7. One Very Brave Candle
Chapter seven
One Very Brave Candle
Claire
Iclose the door and stand there with my hand still wrapped around the knob, listening to the porch boards complain beneath Jack’s weight as he walks away.
I’m not waiting for him to make it all the way back to his own house.
I’m monitoring.
Like a responsible homeowner who doesn’t want to open her front door five minutes from now and discover her glaring neighbor halfway through building a gazebo.
When the porch finally goes quiet, I pull back the curtain beside the door and peek outside.
“Okay,” I whisper. “He’s gone. The coast is clear.”
My gaze lifts to the darkening sky.
“From Jack, anyway. That storm is definitely not clearing.”
I let the curtain fall and force myself to walk away from the door. If I stand here much longer, I’ll start overthinking everything again.
Apparently, that’s become one of my favorite Tidehaven activities.
I move into the living room but can't stop myself from looking out the front window.
The sky has darkened considerably while Jack and I have been arguing over my porch swing. The wind is stronger too, pushing at the trees and sending loose leaves skittering across the yard.
For the first time, I wonder if I should put up the storm shutters.
Hopefully, it won't get that bad.
I bite my lip as an all-too-familiar tightness settles in my chest.
It isn't the coastal storm itself that bothers me. Not really. It's what the weather brings back with it—the rain, the slick roads, and the memory of tires losing their grip on wet pavement.
A truck hydroplaning during an ordinary inland rainstorm.
I swallow and force myself away from the window before my thoughts can go any further.
Storm prep. That's what I need to focus on. It's a distraction and, more importantly, something I can control.
Well, kind of.
I can't do anything about the raided shelves at Seabreeze Market or the fact that every storm supply I thought would be easily accessible has apparently vanished into another dimension.
I sigh.
My parents always made this look easy.
Storm preparation was just another Tidehaven tradition when I was growing up, right up there with summer tourists, crowded beaches, and Evie's baked goods.
Ben would've made it easy too.
He would've turned the entire thing into a mission complete with a bullet-pointed list. He would've walked through the house with that bright, determined look on his face like he was personally responsible for saving the day.
I stare at the couch, and for one dangerous second, I can picture Ben sitting there with his feet up, completely relaxed and telling me I'm worrying too much.
The image is so clear that I have to look away.
I shake my head and head for the kitchen before the memory has a chance to settle in. The kitchen is the most logical place for Mom to have stored candles for easy access.
Of course, I've already looked there twice.
But apparently, I'm operating under the assumption that a third search will magically produce different results.
That's how logic works today.
I open the same cabinet and stare at the rows of peanut butter.
Apparently, I can survive the apocalypse as long as it doesn't require anything other than sandwiches.
Maybe peanut butter and one flashlight will be enough for a power outage.
“I'd prefer not to test that theory.”
I close the cabinet.
Again.
The wind slams against the side of the house hard enough to make me jump.
The reaction immediately annoys me.
This is Tidehaven.
Wind is practically a personality trait here.
And yet, every hard gust seems to bring the same images with it.
Rain streaking across glass.
Wet pavement shining beneath headlights.
A road slick enough to turn one ordinary drive into the last one Ben ever took.
I press my fingertips against the counter and focus on the cool surface beneath them.
I'm here.
In Tidehaven.
In the kitchen.
Not there.
“Okay.” I take a slow breath and give the kitchen a decisive nod. “Moving on.”
The storm supplies are obviously somewhere Mom would've put them because she was absolutely certain she'd remember the location later.
And then didn't.
I check the bathroom first.
My parents were exactly the kind of people who would run out of storage space, put candles in a bathroom cabinet, and declare it close enough.
I open drawers and move aside bottles I don't recognize before realizing I'm not searching anymore.
I'm rearranging clutter because I'm stressed.
I close the drawer.
Next.
The linen closet contains, rather unhelpfully, only linens.
I move on to the first bedroom closet and find a spare pillow.
I pull it out and tuck it under my arm.
This could be useful.
If my irritation reaches the point where screaming into a pillow becomes necessary, I'll be prepared.
Honestly, it may be the most practical storm supply I've found so far.
I move to the next closet, still wondering how I've ended up with the only beach house in Tidehaven capable of maintaining an industrial supply of peanut butter but not a single candle in an obvious location.
