Page 58 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“Shea?” It was Holt.
“Yep, what’s up?”
“You need to get back to the lighthouse. Now.” The urgency in Holt’s voice stiffened her spine and brought Shea into full alert.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Pete. He fell.”
“Is he okay?” Shea knew he probably wasn’t if Holt was calling her. A broken ankle? Leg?
“Shea, he fell from the lighthouse.”
Her foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “What? Where?” She didn’t understand.
“He fell from the gallery—from the lighthouse balcony.”
“Oh no...” Shea breathed, her throat closing in instant panic.
“Drive careful, Shea, but get here ASAP. I called the EMTs, but ... I think it’s bad.”
23
THE FACTTHE AMBULANCE PASSED HERon the highway going toward Ontonagon from where she’d just been did nothing to make Shea feel any better. She had spun on the gravel shoulder, turning her car back toward Ontonagon and the hospital and thoughtshewas driving fast. She floored the gas pedal, remembering her childhood when her mom, for fun, would yell “pedal to the metal!” and take off at top speed from a stop sign. Probably not the best of parental choices, but it was a happy memory. Until now. Now when Shea had to apply it in an emergency. How had Pete fallen from the lighthouse of all places? A person didn’t just lean and flip over the side!
Shea pounded the wheel as trees whipped by on either side. Pete. Predictable Pete. A tear escaped her eyes, and then another. When had they grown so platonic? When they were younger, Pete had been the hometown boy, the one she wanted to plant her roots with. What had changed? Was it her? Was it her overblown romantic notions? Too many streaming-service romances that had gotten under her skin?
Thankful there were no four-way stops or intersections tomake her slow down, Shea glanced at her speed. Seventy-five? She could raise that by at least ten. Cops out here were few and far between, and the greater risk was in hitting wildlife. She increased her speed while considering literally flooring it.
A memory of Pete when they were newly married flooded her senses. He’d been at the kitchen table eating cereal. Shirtless. Wearing boxers. It was a Saturday morning, and twenty-something Shea had thought he was the sexiest thing since Mr. Darcy himself. She’d come up behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck, running her hands down his chest. The man had jumped—literally startled—sending his cereal bowl flying, milk spilling everywhere. His look had been incredulous. Stunned. Confused.
“What the heck are you doing?”He wasn’t angry; he was one hundred percent taken by surprise.
Shea recalled her laughter as milk dripped down his chest, but Pete had just stared at her. The shock of the moment had stilled him into wordlessness. Her smile had waned. He’d reached for a washcloth and begun cleaning up. He didn’t reprimand her, but he certainly didn’t respond the way she’d expected him to. The standard belief was wink at a man and he’d come running. But Pete? He liked predictability. She liked to act on impulse.
Even then the gap had widened between them. She’d even taken to reading books to see if her new husband was maybe on the spectrum somewhere. She’d asked herself how she’d not noticed his inability to do things on the spur of the moment. But there was no magic diagnosis. It was just Pete. She was just Shea. Back then she’d accepted it. Now?
Shea swiped at the tears that trailed down her cheeks. Guilt rolled in her stomach. Guilt about her attraction to Holt. Guilt that she was tired of Pete. Guilt that she still prayed he would somehow change and become, what, different? Fun? Affectionate?
Another memory slammed into her. That night a few yearsago when she’d been sick with stomach flu. He’d stood in the bathroom with her. He retrieved a cold washcloth for her forehead. He cleaned up the mess. He’d sat in the chair next to her until she fell asleep. When she’d awakened the next morning, he was still there. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with a mechanic’s manual on his lap.“You good?”he’d asked blandly.
She’d nodded. Then he had gone about his day.
Shea threw her head back against the headrest as she pushed the gas pedal even more toward the floor. He was boring. But he was there. He wasthere! How many women wouldkillto have a husband who was there. Always. Reliable. Never wavering. Maybe there were no clandestine kisses. Maybe he was immune to feminine wiles, but that was sort of nice too in a way. She knew he was faithful. When they were together, it was only her. He didn’t whisper dramatic words and memorable one-liners that could be the script for a romantic movie, but he was...
“Please, God,” Shea prayed aloud, “don’t let Pete die.”
“Is Pete okay? What’s going on?” Shea demanded, wrestling against Holt’s grip.
“Shea.”
“Let me go, Holt!” She wrenched away, took two steps, and then was caught again by Holt, this time with an arm around her waist, pulling her toward him. She knew everyone in the hospital was staring at her, but she didn’t care. Shea searched his face with desperation. What she saw sent cold waves through her body. “No. No, no, no.” She shook her head. The pulsating realization of grief knocked her knees out from under her.
Holt caught her against him. “He’s alive.”
Her breath caught, and she snapped her head back to stare at Holt. “He’s alive?”
“He is. It’s not as bad as I first thought.”
