The Shadow of Your Smile (29 page)

She swallowed her heart back into her chest. She knew that kind of howl. Especially on a night like this.

Tucking her hand into her blanket, Issy moved to the door, then locked it. She turned off the kitchen light and peered out into the darkness.

No glowing eyes peering back at her, no snaggletoothed monster groping at her window. She flipped on the outside light. It bathed the cedar porch, the cushions of her faded teak furniture blowing in the wind, held only by their flimsy ties. Her potted geraniums lay toppled, black earth muddy and smeared across the porch, and at the bottom of the steps, the storm had flattened her bleeding heart bush.

At the very least, she should cover her mother’s prized Pilgrim roses.

Issy dumped the afghan in a chair, rolled up her pant legs, grabbed a Windbreaker hanging in the closet near the door, and pulled the hood over her head.

Unbolting the door, she eased out into the rain. The air had a cool, slick breath, and it raised gooseflesh on her arms. The deluge had stirred to life the Scotch of her white pine, a grizzled sentry in the far corner, its shaggy arms gesturing danger.

But who would hurt her here, in her backyard? Not only that, but her father had built the Titanic of all fences, with sturdy pine boards that hemmed her in, kept the world out, with the exception of Lucy, who used it as a shortcut on her way to town.

It wasn’t like Issy actually locked the gate. Okay, sometimes. Okay, always. But Lucy had a key to the gate as well as the house, so it didn’t really matter.

Splashing down the stairs, she dashed across the wet flagstones, past her dripping variegated hosta, the verbena, the hydrangea bush, too many of the buds stripped. The rugosa, too, lay in waste.

She wouldn’t look. Not until tomorrow. Sometimes it worked better that way, to focus on what she could save. On what she still had.

Reaching the shed, she dialed the combination and opened it. She grabbed the plastic neatly folded on the rack by the door, scooped up two bricks, and dashed back to the porch. Rain couldn’t quite smatter the roses here, under the overhang. Still, just in case . . . she weighted one end of the plastic with the bricks on the porch, then unfolded it over the flowers. Grabbing stones from the edging of her bed, she secured the tarp, then ran back to the shed for another pair of weights.

The howl tore through the rain again, reverberating through her.

She froze, her heart in her mouth.

Something moved. Over by the end of the porch.

The sky chose then to crack open and pour out its rage in a growl that lifted her feet from the earth.

And not only hers.

Whatever it was—she got only a glimpse—it came straight at her, like she might be prey. She screamed, dropped the bricks, and sprinted for the porch. Her foot slipped on the slick wood and she fell, hard. Her chin cracked against the wood, and then the animal pounced.

“No! Get away!” But it didn’t maul her, didn’t even stop. Just scrambled toward the door.

The pane of glass waterfalled onto the floor as the beast careened into her kitchen. Issy froze as the animal—huge and hairy—skidded across the linoleum.

It came to a stop, then lay there, whining.

A dog. A huge dog, with a face only a mother could love, eyes filled with terror, wet and muddy from its jowls down.

“Nice doggy . . . nice . . .”

Lightning must have illuminated her, and the animal simply panicked. It turned and shot off through her house. Toenails scratching her polished wood floors.

“Come back!”

In the front parlor, a crash—not the spider plant!

The dog emerged back out into the hall and shot up the stairs.

“No! C’mere, boy!” Issy’s bare feet stopped her at the threshold. The glass glistened like ice on the floor. Perfect. “Don’t break anything!”

She darted off the porch, around the path of the garden, opened the gate, and ran through the slippery grass to the front of the house.

Thumper the rabbit still hid the key, and now she retrieved it and inserted it into the door.

The squeal of rubber against wet pavement came from her memory—or perhaps she only hoped it did. Then a crash, the splintering of metal, the shattering of glass.

She turned.
No.

Under the bloody glow of the blinking stoplight, a sedan had T-boned a minivan. Already, gas burned the air.

Her hand went to her face, to the raised memory on her forehead, and she shook her head as if to clear away the images.

She should call 911. But she could only back into her house.

She shut the door and palmed her hands against it, the cool wood comforting.
Just . . . breathe. Just . . .

Her breath tumbled over her, and she felt the whimper before it bubbled out.

God, please . . .
What was her verse?
“If God is for us”
 . . . No . . . no, the one Rachelle had given her.
“God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power—”

She heard shouts and closed her eyes, pressed her hand to her chest, heat pouring through her.

Just breathe.

Issy slid to the floor.

You’re safe. Don’t panic. Just breathe.