20. Stranded #2
Everyone had agreed to meet downstairs in the sitting room to catch the latest news on the storm, and she was officially late.
She saved her files, checked her pocket for her room key, and shoved her feet into her wool-lined slippers.
Grabbing her sweater, she smiled to herself.
Staying at a bed-and-breakfast where comfy clothes were perfectly acceptable might just beat out a hotel any day.
More of the guests were here this evening rather than at the pub, and several snack trays were scattered on the tables tucked among the various seating nooks. Claire wondered if the pelting rain was a factor in their choice of venue.
Noah waved at her from the sofa, then moved his bag out of the way. Aw, he saved me a spot. She smiled at him as she sat down.
"Did I miss anything?" she whispered. The TV's raised volume compensated for the dull roar of the storm raging against the centuries old building.
He leaned forward, making himself a cheese and cracker sandwich. "Not yet." He slid the tray toward her on the coffee table. "Better eat up. The local pub is closed on Mondays, so there will be more people eating in tonight." Ah, so not the weather.
She made herself a mini sandwich while watching the weather update. More rising water levels, more power outages, and continuing rain were the predictions. The room was solemn, lacking the pleasant laughter from earlier today.
A violent gust of wind kicked up outside, rattling the windows in their frames.
An explosive crack echoed through the room and the building shuddered.
The house plunged into near darkness, the glow from the fire casting eerie shadows around the furniture and the startled faces occupying the space.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the Fergusons sprang into action, their movements swift and seamless, as if rehearsed.
"Not to worry, dearies. We have torches and extra blankets can be found in the cupboards in your rooms," Mrs. Ferguson said.
"I'll start the generator," Archie said.
As he wandered off, Mrs. Ferguson clarified that the generator only serviced the refrigerator, the internet router, and other necessary appliances.
Guests could charge their phones, but they'd need to coordinate, so everyone got a chance to charge.
When asked about the heating, she reassured them the fireplaces throughout the house would keep it warm enough.
Archie came back and handed out flashlights to everyone, and Claire giggled when he called it a torch. "When y'all mentioned 'torches' earlier, I imagined a large stick with an open flame like you see in movies with ancient castles." Everyone laughed and teased her for being a silly American.
As the evening wore on, Mrs. Ferguson made hot cocoa for the guests and they all sat huddled in the dark, trading ghost stories.
The wind outside howled like a living thing, beating against the windows and setting the perfect eerie backdrop.
As the cold crept into the far corners of the room, her fellow travelers edged closer to the fire and she found herself pressed against Noah as the couch grew crowded.
He didn't seem to mind, and the steady heat radiating from his body kept her comfortably warm.
As the hour grew late, Noah leaned over and whispered, "I've done enough peopling today. I'm heading upstairs."
She agreed and stood to join him. They said their goodbyes and navigated the tight stairway using their flashlights and holding on to the rail.
"Can you imagine living like this back when this house was built? This would be normal," she exclaimed.
"Except the light in your hand would be a candle instead of a battery-operated torch."
"Flashlight," she said.
"A torch in the UK." Claire could hear the laughter in his voice.
They'd held similar conversations throughout the day about how words had different meanings in their respective countries.
This was the man she enjoyed working with.
Not the grumpy pants who never smiled. "When in Rome…
" he said as he unlocked their suite's door.
The sitting room was warm from the fire, but their bedrooms were already growing cold. Claire grabbed a quilt from the cabinet and returned to the main room to find Noah sprawled on the settee looking at his phone.
"The wireless is back up. I hope my folks are okay."
Claire stilled. She'd completely forgotten his family lived here in the UK. "Are they in the storm's path?"
"They're on the outer edge of it, so they should be fine. It's all the flooding you have to worry about."
She sat beside him, spreading the quilt over them. "Tell me about your family."
He did. She listened to his tales about growing up the oldest of four boys.
He talked about his brothers' kids and how his parents easily transitioned from empty nesters to grandparents who were actively involved in the lives of their grandchildren.
His mom even babysat regularly for one of his brothers during the work week.
"It must be wonderful to have such a large family." She sighed and stared into the fire.
"What about your family?" he asked. "I've only ever heard you mention your dad."
"Yeah…" Claire paused, considering if the story would change how he saw her. She hated when people shifted from interest to pity. "My mom died in a car accident when I was little."
She wiggled, trying to get comfortable in the narrow space. The couch was cozy, but not exactly roomy.
Noah grunted and scooted sideways to give her more room, then grabbed at the quilt as it threatened to slide off. "Here let's try this." He lifted his arm in invitation. "Come closer. This'll work better."
She hesitated for half a second, then slid in. His arm settled around her shoulders, warm and steady. She let out a soft sigh.
"Better?"
She nodded. "Since then, it's been just me and my dad."
"I'm sorry, Claire," he said. His hand squeezed her shoulder gently—comforting, not pitying.
She shrugged. "It was a long time ago. I keep pictures of her so I can remember what she looked like. I got my love of cooking from her, and when I use her cookware and make her recipes, I feel closer to her."
A smile tugged at her lips as a memory surfaced. Her mom setting her on the counter, letting her stir the batter with a spoon way too big for her tiny hands. She hadn't been much help, but her mom had made her feel like the best assistant in the world.
Instead of empty platitudes, Noah shared a story of his mom's cooking that turned into a disaster when one of his brothers "helped" by adding salt instead of sugar.
"Actually, that wasn't the worst one," he said, his smile nostalgic.
"I think I was eight or nine when Connor decided the bag of flour in Mum's pantry made the perfect substitution for a rugby ball.
Never mind that it was almost two kilograms—er, four pounds—heavier.
" He chuckled at the memory. "The way that sack exploded!
We thought we'd done a fine job cleaning it up, but you can imagine the quality efforts of three lads under age nine.
And we'd completely forgotten to clean up ourselves.
My mum came around the corner to find three white ghosts hiding brooms, rags, and buckets behind them. "
Claire pictured three little boys, all miniature versions of Noah and covered in flour, running around trying to hide the mess before their mother could catch them. "Three ghosts? Aren't there four of you?"
"Yes, well, Tristan was still in his nappies at that point. And Rowan was barely out of them, so he got a pass on that one."
Noah shared more adventures with his brothers, and she shared stories of growing up in West Texas, where coyotes and rattlesnakes were common sights. Soon Claire was yawning and having trouble keeping her eyes open in the warmth of the cocoon they'd made on the couch.
"We should get to bed. Let's divvy up the extra blankets and get some sleep, no? You want first turn in the loo?" Noah asked.
Honestly, she didn't want to move. She felt warm and safe, tucked against him like they'd done this a hundred times before. Did he feel the same? Or was he just being kind? The doubt hit hard and fast, and she sat up, putting a little space between them before she could embarrass herself.
"Um, yes, thank you." Claire stood and made a beeline for the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her.
She leaned against it, trying to collect herself.
She hadn't expected to feel so… comfortable next to him.
When was the last time she'd felt that with anyone?
She drew in a slow breath, then another, waiting for her heartbeat to find its rhythm again.
This was something she could get used to, which meant she needed to tread carefully.