Page 35 of Rainshadow

“Where have you been?” Sylvia asked.

Blythe started her car again, and Flora turned to wave at her once as she drove away.

“The police station mostly,” she said. “My house burned down. My mother is dead.”

She said it without emotion, without affect, and Sylvia responded in kind, almost as if she had expected the news. Sylvia nodded, looked up into the gray sky.

“So I suppose you’ll be forced to stay here. You have nowhere else to go.”

Flora leveled her gaze at Sylvia. “I think Ethan would want me to,” she said.

“Flora,” Sylvia whispered. “Please?—”

Whatever she was going to say, Flora didn’t stay to listen. Instead, she reached out, startling Sylvia as she took the horse’s lead.

“I’m going to train Zeta today,” she said. “You go in and rest.”

Sylvia stood watching her, stunned, as Flora led the horse away.

17

When tragedies happen, small communities like the one on Anderson Island have a way of coming together, even for people who lived on the margins. King’s grocery store put out a glass pickle jar to collect money for Flora. People donated clothes, shoes, and called Rainshadow to ask what else she needed. The only phone calls that came were for her, so she was the only one picking up the phone during the day. A local reporter tried to write a story about her, but she declined to be interviewed.

“We could get you more money,” the journalist said. “The story would go out to all of the islands, maybe get picked up in Seattle.”

“No, I have everything I need,” Flora had insisted.

She had a strange feeling, like it would be easy to upset the delicate situation she’d found herself in.

The first night after the fire, Flora was still in a kind of trance. She was not sad that the bus was gone and her mother was dead. In fact, it seemed almost to have been fate, a sort of cosmic coincidence that became destiny. She was meant to live at Rainshadow. Ethan wanted her there, of that she was certain. Now she had nowhere else to go, and Sylvia, heartless as Floraknew her to be, would not kick her out. She couldn’t. Ethan wouldn’t let her, and both of them knew it.

For three nights, Ethan was polite, sympathetic about the death of her mother, and a little bit distant, as though to make certain they were not too obvious in front of Sylvia. By the fourth night, though, Flora began to wonder if perhaps he had meant it when he said that they could not be together again, not even in secret. He did not come to her room, did not return her furtive glances, did not even linger with her after dinner, when Sylvia made a show of going to bed early and insisting he join her.

Then, on the fifth night, a Friday, Ethan made an announcement at yet another dinner where he did not eat. Only Flora and Sylvia had the perfectly roasted salmon filet that the cook prepared, with mashed potatoes and a small gem lettuce salad.

“I have a gift for you, Flora,” Ethan said, his lips twitched, like he was containing a smile.

“Oh?” Flora smiled and blushed a little, and her eyes slid over to see Sylvia take a huge gulp of her wine, then set it down, her own eyes burning into Ethan.

He lifted a set of beautiful silver gift boxes onto the table, pushing it over to her.

Sylvia watched, dead-eyed, as Flora opened the first one.

Inside, neatly folded, was a beautiful pair of riding breeches and a silky white dress shirt.

“Oh my god,” Flora said, and gasped. She had never owned anything so beautiful. She pulled the pants out and unrolled them, holding them to her body. “Ethan, I can’t believe this.”

Inside of the next box was a simple black satin dress, and a cashmere sweater. She fingered the silky cashmere, breathing out, shaking her head. “This is too much,” she whispered.

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry that you lost everything,” Ethan said. “I only hope this makes it… a little bit more bearable.”

Flora went to open the last box, but he stopped her.

“Open that later,” he said. “But I have one more thing.”

Onto the table he hefted a large burnt-orange box, and pushed it, too, across the table.

Inside, Flora found the most magnificent pair of riding boots she’d ever seen in her life. Polished black leather, calf-high, supple as a kid glove and sleek as a black cobra. She marveled at them, unbelieving.

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