Joss Fuller was daydreaming about his mother’s tomato pie when lightning struck the Damselfly Inn.
He’d watched the storm smudge the horizon on the drive into town, marveled at the tumble of thunderheads sweeping across Lake Champlain towards Thornton, Vermont. By the time he crested the last rise, heading west towards his parents’ farm on County Road, the rain was coming down hard.
Driving into the snaps of electricity in the sky and the deep growls of thunder over the valley of pasture and marsh where he’d grown up, Joss was considering a cold beer in front of some pre-season football and the difference between one slice of roasted tomatoes, cheddar, basil, and his mother’s ribbon-worthy cornmeal crust or two.
The bolt that took out the huge maple tree in the Damselfly’s side yard took Joss by surprise. His first thought was: shit, that hit the Swifts’ place! His second was to haul his pickup back into the road. Between the distraction and the gusting wind, he’d almost ditched the truck. When the limb that shaded the house’s third floor snapped like a broken bone, leaving a steaming, ragged wound in the tree, Joss realized the lightning hadn’t hit the actual building, but the damage was done. The limb had pushed its way through the old Victorian’s skin, puncturing the roof of what had once been a thoroughly creepy attic.
The rain would likely prevent anything from burning, but there could very well have been guests in that attic room. He’d heard from his Mom that the new owner - the innkeeper - had transformed the attic into a bridal suite. Getting a good look at it was his mother’s new project. The innkeeper had become a favorite customer at the Fuller Dairy since her arrival in the valley earlier that summer. Joss wasn’t sure if his mother was trying to fix him up or whether she just liked the newcomer, but Nan Grady had been a popular topic ever since she arrived in town.
He’d noticed her around. You couldn’t not notice someone new in a town like Thornton. With the college kids mostly gone for the summer, new faces stuck out, and hers was a pretty one. She was on the petite side, too. Not strong enough, he figured, to cope with the mess that was happening to her home that very moment.
He’d figured on making her acquaintance before too long. His best friend Jack and Jack’s sister Kate were the reason she’d relocated to Thornton. It was only a matter of time. He hadn’t figured on the storm intervening.
Joss was already pulling into the Swifts’ driveway - he made another mental note to himself as he passed the understated carved sign announcing the Damselfly Inn: no longer the Swifts’ house - when the lights started snapping on inside the house, marking a trail from the apartment over the garage, down through the kitchen and into the front hall. He was pounding on the front door when the upstairs hall lit up, but the front door was locked, and the rest of the inn stayed dark.
***
Nan Grady was tracing glossy lettering across a misdirected postcard when her house split open.
Greetings from Myrtle Beach S.C.! The card was a vintage-styled one, with each drop-shadowed block letter featuring a scene from the beach. She turned it over to read the note, to mull over the intended recipient. The handwriting was young, full and looping.
“Danny, it’s not this pretty where we live now, but the beach is awesome. I miss you. Maybe you can come down here some time. It’s warmer than Vermont anyway. Love, Ellie.”
The postcard was addressed to Danny B. (heart, flower, star), 2810 County Road, Thornton Vermont. It had arrived that afternoon, nearly lost in the myriad catalogs, flyers, and bills in the mail. Something about the sender’s bittersweet tone gave Nan pause, and she carried it upstairs to her apartment, meaning to drop it in her purse for her next run into town. She suspected Gary at the Thornton Post Office would know exactly who Danny B. was.
Myrtle Beach sounded like a perfect alternative to the late summer collision of weather fronts currently heaving itself down from the Adirondacks. Outside, the early evening sky had gone gunmetal gray, roiling with clouds. The rain was static punctuated by sharp cracks of thunder, and Nan could hear the wind buffeting the walls of the old house.
The storm continued its tantrum as it drove eastward, rushing up to and over the Green Mountains like water over a spillway. Rain pelted down, blown nearly horizontal, and the huge maple tree behind the inn groaned in protest.
There would be a mess to clean up in the yard come morning.
She’d come upstairs to wait out the thunderstorm in the snug comfort of her apartment over the garage. It was a disorienting feeling still, the newness of owning this grand old house, and living in two rooms that were only attached to it by the stairs off the kitchen whose walls framed the breezeway between the house and the garage. A heady feeling, though, owning the gracious yellow Victorian, opening it to travelers, hosting treasured memories, making a home for herself in this place she was quickly coming to love.
