On Second Thought(96)

Then there was a crash, a flash and a huge branch came down about twenty feet in front of us.

“I’m going to bring you to my place,” Jonathan said. “It’s closer. You can wait out the storm there. Is that all right?”

I glanced at my watch. It was 7:30 anyway. And it wasn’t like I had plans. “Sure. Thank you.”

The power seemed to have gone out; the houses we passed were dark. We saw more downed branches, and sure enough, a Con Edison truck passed us, lights flashing.

Jonathan turned onto a road that wound through the woods. The rain was so loud now, the wipers slapping frantically. Outside, the trees waved and bent, and clumps of leaves hit the car. I hoped nothing bigger would fall on us. It was getting a little nerve-racking.

Jonathan turned again, onto an even narrower road, this one dirt, that brought us out into some farmland. No trees to fall on us here, but the road was like a river, water gushing along the side of it. The headlights showed only rain and mud. The clouds were so thick and black that it seemed like midnight.

We turned again, and when the lightning flashed, I saw a big white farmhouse and red barn. Jonathan’s headlights illuminated a stone wall. “Wait for me,” he said, turning the key. He got out and, a second later, opened my door, holding his suit jacket over my head. “Let’s make a run for it.”

There were leaves all over the slate walkway, and the sharp smell of rain and summer thick in the air. Jonathan unlocked the door, and in we went. It was pitch-black. He took my hand and led me farther inside, my footsteps short and uncertain. “Stay right here,” he said. “I have a generator. I’ll just be a second.”

Then he was gone, the thunder swallowing all other sound.

I waited, my clothes sopping wet despite Jonathan’s effort to cover me. It smelled nice in here, like wood and maybe a little bit of cinnamon. A cluster of lightning flashes showed me that I was in an entryway with a bench and a door leading into the house.

A woman stood in front of me.

I screamed, my hands going up in front of me.

“Ainsley?” Jon’s voice was sharp.

“Who’s here?” I shrieked. “Someone’s here!”

Then the lights came on, and I looked up and saw my reflection.

I was standing in front of a mirror.

“Never mind,” I called. “I—It was me. Sorry.” And speaking of me, my hair looked ridiculous. I fluffed it up, ran my fingers under my eyes and fluffed out my soaking wet dress, sending raindrops pattering to the floor.

“Are you all right?” Jonathan stood before me, also soaked, though his hair looked quite...well, Darcy-esque; there was really no other word for it. Colin Firth and Jane Austen had ruined us chicks for other men, let’s face it.

“I saw my reflection. But I didn’t know it was me. Sorry for the screaming.”

He looked me up and down. “Would you like some dry clothes?”

“Um...sure. Thank you.”

He led me through his house, which was not at all what I expected. I’d pictured him...well, in many places. Hell, for one. A casket, for another, like Dracula needing to sleep on Transylvanian soil. That sterile condo.

But this house was big and rambling and filled with comfortable furniture and the occasional antique. Not the fussy kind that you don’t want to touch—rough, battered, we’re here because we’ve earned it kind of pieces. A grandfather clock, a big brown sofa with a patch of pink fabric on one arm. We went upstairs, and Jonathan went into his room, which featured a sleigh bed and fireplace. Old chest of drawers, pictures of his girls, a view of the fields from his windows.

“I don’t have any women’s clothes,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “You’re not a drag queen?”

He ignored that. “And you won’t fit into my daughters’ things.”

“Of course I won’t, Jonathan! I’m a grown woman. Just give me some sweats, okay?”

He complied. “You can change across the hall. There’s a bathroom, as well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kent.” I took the clothes he handed me, went across the hall and fell instantly in love.

It was the girls’ room, clearly; bunk beds, two desks filled with cheerful clutter and construction paper, a giant box-turned-playhouse with windows cut in it, flowers drawn in Magic Markers at the base. Bookcases surrounded a huge window seat, the shelves filled with piles of books and photos and little treasures—a music box, a porcelain cat. A hammock was strung across one corner, filled with stuffed animals. There was an enormous soft chair on one side of the bed, perfect for reading and cuddling.

I took off my dress, laid it across the desk chair and pulled on Jonathan’s sweatpants (which fit far too well; I’d have to go on a diet very soon). He’d given me a flannel shirt, too. Huh. I didn’t picture him owning one. An ascot, yes. Flannel...not so much.

The photos on the bookshelves called to me.

Damn.

There he was, holding a little white burrito of a baby, smiling into the camera with all the happiness a man could have. Emily, I decided. He looked so young in the picture. And there was another, Jonathan holding toddler Emily in one arm, infant Lydia in the other, smiling at Emily as she touched her baby sister on the nose with one shy finger.

Another of him with the girls on Halloween. One of him coming out of the water with Lydia. Nice abs, I noted. His, not Lydia’s. Another shot of him holding Emily, pointing at something in the sky.