What the Waves Bring Read Online Free Page A

that the furnace depended on electricity to function.
Ah well, she mused, eyeing the fireplace wistfully, there was always that cord of wood stacked neatly in the basement. And after all, she reasoned, it was really not that cold outside, being barely the start of October. Only the wind, with its continuous wail, and the rain, clattering mercilessly against the panes, implied a harsher season.
    Pacing the floor, she began an analytical review of her situation. Here she was, several miles from the nearest outpost of humanity, and given the damage of the storm, a good day or two from help. She had neither lights nor a telephone; her Apple was hopelessly, albeit temporarily, crippled. And there was the small matter of the stranger in her bed, felled by exposure and exhaustion and Lord knew what else, perhaps in need of medical attention. What was she to do, given the impracticality of panic?
    Memories of a letter that had arrived the day before entered her mind. It was to be the subject of her next column. Crossing the room to her rolltop desk, she fished into the large manila mailing envelope sent by the newspaper office, withdrew the item she sought, then sank down on the sofa beneath the glow of the kerosine lamp.
    â€œDear Dr. Wilde,” she read silently. “Can you help me? I have a family of three squalling children and a husband, a rabbit, two dogs, and a house. Lately, everything has gone wrong. The children scream constantly at one another, my husband screams at me, I scream at them all—about everything from food to clothes to television shows. To top it off, every machine in this house has managed to break down within the past two months. I go to bed every night with a headache. Is there any peace to be found for me?” It was signed simply “Hartsdale’s Harrowed Housewife.”
    Settling more deeply into the sofa, April contemplated the letter for several moments before rereading her own answer, typed and clipped to the letter, awaiting transmission via computer. “Dear Hartsdale’s Harrowed
Housewife.” She scanned the page quickly. “What you need is a cram course in positive thinking. Look to the bright side of life. Do you love your children? Are they innately rewarding? Sensitive? Companionable? Do you love your husband? Is he honest? Faithful? A conscientious provider? And the house—does it keep you warm? Dry? Protected and private?” Skipping over a greater elaboration on the theme, her eye came to rest on the final sentences. “Hard as it may be at times, you must seek out the positive aspects of your life. In these, you will find your peace. Remember, think up!”
    Think up. The words echoed in her mind as April replaced the letter in its envelope, the envelope on her desk. Think up. That, Dr. Wilde, is precisely what you must do right now! Wasn’t it her own personal credo, one that appeared repeatedly, in one form or another, in her column? Wasn’t it the backbone of her therapeutic approach?
    Looking around, she evaluated her assets. There was the house, standing valiantly against the ravage of Hurricane Ivan. There was the kerosine lamp, providing what little light she needed with its pale orange glow. There was the fireplace—and wood—ready for warmth, should the need arise. There was a pantry full of edible provisions, gas to make the stove operative. And … there was that man in the other room, resting peacefully and seeming to hold his own. All in all, she was not in bad straits. And, assuming her patient did not awaken a raving lunatic or a lecherous demon, she might get him to the village before long and find herself with nothing more than painless memories of the entire adventure.
    Suppertime came and went to the unabated accompaniment of the storm’s blusterous racket—yet still no sound at all from the stranger. Evening’s torrents became midnight’s deluge. April sat tucked in the rattan chair in her