Nan turned the card over one last time, imagining thick South Carolina heat and the light tease of seabreeze. White heat lit up her living room, throwing everything into Hitchcock-esque relief for a heartbeat; when the thunder shattered the air no more than a half-second later, the lights blinked and the house shook with the impact.
She was on her feet and running for the stairs, pausing only to grab her Maglite from the coffee table drawer, and the card fluttered, forgotten, to rest on the braided rug.
A cold wind tumbled down from the third floor to meet her in the foyer.
With a hard knot of dread already forming in her stomach, she raced up to the third floor landing. She yanked open the door to the Adirondack Suite with her heart pounding.
The scene inside the room struck her like a fist. Rain was pouring in through the remains of the gabled roof, lumber and insulation hanging down like broken bones and torn flesh. The hot smell of ozone was fresh in the air. Shingles and debris littered the floor. The silk drapes whipped and snapped at the sills. A limb from the ancient maple tree that grew next to the house lay across the sleigh bed, its raw end sizzling.
“Oh, god. No,” she said aloud to the empty room, her voice swallowed by the noise of the storm. “No.”
She forced herself to loosen the death grip in which she held the doorknob. She forced herself to inhale and exhale. If she let herself cry, she would fall apart entirely.
The rainwater was pooling in the dips and hollows of the old pine floorboards. She cast around for something to soak up the puddles, for something to catch the deluge. A paper cup, she thought with a hysteric giggle, like that song from her childhood. Shock was making her head fuzzy. She had cleaning supplies, a bucket and towels, in the hall utility closet, but what the hell was she going to do about the hole in her roof?
Out in the hallway, she paused. Someone was banging on the front door; a voice muffled by the storm and three floors of space was calling. She waited, counting the thumping of her heart—one-two, one-two, one-two—but the pounding was persistent.
She jumped when a man’s voice called her name from downstairs.
“Miss Grady? Hello! Is anyone up there? Hello?”
She thought of her phone, waiting for her back in her apartment. The man calling knew her name, but she had no idea who she was facing, alone in the house in a storm. She gripped the flashlight tightly and started slowly down the stairs.
They all reached the second story landing at the same time. Nan stopped short in relief. Walt Fuller, the dairy farmer from down the road, stood in the second floor hallway in a dripping slicker and muddy boots, with a younger man in a sweatshirt and ball cap at his side.
“Miss Grady? Are you all right?” Walt asked, catching his breath.
Nan almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. Not by a long shot. There was a tree branch in her bridal suite. There were muddy boot tracks on the hallway runner. Panic welled up in her chest again, but she forced it down when she saw Walt’s expression. He must have heard the lightning strike, seen her roof, and come running to find out if she’d been underneath it.
She was all right. The suite was another story.
“I’m fine, Mr. Fuller. The room upstairs—” She started to shake and pressed her hand against her mouth, fearing she might cry after all.
“Come on down to the kitchen, now, Miss Grady. Molly will make tea for you, and Joss here’s going to go take a look at your damage.” Walt gestured to his companion.
As Walt Fuller put a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the stairs, she looked back at the younger man. His eyes were the same shade as the thunderheads outside, and he gave exuded quiet competence in a way that momentarily quelled the panic brewing in her belly.
“I’ll be down in a bit.” He spoke to his father, but his eyes stayed on her.
In the kitchen, Molly Fuller was boiling water and getting out the tea and teapot.
“I went ahead and poked around your kitchen, hon. I hope that’s ok,” she said to Nan, before turning to her eyes to her husband. “How bad is it?”
“Joss’ll tell us in a minute. I sent him on up,” Walt joined his wife at the counter.
Nan was out of sorts watching her neighbor commandeer her kitchen. “Mr. and Mrs. Fuller, thank you—”
“None of that, now,” Molly interrupted. “We’ve barged into your house; we’re past formalities. I’m Molly, he’s Walt, and we’re all neighbors. We take care of our own. Now, I put a fair amount of sugar in this one. It’ll help with the shock.”
