Kitt’s father hadn’t handled the diagnosis well, and their marriage quickly became one of many dreams that fell as a casualty to autism. Her ex had quickly remarried—happily or unhappily, she didn’t know and didn’t really care. Other than to be annoyed at times that he had moved on so fast, believing it meant the relationship they had before Kitt mattered less because of it. Which makes me feel like a fool, she thought, swallowing again, because I loved him.
A low rumble edged into the room, grabbing her attention. Her isolated home sat on the outskirts of town, positioned alongside a copse of hardwood trees, somewhat rare in this section of the state. The sound grew until it enveloped her little house, windows shaking in their frames for a few moments. She watched through the front windows as headlights slashed through the night, flickering across the outside of her house before continuing on their way.
Odd, she thought, because there was hardly any traffic on her road during the day, much less at night. Someone must be lost. I’m sure I’ll see their lights headed back out in a minute or two.
The narrow blacktop road dead-ended about a mile past her home. There was only one other house on the road, and once the excitement of the bridge washing out a couple years ago faded, there was nothing to warrant travelers to where the little creek meandered around the backside of her property.
That house, on the market now for more than a decade, once belonged to the uncle of a good friend, but the owner had been dead longer than the house had been for sale. Maybe Blackie sold the place, she thought. Just one more line on her mental list of things-to-do and she made a note to ask him about it when she talked to him in the morning. He and his wife Peaches were one of a half a dozen calls she would make once Kitt got up. Handling the frightening first contact to ensure there’d be no misdials or identification missteps. Waiting for his signal all was well, then passing the phone off to him so he could express his thanks for the gifts in safety. She, in turn, would receive thanks from their children, all five of whom she loved dearly.
Blackie had been a friend when she needed one in the worst way, and they had stayed in touch through the years. He had saved her in so many ways; she would be forever grateful, not just for what he had done, but for his continued friendship. Months could go by between calls and yet, when they talked, it seemed as if they saw each other every day. I love him so hard, she thought, shifting in her chair. She suddenly realized that, for a while now, she had been listening to the skritching crackle of the record needle circling the inner grooves of the album. Setting down her glass, she shook her head.
“Time for bed, chickie,” she said softly, pushing up from the chair and turning to where the record player sat on top of the entertainment center. She reached and turned off the player at the same time she grabbed the empty record sleeve from where it leaned against the player. Record safely stowed, she had just turned to retrieve her glass and book when her front entryway echoed with knocking on the door. Not just knocking, but nearly a pounding that quickly, thankfully, ceased. “What the hell…”
Glancing out the front window, she saw the silhouette of a body outlined from the security light on a pole across the driveway from the house. The intent of the light was to cast a welcoming and safe-feeling circle of light on the yard and drive. While it was successfully doing that, it failed to illuminate the porch very well, which meant she could only see the outline of the body standing and facing away from her door.
A man, large and broad, clothes dark, hair glinting in the light, either silver or blond. A man, on her front porch—she glanced at the clock on the front of the DVR—at eleven at night. A man she didn’t know—she looked beyond him at the empty driveway—with no apparent mode of transportation. He twisted at the waist, turning to look at her front door and she caught a glimpse. Not enough to really see his face, unless you counted what appeared to be look of frustration and anger telegraphed by the squinting of his eyes and twisted, tight line of his lips seen in silhouette.
He moved then, one arm stretching out to again pound at her door no doubt, that motion halted when he caught sight of her through the window. Leaning in, his upper torso entered the light cast from her living room lamps and her breath caught for a moment. Beautiful, was the first thought to enter her mind, then she corrected herself, murmuring, “No, too rugged. He’s flat-out handsome.”