It’s strange at night how reality changes mood—the lack of actuality not only alters our perceptions, but also influences our thought processes.
I watched the day die over the lake—it was overcast, so there was no solemn sunset to toast with a glass of wine, and night came sooner than usual.
That was to be expected, I suppose—although there’s civic twilight and there’s nautical twilight. The day lasts much longer on or near water. I confess I was hoping the day would be prolonged, but no such consolation.
It was one of those consequences of needing to be surrounded by light when someone who was close to you is gone.
I wasn't sure if isolating in a cottage was such a good idea after all. Marnie meant well, but lake breezes and deserted beaches might be invigorating in sunshine, but at night, the blue wind returns.
My journal lay open under the desk lamp. I could’t bear seeing the unforgiving pages—such recrimination from mere vellum.
I’d rather be in the French restaurant in town scribbling on napkins. I’ve always been a kitchen table kind of guy.
Okay, maybe that was a partial fantasy about Jill. See what I mean about how the mind plays tricks? Hell, she wrote her name with a heart on a restaurant bill—it wasn’t a billet doux, but she did smile a lot, and it was a French restaurant.
Argggh! I didn't know if I were just adjusting to the silence, or starting to obsess again.
I went to the window and peered out. My pale face stared back at me, and the lake was pitch black. Who knew water could be so dark?
Frustrated, I grabbed my car keys and coat, but stopped myself before I was halfway to the door. Who was I trying to fool? I was running away again—running from myself.
What was it about silence that seemed so frightening?
I forced myself to go back and sit down on the couch. I can light a fire I told myself, and simply be. Listen to soft music or the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock.
That was the thing about silence—I wasn't just the absence of sound, but the fact that I was alone.
I got up and poured myself some wine and on purpose sat before the fire, and allowed myself time to just unwind.
The night was filled with moaning and gnashings, and the tick of ice against the windowpane.
I groaned inwardly but was too tired to check outside. An ice storm in late October…What the hell was happening to our weather?
When I awoke at dawn, the room was bright with a strange gray light. I got up and parted the drape and my jaw dropped. I looked outside to see a world asleep in the faint light of snow.
I glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand but the digits were dark. It was cold in the house.
Damn! The power was off.
Just what I needed—a freak early winter storm.
Can’t be helped, I thought as I dressed in the early morning gloom.
I could light a fire and muddle through, but needed coffee and forgot to check the stove. If it were electric, I wouldn’t have my morning jolt.
But, the cottage was close to the main drag—so, you never know. Maybe the gas lines went down this far, or the stove was propane.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the burner and grates of an old-style gas stove.
I felt reprieved but still house bound. Without electricity the gas pumps in town wouldn’t be working and the restaurants and stores probably closed.
Oh well, another day without Jill.
I really have to get control, I smiled to myself, as I filled the kettle.
Fortunately, my laptop and cell phone were charged, so I created a personal hotspot and got on the Internet with my Mac Air.
I made French toast.
I know, I was obsessing about a waitress who happened to smile at me and wrote a friendly message on the bill. So sad to be me.
Between bites of my maple syrup drenched toast and sips of coffee I found that Dover was buried under two feet of white beauty and it’d probably take days to dig out. So nice to have Internet.
Lovely, just lovely.
Speaking of digging out, I glanced out the window at my car and my heart sank. It was sitting buried under an enormous snowdrift.
It looked like my morning was already planned out for me.
As much as I dreaded venturing out into the drifts, I felt compelled to do it. I hated being closed in, and already the thought of being snowbound in a cottage for days was making me claustrophobic.
To make matters worse, I didn’t have snow boots—I mean, who’d have thunk it?
As it turned out, Bart, Marnie’s husband had a pair of rubber boots that fit me just fine. They weren’t lined but they’d keep the snow out.
There was a broom and a garden spade on the back porch so I figured I’d use these to dig the car out and then search the backyard shed for snow shovels.
I didn’t look forward to tackling the long driveway.
It took over an hour to dig out and brush off the car, and although I was tired, I decided to check the shed for snow shovels.
When I opened the double doors, my heart stopped. There was a heavy-duty snow blower sitting there and beside it two full gas cans.
I primed the engine and prayed as I pulled the starter cord. The motor roared to life, and after a few preliminary puffs of blue smoke, it ran perfectly.
I plowed from the shed to the car making a two foot-wide path and then continued onto the road.
If push came to shove—yeah, I know that's a lame pun, I’d clear a path down the entire street to one of the primary roads if necessary, to give me a way out.
I shook my head at the thought. Now, that was being obsessive.
The scrape of a snow shovel on a nearby driveway brought me back to the present and I was about to wave a greeting when I noticed the resident.
It was Jill from the French restaurant.
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