The mug was solid and warm, the tea sweet and strong. She felt the panic begin to dissipate, the knot of dread loosen. She took a deep breath, and remembered her manners.
“I hope you’ll call me Nan, then.” She watched Walt take his place next to his wife; he fit there like a missing piece. “There are cookies from Sweet Pease on a plate under that pie dome, if you’d like.”
Molly smiled. “Your mother raised you well.”
“My Gran, actually,” Nan found herself smiling in response. “My grandparents raised me. My mother passed away when I was small, and my father was never what you’d call present.” She flushed, feeling she’d revealed too much to these kind people. “Joss... is your son?” she asked, hoping to shift the topic of conversation away from her rootless past.
“He is,” answered Molly. “Short for Josiah. Contractor and carpenter, so you’re in good hands. He’ll get things buttoned up for you tonight, and I’m sure he’ll come back in the morning to do a proper estimate, if you’d like.” Molly spoke with a certainly that brooked no refusal.
The man himself walked into the kitchen, wiping a hand on his jeans; he carried his wet sweatshirt and hat in the other. Rain clung to his hair, leaving damp streaks on his Thornton Hornets tee as it beaded and rolled off.
“Mom, my ears are burning,” he said, a smile in his voice.
Something like envy kindled in her heart. The Fullers had that intangible ease that came with love and familiarity. They were family.
Molly introduced them, “Josiah, this is Nan Grady. Nan, our son, Josiah Fuller.”
“A pleasure, Nan, circumstances notwithstanding,” he said, reaching for her hand. “And please,” he said with a wry look at his mother, “Call me Joss.”
“Joss.” She put her hand in his. Their eyes met over the handshake, and a current flared between them. His hands were calloused, warm, pleasantly rough. She wondered how they would feel sliding up her back, running through her hair.
She was sure she must be blushing.
“Well, son, what needs to be done tonight?” Walt asked, interrupting her wayward thoughts. She almost laughed; she was more in shock than she’d realized.
Nan pulled her hand away, but she wasn't sure what to do with it. It took her a moment to realize that Joss was speaking to her.
“Nan, have you got tarps and rope? Tie-downs? I’m going to get up on the roof and cover the hole up until morning. The rain’s clearing off, but I don’t want to leave that hole exposed. You’re lucky.” He said. “There’s no wiring or plumbing in that section of ceiling.”
Maybe she’d imagined the heat, the spark between them. Joss didn’t seem affected by it at all. Her Gran had always called her an old soul. She supposed it must be true; at 31, her most devoted relationship was with a century-old house, and the first good looking man she’d taken a moment to notice in six months had set her skin humming.
“I’ve got some tie-downs in my car, but no tarps,” she said, wishing she’d thought to buy them on one of her many trips up to Burlington for supplies.
“That’s no trouble at all,” he replied, turning away from her. “But Dad, I’ll need to borrow some from you, and come back.”
“I’ll help you get some from the barn,” Walt said. “Let’s not keep the poor girl up all night.”
“I think I’ll be up anyway,” Nan sighed.
“Nonsense, Nan,” Molly said. “I’ll stay to help you clean up.”
Flustered by her neighbors generosity, Nan started to tidy the tea tin and sugar bowl.
“Please, Molly, Walt,” she turned to them, embarrassed but resolute, “I can handle it tonight.”
Molly met her eyes before getting up and clearing the mugs. Nan hoped the older woman understood what she saw there. She needed to fall apart and pull herself back together again in peace.
Molly rinsed out the tea pot, and dried her hands. She took a key from her pocket and set it on the island. “I can be over first thing in the morning, if you like, and you’re going to want to put that key back under the mat,” she said with a wink.
Nan stared at the key as Molly bustled out the kitchen door, followed by her men. In all the panic and confusion, she hadn’t given a thought to how the Fullers had gotten into the house. She was grateful Molly Fuller had figured out where her spare key was; she supposed the doormat it wasn’t a very original hiding place.
“Molly, wait!” she called. “Take the key. If I ever need it, I’ll know where to look.”
Joss, who was the last to go through the kitchen door, turned and took the key from her outstretched hand.