The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

The Covering Storm by David H. Ingram

FROM Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

AS THE TRAIN chugged across the Galveston Bay Bridge toward the Virginia Point station, Wendell Asquith made a show of touching the watch pocket of his vest, then patting his frock coat’s other pockets. “Of all the deuced luck!”

His wife, Amelia, remained focused on her embroidery. “What is it, my dear?”

“In the rush to leave for the station, I forgot my pocket watch.”

Amelia looked at him, surprised. “It’s hard to imagine you ever being without that watch.”

“Imaginable or not, it’s happened.”

“I’m sure you can secure a temporary replacement once we reach Fort Worth.”

“That won’t do. It’s my lucky watch. My father sent it to me when I started my first business, engraved with his best wishes. I can’t just leave it behind.”

Amelia stuck her needle into the stretched linen and set down the embroidery hoop beside her on the bench seat. “What do you propose, Wendell?”

“I’ll jump off at Virginia Point and take the next train back to Galveston. You continue on with the servants. I’ll catch the afternoon train and meet you in Fort Worth tomorrow.”

Amelia sat forward, her face troubled. “Must you? I fear there’s a bad storm on its way.” She glanced out the window and shuddered. “Those clouds.”

Wendell remembered the bizarre clouds that had greeted the dawn on that second Saturday of September. Luminescent pink they were, though shards within the clouds caught all the colors of the rainbow. Soon enough they changed into the black-and-gray thunderheads that often traversed the sky above Galveston. While threatening, those clouds were reassuringly familiar.

“I have my umbrella, and should it worsen I’ll put on a rain slicker at home. I’ll be fine, Amelia.”

“Rain’s not the worst of it. The streets will flood again.”

“I’ll take a cab from the station. But really, anyone who can’t take getting their feet wet shouldn’t live in Galveston.” The streets of the town were notorious for flooding, since the island Galveston occupied rose less than 9 feet above the sea. The city fathers had raised the sidewalks to 3 feet above the plank-paved roads to help keep people dry, but apparently they’d forgotten people had to cross the streets. Soggy shoes and socks were the rule whenever it rained.

“Why don’t you have Arthur accompany you? I’d feel better, knowing you’re not alone.”

Wendell strangled a sharp retort. There’s no place in my plans for bringing along witnesses, especially my own butler. Instead he smiled at his wife.

“I can certainly handle such a minor task by myself.” He slid forward on his seat and took hold of Amelia’s hand. “Besides, darling, I’ll feel much better knowing Arthur’s watching over you.”

A blush blossomed on Amelia’s cheeks, and once again he thanked the stars that this gorgeous woman had accepted his proposal. Even after ten years and giving birth to twin daughters, Amelia’s beauty had not faded. If anything, the journey from twenty-year-old bride to thirty-year-old pillar of society had sanded away youthful immaturities and left a polished, poised woman.

She was his wife, and no blackguard would take her from him. He would see to that.

When the train halted at the station, Wendell stood and grabbed his hat, a slate-gray bowler that matched his frock coat. A quick glance in a mirror confirmed that his diamond stickpin was still centered in his ascot. After a tug on his maroon brocade vest, Wendell turned back to Amelia and again reached for her hand, this time bringing it to his lips.

“Don’t fear, my dear. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Do say goodbye to the twins, dear. They’d be horribly distressed if they found you’d disappeared.”

Wendell grabbed his leather toiletries case from the rack above him and secured his umbrella between the handles. As he slid open the compartment’s door, he glanced back at Amelia, already engrossed in her embroidery again. This is for you, my love, though you’ll never know what I do this day. With that benediction, Wendell left the compartment.

After hugs and reassurances to Isabel and Charlotte, his seven-year-old twin girls, that he’d meet them in Fort Worth, Wendell left them with their nanny and made his way to the end of the coach. Instead of stepping off onto the platform, he swung down from the Pullman on the side away from the station and moved along the final car in the train. The initials of the Gulf, Colorado and Santa Fe line were painted with gold highlights on the car’s side. Wendell snorted briefly. As a member of the line’s board, he knew the name was a fiction. The company was in fact fully owned by the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe, yet it was listed as a subsidiary of the larger line since Texas law dictated that the owner of a business had to reside in the state. The board was a sham, but it kept everyone happy. Wendell couldn’t use such a deception himself, so he remained a resident of Galveston in spite of his far-flung business interests. On the plus side, the law meant that by that year, 1900, Galveston had as many millionaires residing within its boundaries as that northern enclave of wealth, Newport, Rhode Island.

