibility so poor that she looked forward to the illumination that the lightning provided. She turned the radio louder. Beach Boys made staccato by static. Good, now she could DO-RUN-RUN all the rest of the way-safe in the happy music of her childhood. Yes indeed! Drive and enjoy a wet dream filled with blond haired, dark-tanned boys and big, wet waves.

A-DO-RUN-RUN.

Run, run, all the way home.

*          *          *

LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!

HIDE. NO. NO! STEPS. NO. THE WIND.

Liz’s assailant is in a frenzy of excitement. Shirt and slacks must be forced on. Wet from rain and sweat. AND WET FROM HER, THE BITCH. 10

The intruder sits on the window seat and finishes dressing. The storm is still at its height.

GOOD, GOOD, NO ONE WILL SEE ME.

WHERE WOULD SHE HIDE THEM?

But the thrill of exacting revenge is being replaced by caution, and

I MUSTN’T FUCK THIS UP. LOOK FOR THEM LATER.

Liz’s torment had been planned, but not to the extent that she’d end up an unconscious heap on the floor.

BUT IT WAS WORTH IT.

Dressed, the intruder stops, listens.

I NEED LIGHT.

Even with eyes attuned to the darkness only some small illumination will give assurance that no trace of identity has been overlooked. A penlight is pulled from a pocket and its beam briefly scans the room. But the intruder has been careful.

Except for…

The matchbook lies in plain view on the nightstand.

Liz’s assailant pauses considering the possibilities of leaving it where it is.

NO!

This tiny piece of evidence, this insignificant piece of cardboard and sulfur could shatter a lifetime of planning…

AND YET…

The slim piece of evidence is quickly pocketed.

No one will ever see it again.

A rasping gasp of horror. The penlight holds Liz’s anguished face in its beam.

I DO NOT WANT TO SEE HER.

*          *          *

The rain has finally stopped and Racheal slumps into the car seat, feeling the toll an hour of intense concentration has taken on her shoulders and neck. She rolls down the window and a strong, cool breeze rushes into the car, drying and refreshing her. She can taste the salt in it. Almost there. Relief that her journey, of the past year and of the day, is almost behind her.

The car comes from an unlit side road. Plowing forward through the lakes of rainwater on the road, directly into the path of her car. Racheal hits her brakes but the wet pavement offers no traction and she skids. Her mind records the events that seem to be progressing in slow motion.

DON’T SLOW DOWN YOU STUPID IDIOT. GO. GO.

For a sickening instant Racheal is sure the driver of the car is going to try to stop.

AS FRIGHTENED AS ME.

And as incapable as she is of changing course or braking. In the last possible moment the car accelerates past her.

Racheal’s brakes lock and she skids through an immense pool of water, then to an abrupt stop that stalls her engine.

Racheal glances up and a Chamber of Commerce billboard catches her eye-WELCOME TO VERATEAGUE.

At The Old Cardinal Cottage

Beau Palmer had been waiting so long that the week-old, half-eaten bag of popcorn in the backseat was beginning to look appetizing. He’d been stupid to suggest this meeting. It wasn’t standard procedure, but a generous mood had overtaken him when he’d seen Racheal West’s gray eyes and dark blond hair. He’d met her only briefly when she’d driven down with the papers he needed to arrange the settlement. Thoroughly beguiled, he’d offered to see that the house was cleaned and to open it up for the movers.

WHAT A FUCKED IDEA.

Vitcusky Van Lines had called around 6 p.m. with apologies. Couldn’t make it until tomorrow. He should have let her make her own arrangements for moving in. Once again he’d let his cock do the talking.

Bored, he turned the interior light on in his car and tried again to decipher what was written on the index card.

7:30 p.m. or 9:30 p.m.? He’d been sure it was 7:30 when he’d left the office. Then he couldn’t find his car keys, the rain had begun, the card had become wet, and when he’d finally gotten the door to his townhouse open and rechecked it he’d found nothing but smeared blue ink where the time had been jotted down. A fitting end to a crappie day. So he’d rushed into the house, fed Trinket, grabbed a Fresca from the fridge and

raced out to meet the lovely Racheal. The Pepsi was long gone, the card was still damp, and for the last 45 minutes he’d felt like a total asshole.

Must be 9:30 and she was a friend of Hoolie’s…shit Hoolie was late to everything.

LORD SHE’S PROBABLY JUST LIKE HER.

Which meant he’d be getting to the Baybranch too late to order dinner. The kitchen closed at nine. Beau hated drinking on an empty stomach.

The humidity in the car was beginning to become unbearable. His neatly pressed shirt and slacks had long since become a mass of wrinkles. Maybe he would just forget going to the Baybranch tonight: Beau began to conjure up a nice alternative…Racheal West, grateful at his having waited so long on such a shitty night, eager for some company on her first night in a strange town…

He should have brought some wine…made a real effort to welcome her to the neighborhood.

Beau had taken over the sale from Jim Gibbons, who at 63 had decided he was ready for warm winters and the cozy company of a plump eighteen-year-old to share them with. Jim had subsequently resigned his position as MacArthur Realty’s only million dollar agent; picked-up Ollie and Betty Mei’s youngest daughter Leeza, and headed south. His fellow deacons at the Calvary Baptist Church spent months afterward torn between moral outrage and blathering jealousy. Beau hadn’t thought the old boy had it in him and remembered Jim with new-found respect. What he’d done had taken brass balls.

A random memory flickered. What had Hoolie said? Something about going to school with her-yeah, that was it. He should have pumped Hoolie for more information about the mysterious Mrs. West. But he hadn’t seen much of her since she’d gotten so cozy with Joe Ryan. Hoolie dating a cop-it was hard to imagine. Still, Racheal seemed very unlike Hoolie, quiet, even aloof, but her pretty face and long legs had made an even greater impression. He picked up the file he’d brought with him from the office. Jim had kept excellent notes on all his clients, had prided himself on being able to impress by effortlessly remembering birthdays, anniversaries, and hobbies. Beau opened the folder and began leafing through the pages.

It was a piece of incredible luck that Racheal West had gotten the old Cardinal cottage. It had been tied up in court for years. In fact everything owned by the Gabriel family had been mired in legalities forever. Mrs. Gabriel had