by Sarah Graves
The first, smaller explosion … “Later, when the planes went over and the house shifted some more, the leak reopened. The gas collected, stayed where it was as long as nothing more got shoved around, but when it did, it just took a spark—”
A huge, long-tailed gold streamer rose up into the dark sky, its body casting off bright pinwheels. The boom followed.
A long oooh of delight rose from the crowd; Leonora just sat open-mouthed, her eyes shining.
Fireworks, she mouthed silently, and at the next, a purple chrysanthemum with tongues of red flame licking from its center, the child laughed aloud.
After that, they all just sat watching, the succession of booming reports as the spectacle went on, making talk impossible.
An arm rested on Jake’s shoulder, startling her. “Hey.”
It was Wade. She leaned against him as overhead a fire snake spiraled, spitting sparks. A flaming pinwheel turned; then a white flash lit the night, and another. And …
When the fireworks were over at last, parents gathered up their children and belongings as older folks lugged lawn chairs back to their cars. Middle-schoolers, delighted to be downtown and on the street at night, roughhoused and ran in the parking lots, burning off some of their seemingly inexhaustible energy.
Wade eyed her judiciously. “Want to ride home with me in the truck?”
“You bet.” She felt like the truck had hit her. Out of the hospital was not, apparently, synonymous with “all better.” She even let him help her into the vehicle; when had that dratted passenger seat gotten so far up off the ground, anyway?
Instead of going straight home, however, he headed out Water Street to the north end of the island; where the street ended in a graveled circle drive, he pulled up and parked.
The water was dark, intermittently flared across by the turning beam of the lighthouse strobe on Cherry Island. Beyond, the hills of New Brunswick loomed, the sky behind deep indigo.
Wade rolled his window down; the fragrant night drifted in, smelling of sea salt, beach roses, and a bonfire of driftwood on the beach somewhere. Leaning together, they sat for a while in silence; she’d thought she wanted to talk.
But there wasn’t anything to say. At last Wade started the truck again and drove slowly home through the soft, island-summer night.
Pulling in, he cut the headlights. Fireflies flashed at the back of the yard. “I want to have his remains sent home,” Jake said, “when the authorities release them. And buried decently.”
It felt like the least she could do, she who had so much. Helping her down, Wade nodded easily in agreement.
A few yards away on the porch sat Sam, Bella, and Jake’s father, with the dogs, Monday and Prill, at their feet. As she crossed the lawn toward them, they all got up, even Monday, whose face opened prettily in a sweet, old-dog smile.
Lucky, Jake thought, climbing the porch steps with Wade by her side, as they all went into the house for the night.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SARAH GRAVES lives with her husband in Eastport, Maine, in the 1823 Federal-style house that helped inspire her books. This series and the author’s real-life experiences have been featured in House & Garden and USA Today. She is currently at work on the newest Home Repair Is Homicide mystery.