Past the caboose, Wendell cut over to the far side of the right-of-way, close to the border of live oaks and brush. Moments later the train pulled away from the station in a cloud of steam while its whistle tooted.

As he walked briskly toward Galveston Bay, Wendell reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew his watch and chain: 10:32 A.M. The next inbound Galveston train was due around one. He needed to cross the channel and manage his mischief, then reach the terminal close to that train’s arrival. He’d spin the same fiction for the station agent about his watch and arrange for a ticket outbound that afternoon. That would account for his time should the police make inquiries, though he doubted they would. His and Amelia’s departure for Fort Worth had been announced in the Galveston News. In a town like Galveston, even the police read the society pages. But Wendell had become a millionaire by planning for every eventuality and analyzing every risk before pursuing an endeavor. He was cautious in planning, ruthless in execution.

The approaching storm was unforeseen, but Wendell realized it was a blessing. The rising wind and bursts of billowing rain beginning to fall would drive most people inside. He could dash anonymously along the sidewalks with the umbrella low over his head.

He slid the umbrella from between the handles and unfurled it. When he reached the bridge approach, Wendell shuffled down the loose stone incline to the beach. Ahead of him, a sailor was guiding a compact Bermuda-rigged sloop toward a dock. Running forward, he waved his bag back and forth to catch the man’s attention.

The sailor stood up in the boat’s cockpit. His face was deeply lined and most of his white hair had migrated from his crown to his chin, forming a luxuriant beard that flowed down to his chest while his head was left bald.

“Ho, there,” Wendell called out. “I need to get back to the city immediately. Could you take me?”

“There’s a blow a-comin’,” the sailor shouted back. “Best gets away from the water.”

“I’ll pay you well, sir.”

A wily look crossed the man’s face. “How well?”

“Ten dollars?”

The sailor looked Wendell up and down. “Make it twenty, sir, and you’s got yourself a boat.”

Wendell was loath to waste time haggling. Setting his bag on the dock, he withdrew his wallet and selected two tens, holding them high for the sailor to see.

The sailor, Croft, was a retired steamboat captain who’d run the Caribbean Islands and the north coast of South America for forty years before retiring. “I still sail most days. The sea’s a mistress I cain’t give up, even though she’s taken many a friend over the years.” As they slipped beneath the railway trestle, Croft eyed the span. The mast barely cleared it. “Water’s piling up in the sound. I’ll be using the main channel whence I returns.”

“Can you drop me near where Avenue O approaches Offatts Bay?” Wendell asked.

“Aye,” Croft said. He was frowning.

“What’s troubling you?”

“Those clouds are a-runnin’ straight nor’west, but the wind’s blowin’ from the north. The channel’s rising and I felt my ears a-poppin’. There’s a cyclone headin’ our way.”

Wendell shook his head. “I checked the flagpole above the weather bureau this morning. They hadn’t raised a storm warning. Besides, Dr. Stine of the bureau says all major hurricanes turn north by Havana at the latest. Any storm that breaks that pattern would be a minor one.”

“I ain’t got no fancy education like that feller, but I knows the sea and sky. And there ain’t no such thing as a minor hurricane when you’s in ’em. Been through a couple; thought they’d likely kill me.”

“But you survived.”

“Not from the storm’s lack of tryin’.” Croft’s old eyes filled with compassion. “Don’t stay on the island.”

“Not to worry, Croft. I’m taking the afternoon train out of town.”

Croft nodded, but still looked concerned.

“Godspeed, Croft,” Wendell called out as the sailor headed back into the bay.

“And God’s mercy on you, sir.” Croft’s voice was almost lost in the wind.

The waters of Offatts Bay had swamped the beach, so Croft had dropped Wendell near where the Avenue O sidewalk began. By now it was raining in earnest, the large drops lashing at Wendell as he walked briskly along the avenue. As Amelia feared, the streets had become torrents as the high sidewalks focused the runoff like a river canyon’s walls. About the only ones out in the weather were the children playing in deep puddles, splashing each other as they chortled with delight, their clothes muddy disasters. Yes, I’ll take a cab home from the station, Wendell decided. Clean, dry clothes; that’s the ticket. I’ll have the driver wait while I change, to witness my movements.

