LUCES

Wheeeeeeeew…

.The whipping wind viciously howled, its dagger-like nails scraping hard across the thin, slate roof in a frantic attempt to claw the whole place open. Another frightful storm closing yet another unseasonable day…

May was typically a euphoric reverie of brilliant, blooming flowers that drew even the most tired, hibernating homebodies out for refreshing, noontime strolls and lively terrace dinners, but so far this year, May was monstrous—a ghastly recurring nightmare gifting nothing but treacherous, flooded streets and disgusting, muddy hems.

“Gifting? Hah! That’s no gift, my dear!” old cobbler William comically bellowed earlier today as I packaged his purchase, his plump, wrinkled cheeks quickly pinkening as his deep, hearty hoot robbed him of his air, leaving nothing behind but a painful smoker’s wheeze.

He recovered in time, though, to add that spring was God’s cruelest joke, it merely, “a gussied-up excuse for women to run amiss as the gossiping hens they are before the farmhand Summer’s crushing heat locks them back inside!” I simply grinned and nodded, gently handing over his bag as he proudly bragged that they run so well due to his brilliant left-shoe invention, and after tipping his weathered derby and wishing me a wonderful morning, he slowly sauntered out, seemingly having forgotten I was one of those hens, too.

Now draping my navy, woolen shawl carefully across my shoulders, I strode through the entry onto the portico, needing to douse the lanterns. The frigid, blustery wind irately sprayed the furious downpour icily onto my neck, instantly soaking my day cap, and the second the chore was finished, I hurried back inside, my light blue boots clacking as quickly and chaotically over the entry’s smooth, gray stones as a frightened, stampeding horse. With the door firmly shut, I paused, shivered, and moaned, then moved to the fire to dry my dripping side. Just a minute in that torrent, and I was drenched!

I stamped my feet on the thin, chestnut boards, rubbing my hands next to the red-brick hearth while leaning in closer to dry the day cap ruffles now clinging to my face. Between each loud clunk of my heels, I heard Father in his office counting this afternoon’s earnings, and for that, I was grateful, as he would’ve scolded my recklessness if he saw how I stepped out. So improperly dressed!

We closed early today since no one called in such squalls, and truthfully, it was a relief, as we were exhausted from the extra work brought on by these storms. We also slept dreadfully each night from them, with neither Father nor I resting more than a few hours daily this whole month, and the fatigue wore us greatly. After Father finished this evening, I’d implore him to retreat to the drawing room in our home behind the shop for a bit of bourbon while I cooked, and then, we’d retire early—and pray these storms would cease long enough for us to finally rest.

Another moment delighting in the heat, and I crossed the room to check the windows, staring as I went at my baby blue skirt lightly sashaying over my toes. The hem was gradually fraying, as well as stained from Claudette’s unfortunate trample at Milton Dover’s birthday last month. This dress was ancient now, so Father was imploring me to replace it. However… It was my most beloved! Couldn’t it simply be repaired?

Ah, but the windows… Yes. They loved to leak in weather even half as awful, so I inspected all six on the shop’s front wall—the ones bearing the brunt of the storm. They displayed many items, anything from medicines to candies to little dolls and books. Whatever our best products that week, we carefully perched them in each display to lure passersby, but if the windows leaked, all would be ruined. And just my luck, water was dripping down each pane and steadily pooling on each sill. I sighed, wondering when Father would replace them. We certainly had the money, so his hesitation was inexplicable—and nearly unforgiveable!

I hurried back into the storm and quickly slammed the shutters, locking them tightly so the wicked wind wouldn’t whip them ajar, and after bolting the last one, I determined Father’s hesitation was, in fact, unforgiveable, as I was now soaked to my skin. I turned to race to his office, wanting to scold him for hoarding money, however…

My word…

Across the street, beyond the raging river on the other side of Father’s dock—where the dark, wide Delaware roughly surged and swelled against the first rolling fields of Jersey—the Hoyt’s back lantern suddenly blazed. For the first time in six months.

Breathless and nearly faint, I rushed into Father’s office.

“My—! Heavens! Emmeline! What is the matter? You’re pale as a ghost! And dripping!”

He stood from his mahogany chair and started toward me, stopping first for a fluffy, pink towel in the oak-doored closet on his left. He wrapped it gently around my shoulders, then firmly gripped my elbows with his thick, calloused hands, worriedly gazing into my frightened, welling eyes as his bushy, graying brows deeply furrowed.

“Father…” I finally found the strength to whisper, shaking a bit from the chill of the rain. “Outside… I was latching the shutters, and… The Hoyts’…”

“The Hoyts?” he slowly prompted, too bewildered by my fright to wait.

“The Hoyts’…back lantern lit.”

We stared incredulously at each other, trying to fathom the news. Then, my father’s red-tinged, fawn skin turned ivory, too, and it was my turn to clutch him.

“Father!”

“Yes, Emmeline. I’m alright. I’m alright… This is…a miracle.”

“It is, Father. So I’m going.”

I released his arms and turned, but he snatched my hand and stopped me.

“Emmeline! Don’t be ridiculous! You cannot go out in this storm! The trip is too long by land, and the river’s far too violent. You’ll drown! Or fall ill! I cannot have that, Emmeline. Your life is far more precious—”

“Father, I understand your concern, but I’ve taken many a perilous journey during dark and stormy nights, including across that river. And as always, I will be fine. And to say my life is far more precious than Ira’s… Well, maybe to you, but that’s not quite so for me. Now, I beg you, unhand me.”

He gazed in awe, astonished that his precious, delicate girl was now a bold, grown woman able to stand her ground, and after comprehending his loss of control over my actions, pride filled his weary eyes, prompting his slow, reluctant release.

“Very well, my dear. Just please…dress warmly.”

“Of course, Father.”

I hugged him tightly, then ran to the door, pausing only to don my black, woolen cloak and matching, black bonnet still dangling on the rack. Once fastened, I directed Father for supper.

“Can you manage the soup? Everything is prepared and the fire already started. Just add it to the pot and boil.”

“Yes, my dear. I’ll be fine. Just go. I’ll keep watch for your return.”

“Yes, Father. Goodbye!”

“Goodbye, Emmeline.”

I dashed outside and down the portico, crossing the flooding, brick road until on the creaking, swaying dock. The river splashed frantically onto my skirt, but I did not care. Nothing could dampen the blaze now in my heart, so I hopped onto the lurching lugger and heaved the hefty anchor, only Ira on my mind.

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