I'm beginning to reconsider my theory that someone broke in and stole them.
My money is on Jack Wilder.
Mr. I Hate You himself.
He's managed to appear three times in less than forty-eight hours after I went years without seeing him.
I scowl.
Technically, there's nothing particularly strange about my neighbor showing up.
Annoying?
Yes.
Slightly suspicious?
Maybe.
But this is a small town. Neighbors make appearances. Especially when one of those neighbors apparently believes it's his civic duty to inspect every loose board and crooked object within a fifty-foot radius.
I just wish the universe would pick a lane.
If Jack is going to act like I've committed some unforgivable personal offense, the least he can do is hold his grudge from a respectable distance.
Like a normal person.
He can't glare at me like I'm his sworn enemy and then show up with power tools.
He can't interrogate me about selling the house and then fix my landing.
He definitely can't secure my porch swing and somehow act like he's the one being inconvenienced by the whole thing.
I open another closet.
No storm supplies.
I glare at the empty shelves like this is somehow Jack's fault too.
By the time I reach the last closet, I stand in front of the door and stare at it.
“This is it.”
The door offers no guarantees.
“If the storm supplies aren't in here, I'm using the pillow.”
I yank the door open and dig past several outdated jackets.
Then I see it.
A plastic box with a lid.
I pull it out and stare at the familiar handwriting scrawled across the side.
STORM KIT.
Of course.
Of course it was in the last possible place I looked.
I may need that pillow after all.
I carry the box into the hallway and flip open the lid.
Then I laugh.
My dad, champion storm panic-buyer, apparently played an advanced game of Tetris to fit everything inside.
Candles.
A lighter.
Flashlights.
Batteries.
Matches.
A small radio that may or may not still work.
I pull out one of the candles and hold it up triumphantly.
“Well. Storm prep complete.”
The lights flicker.
I freeze with one hand still gripping the box.
For some irrational reason, I stay perfectly still, as if the electricity might remain on if I don't make any sudden movements.
The lights steady, and I slowly exhale.
For about three seconds, I think I've won.
Then they flicker again—twice this time—before the entire house goes dark.
***
I remain frozen in place with one hand still gripping the storm kit.
Clearly, not moving didn't prevent the power from going out. But maybe there's some kind of ten-second rule where, if I remain perfectly still, the electricity will realize its mistake and come back on.
I wait.
Nothing.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I'll pretend I'm in Pride and Prejudice or something. They survived perfectly well without electricity.”
Of course, they also had servants.
And Mr. Darcy.
I pull my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight. The beam isn't much, but it makes the darkness feel less absolute.
It also makes it easier for Mr. Darcy to find me.
I crouch beside the storm kit and dig through it until I find the small lighter. The second I pick it up, Ben's voice drifts through my mind.
Do we have a backup lighter? Because I don't trust those little clicky ones.
“This will work just fine, thank you very much.”
I flick the lighter.
Click.
Nothing.
I try again.
Click.
Still nothing.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
I flick it several more times, as if persistence—or public shaming—might convince it to cooperate.
It doesn't.
I toss the traitorous little clicky lighter back into the box and grab the matches.
Old school.
Fine.
I can do old school.
I'm certainly not going to lose a battle against a piece of cardboard and a tiny stick of wood.
I angle my phone flashlight toward the candle, then toward the matchbox, and quickly discover that I'm one hand short of making this process convenient.
“Of course I am.”
I balance the phone against the side of the storm kit, aiming the flashlight at the matchbox like it's under stage lighting. Then I slide the candle closer, take a breath, and strike a match.
It flares to life on the first try.
“Hallelujah.”
My shoulders relax for approximately half a second.
Then my phone slips.
It hits the floor and lands flashlight-side down, illuminating the rug beneath it instead of anything remotely useful.
Perfect.
Now I have a burning match in one hand, a candle somewhere in the darkness, and approximately three seconds before the flame starts testing the heat resistance of my fingertips.
I sigh through my nose.
“Everything remains fine.”
Because saying it out loud always helps.
I'm also beginning to suspect that fine is code for maybe I should accidentally burn this house down because absolutely nothing is going according to plan.
Not that I would.
Obviously.
Thankfully, my hand finds the candle before the match reaches my fingers, and I manage to catch the wick with the flame.
One successful task completed.