He glanced at his watch again: 11:12 A.M. When he came to Twenty-ninth Street, by the southwest corner of the Garten Verein, the social center and gardens for the city’s German population, Wendell turned south. Just ahead he saw his destination, the home of Archibald Kenyon Tate.

The man had crossed the line of propriety and needed to be taught a lesson. Wendell was determined to tutor him personally.

Decades earlier, Wendell had come to Galveston with a stake from his wealthy father back in Philadelphia and an innate cunning for managing business deals. Now he ruled over a network of interests: cotton exports in the South, Kansas granaries, fruit farms in California, and Texas cattle stockyards and lumber mills. He’d even invested in docklands for Galveston’s neighbor and rival, Houston. The two towns were fighting to be the financial and population center of the state, though the latest census figures showed Galveston pulling away, having grown 30 percent in the past ten years. Wendell didn’t mind exploiting Houston for profit, even if he could never imagine living there. While Galveston could be beastly hot, it was a gleaming gem on the sea compared to dusty, unrefined Houston.

Tate’s holdings and personal wealth mirrored Wendell’s in size, but the men themselves were polar opposites. The gossip was that Tate had simply been Archie Kenyon when he emigrated from England and that he’d worked his way up from poverty through some shady land deals that involved quick exits from towns. Twelve years earlier, he’d arrived in Galveston with the Tate attached to his name and a small fortune that he soon parlayed into a large fortune. Back in Philadelphia, Tate’s nouveau-riche background would have left him shunned by society, but Galveston was a uniquely accepting town. German, Jew, Irish-it was no hindrance. Even skin tone didn’t preclude opportunities.

Tate’s arrival coincided with Wendell’s courting of Amelia Baumgartner. The daughter of one of the oldest Galveston families, Amelia had “come out” at a ball held at the Artillery Club, which was for men only but opened its doors to women on such special occasions. Wendell was immediately bewitched by her beauty. He managed to dance with her several times, and within days he’d gained her father’s approval to squire her about town. Wendell took her to dances, concerts, and lectures, the main sources of entertainment.

During the two years Wendell courted Amelia, Archie Tate had presented himself as a possible rival. With his dark eyes, chestnut hair, and strong chin, Tate was a focus of attention for the ladies of Galveston. Yet he’d set his eye on Amelia, cutting in on Wendell at dances and always grabbing a chair close to her at the lectures. Then, on New Year’s Day in 1890, Wendell proposed and Amelia swiftly accepted. After that, Tate left them alone. Wendell was grateful for Tate’s sensitivity and eventually put the rivalry out of his mind.

Until Monday night.

Wendell was accompanied to the Artillery Club by Jamieson Maret and his son, Donald. Maret was an elder statesman of the business community who had helped Wendell when he was building his companies. Now Maret was grooming Donald to take over his investments. Wendell felt a kinship with Donald, who was only a decade younger than him. Besides their business dealings, Wendell and Amelia often socialized with Jamieson and his wife, Margaret, before she passed away the previous year.

“Donald has an idea you may want to invest in,” Jamieson had told Wendell earlier in the day.

“I’m always open to a new idea. How about joining me for a drink, and I’ll listen to Donald’s proposal?”

“In vino veritas?” Jamieson said, chuckling.

“Hopefully,” Wendell said, grinning himself.

He’d put in a full day in the office despite being alone, thanks to the federal holiday enacted six years earlier. As they settled in their seats, Maret said, “I still don’t understand it. Giving people a holiday simply because they labor? I say an extra day of work would be more fitting.”

“After that Pullman strike,” Donald said, “Congress had to mend fences with the labor vote. Window dressing, that’s what it is.”

It was Jamieson who noticed Tate at the bar. “Archie’s knocking back bourbons. Doesn’t surprise me. I heard his slaughterhouse in Dallas burned to the ground last night.”

Wendell felt sympathy for Tate. He’d faced his share of setbacks himself. But unlike Tate and most other businessmen, who maximized their profits by ignoring insurance, Wendell always fully covered his endeavors. He turned to Donald.

“You have a proposal for me?”

“Yes, sir. I have a vision for a chain of nickelodeons across the South-”

“Ah, my old friend Asquith,” a slightly slurred voice said.

Wendell looked up. Tate was approaching his table.

“Tate,” he said, acknowledging him with the briefest of nods.

