13. Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Kate
I look up from my journal to see Charles staring at me hungrily across the desk. If he’d had super powers, his gaze would be sizzling the air with the intensity of his thoughts. I’d read about men undressing women with their eyes, but I’d never expected to feel as if that were happening to me.
Thunder booms outside. I make an inane remark about the weather. Charles drops his eyes back to his laptop. A flush is creeping up his neck, turning his ears and cheeks, even his forehead a nearly brilliant red. I swallow my giggles. It wouldn’t do to laugh at him.
Rain hits the windows, cascading down in sheets. Cece puts down her crayon, comes over and creeps up into my lap. Mr. Fluffy jumps away from the window, comes over and curls up on Cece, then Gidget belly-crawls over and plasters herself against my knees.
There is a flash of light that seems to be almost outside the window, and thunder rattles the entire building. Suddenly, it does not seem nearly as safe, perched up here more than two miles above the earth.
“Getting a little wild out there,” Charles says calmly. Just as he goes over to pull the curtains to hide the storm outside, both our laptops start to blare storm warnings, and sirens start up outside.
“Tornado!” I gasp. Kansas born, it is my worst fear.
“We should be well above it,” Charles states calmly, as if such things happened every day. “Tornadoes rarely form more than two miles above the earth, and we are far higher up than that. But if it really worries you, we can move into the safe room at the central core of the apartment—just in case something blows up high enough to break through the windows.”
Cece brightens at that, even though she still clings to my neck. “I can go play in my fort?” she asks.
The sirens continue to warble, even though Charles and I simultaneously close our laptops to end the noise in the room. Far below, something crashes. My breath catches in my throat, and I have to fight the instinct to tighten my grip on Cece.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Charles says.
“What about the other people in the building?” I ask.
“Safe rooms every two floors. This place is built to withstand hurricane force winds, fire, and even some bombs. Em had a family who helped with the aftermath of 9/11. She was adamant that nothing like that should happen to our building.”
Just the thought of that makes me clutch Cece tighter. I’d read the accounts and seen videos.
“Relax,” Charles teases, although I thought his nonchalance might be a little strained. “The building alarm hasn’t gone off, just the ones out in the city, so we have a minute or two. Hop down, Cece, and get your go bag and your coloring book if you want it. Let’s take your laptop and books, Kate.”
Cece hops and I quickly bundle my things together. Charles gets his laptop and a huge bundle of keys, and key cards.
Without further ado, all of us, pets included, troop out into the hall and through a door next to my bedroom.
It leads down a spiral staircase to what looks almost like a vault door. Charles uses one of the keycards on the door and ushers everyone inside.
He has just closed the door and secured the latch when the building reverberates and everything goes still and black. “I’m scared,” Cece whimpers. If I was honest, I wanted to whimper, too.
“Just stand still,” Charles says, reassuringly. “The emergency power will kick in. Count with me. One, two…” Cece obediently counts with her father. Before they reach ten, the lights flicker and come on; fans start up.
“That’s the basement emergency generators,” he says.
“What if the lines to those get cut?” I ask. My voice wobbles a little. It is all I can do to not start screaming. I’d always hated storm shelters, and the few minutes of dead air have me ready to curl into a ball and hide.
“There’s also a bank of lithium batteries that should have a full charge — a set for each shelter. Don’t worry, Kate, we’re safe here.”
The building seems to do a little dance, sort of like a sunflower in a breeze. I want to whimper, but if I do, it would scare Cece. Gidget is already pressed against my legs, and Mr. Fluffy has found someplace to hide — at least I hope he has made it in with us. I didn’t want to start a panic.
“It’s all right,” Charles soothes. “The building is built to sway a little — part of the earthquake proofing. ”
“Ok,” I squeak. “But I don’t think buildings should vibrate like Moon Ribas.”
“Moon Ribas?” Charles asks.
“A dancer who bases her performances on a sensor in her arm that connects to an online seismograph,” I reply. “I learned about her in my abnormal psychology class.”
The building shudders again, and the lights flicker. I gulp, feeling as if my lunch might come back up.
“Cece, you want to climb into your fort?” Charles asks. “I think Mr. Fluffy is already there.”
“Ok,” Cece says cheerfully. “I like my fort.” She opens a small door into a space that looks almost like a padded space capsule. A viewing screen, racks with books and crayons and assorted snacks are inside a recessed cabinet. Mr. Fluffy is there, tucked into a sort of padded niche, glaring out at the world. Cece snuggles herself into a well-padded chair, prepared to ride out the storm. Gidget scrambles in after her and settles down on the child’s feet.
Charles pulls the door closed after his daughter. “It’s an ejection capsule, with a parachute,” he explains. “If the building comes apart, Cece should be thrown clear and her capsule will float to the ground.”
“I had no idea anything like that was possible,” I stammered, almost forgetting to be afraid. “But what about . . . us?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to share with me,” he says. “Em and I planned for a chance to while away the waiting time comfortably, while Cece was fully protected.”
“But . . . won’t she be scared?” I think about being shut up in a padded environment, all alone.
“Hasn’t been so far,” Charles says. “There’s a vid connection, and she has her pets with her. She has a bathroom, drinks, snacks, and entertainment. The way these things usually time out, we aren’t likely to be in here more than an hour or two. Since it is close to her naptime, she’s likely to sleep.”
I think this over. It all seems very odd, more like a page out of a science fiction novel than real life. “How is this even possible?”
“Most of the technology has been around since the late 1950s or even a little earlier. It’s just that most people can’t afford it. These rooms are probably the most expensive part of the whole building.” He then gestures. “Come on, let’s get settled into our fort. We’ll all be fine, and in a couple of hours, the storm will blow over and we’ll get to go clean up the mess out in the garden.”
I follow Charles, not sure what to expect. The safe room for adults consists of a wide, padded bed with the back and knee sections raised, a series of jump seats around the outer perimeter, a bathroom facility like those found on airplanes, a viewing screen, three shelves of books, and another three shelves containing shelf stable snacks, and bottled water.
Charles sits down on the bed, then hitches himself over next to the shelves of books. I stand in the middle of the tiny room, turning around slowly.
The viewing screen is split into three parts. One shows Cece sharing snack crackers with her pets, one is tuned to the news — tracking the storm, and one is monitoring the building cameras showing what was happening outside.
I start to sit down on one of the jump seats, when another shudder shook the building.
“Come over here,” Charles says softly, “The bed is the safest place. The jump seats are in case we had staff on hand or guests. They aren’t that good, just better than leaving anyone outside.”
Hesitantly, I take the two steps between seat and bed. The building sways again, somewhat like a ship at sea, and I almost tumble onto the bed.
“Whoo, that was a big one! Did you feel it, Daddy?” Cece’s voice comes through the speakers.
Charles keys a mike and says, “I sure did. But Miss Kate and I are snuggled into our fort. Everyone is fine.”
“Ok,” Cece says, using what looked like a small remote. “I’ll watch my movie some more.”
It is good that Cece is fine, because I am not. I curl up in a tiny ball and try not to whimper. I hate storms. They chased us all downstairs into the fruit cellar, which was dark, dank, and full of spiders. They flattened the wheat crops and tore up the garden.
On the screen, I can see the whirling red eye of the storm moving across the landscape. The street outside is flooding, and the ornamental trees along the street bend nearly double with the force of the wind.
I must make a sound, because Charles puts his arms around me. “Shhh, shhh,” he says. “It’s alright. We’re alright. The storm is passing, we’ll just stay here until we are sure that it has all settled down. Look, Cece has fallen asleep, along with her cat and dog.”
It is weak of me, I suppose, but I’d fantasized about being held in those arms. I turn over and bury my face in his shirt front and stretch my top arm over him so I can cling like a little monkey to its mother.
I’m shaking. Whether from fear of the storm, or cold, or sexual excitement, I can’t tell. Since I didn’t know if there was a two-way connection between the compartments, I am glad Cece is asleep.
Charles reaches into a compartment behind him and pulls out a soft blanket, and tuck it around us. As I grow warmer, I can still feel shivers running through me. I hold onto him, as if I’m drowning and he is my rock in a storm .
He kisses my forehead, then my cheek. I turn my head and crane my neck so that our lips meet. Our first kiss is tender, tentative, as we take each other’s measure.
I lick the underside of his top lip while simultaneously stretching out against him, getting as much contact as possible. I am shivering almost uncontrollably now, driven by some kind of eagerness I found it hard to define.
As if my tongue has pressed a button, Charles lets go of restraint. He plunders my mouth, his tongue seeking out its hidden secrets and promising other things to come. My nipples harden, and I feel as if I’m melting.
His mouth tastes like mint with a hint of charcoal. His lips are warm and flexible. Although he is clean-shaven, there is just a hint of harsh stubble against my chin. He is so warm, so real, so vital — not at all like the cold man I had taken him for the day of the funeral.
My hand drifts down his side, heading toward his belt buckle.
He catches my hand. “Wait. Slow down,” he says. “Are you sure you want this, Kate?”
“I do,” I say. “I’ve wanted . . . ever since you showed up at my bedroom door in those horrible plaid pajama bottoms.”
“You know this could be a mistake?” he says, not giving voice to what we both knew, that he was only months away from his wife’s funeral and that I was terrified out of my mind by the storm.
“I know,” I say. “But I want it anyway. You don’t have to worry about infection or disease or anything. I’ve never been with a man. If this storm tears down the building, I want to know … to experience . . .”
“You’re a virgin?” His voice warbles into a squeak. Something like terror flashes across his face.
That isn’t the response I wanted. “Does it matter?” I ask, now terrified that I’d made an utter idiot of myself. I bury my face in his shirt front and give a little whimper that is half sob and half whine of utter frustration. Have I ruined my chance? Will he refuse me?