“Had another wonderful day making money?” Tate pulled back the fourth chair at the table without invitation and slid into it. He plunked down his bourbon-filled glass, sloshing the liquor over the rim. Wendell stared at the offensive brown spot despoiling the expanse of white linen tablecloth.

“We’re having a business meeting here, Tate.”

“Why aren’t you home with your honey, ’Dell? If I had Amelia at home, I’d find it hard to leave for work every morning.” Tate took a sip of his drink. “My God, you don’t know what a lucky bastard you are, ’Dell. Your greatest treasure warms your sheets at night.”

Wendell’s voice turned chilly as an arctic breath. “I think you’ve drunk enough tonight, Tate.”

Tate was oblivious to the piano-string tightness of Wendell’s words. “You’d best live a long life, ’Dell, ’cause I’ll tell you what: If you weren’t here anymore, I’d be calling on your widow the moment she could take off the black. I’d woo her and wed her like I should have a decade ago, then I’d take her to my bed-”

“You go too far, sir!” Wendell didn’t realize he’d slammed his hand on the table as he spoke. Everyone in the room was staring at them.

“I should have gone farther. Fought for her.” Tate’s voice was filled with regret. He drank down the remaining liquor and rose to his feet. Before shuffling away, he repeated, “Yes, I should have gone farther.”

Mortification poured over Wendell like lava. Jamieson and Donald had the sense to avert their eyes. Not that it mattered. Wendell knew the scene would spread throughout Galveston society like a spilled bottle of India ink. Jamieson’s comment came back to him. There was truth in drink, and the truth was, Tate still harbored an obsession for Amelia-had for the past decade. It left Wendell stunned.

Wendell only half listened to Donald’s proposal. Instead he turned over scenarios in his mind. His honor, as well as Amelia’s, had to be restored. He dismissed Donald with a “Let me consider it” and had a second cognac after they left. Once a plan formed in his mind, he headed home.

“Amelia,” Wendell announced at supper, “I think it’s time we visited your cousins in Fort Worth.”

The raindrops were now thick missiles flying almost parallel to the land as Wendell entered the alley behind Tate’s house. Swirling in the flood were shingles stripped off roofs along with horse dung and sodden scraps of paper. Wendell opened the door and slipped inside Tate’s stable. With its raised floor, the barn had only a few inches of water covering the cement floor. Tate’s horses whinnied and circled nervously in their stalls. Wendell walked to the door that led to Tate’s backyard and set his bag on a hay bale. After stripping the clothes from his upper body and hanging them on nearby nails, Wendell withdrew from his bag a rough cotton shirt and slipped it on. It was a worker’s shirt, far different from the silk shirts men of Wendell’s class wore. Setting a soft tweed cap on his damp, windblown hair, Wendell now looked like a laborer. The polluted flood and mud had robbed his trousers and shoes of their luster of wealth. No need to change them.

Lastly, Wendell knotted a large kerchief behind his neck and raised it to perch on his nose, covering his lower face.

There’d be gossip that he’d hired a thug to exact revenge for Tate’s drunken display Monday night. Wendell, though, knew he had to do it himself, for honor’s sake.

Wendell was familiar with Tate’s habits. After working from 6 A.M. to 11 A.M. on Saturdays, Tate returned home for a nap on the chaise lounge in his front parlor, then lunch at the Tremont Hotel, since he gave his staff Saturdays off. The nap time in the house deserted of staff was the perfect moment to strike.

He dashed across the backyard and up the steps to slip inside the kitchen. With the roar of the wind and the rain exploding against the wooden house, stealth was unnecessary. He could have wandered the downstairs banging a bass drum and still gone unnoticed.

In the parlor Wendell found Tate slumbering. Grabbing the poker from the fireplace’s tool stand, he approached Tate, raising the iron bar above his head.

At the last moment, Tate’s eyes popped open. He managed to raise an arm to block the first blow. The poker connected with a satisfying, bone-shattering crack.

“You don’t covet another man’s wife,” Wendell panted, punctuating his words with blows to Tate’s chest.

It may have been his voice, or perhaps Tate saw something in his eyes, visible above the mask. Tate whispered one word, his tone filled with disbelief.

“Wendell?”

He’s recognized me! He’ll denounce me!

Fear gripped Wendell. The next blow struck Tate’s forehead, cutting a bloody line in the flesh.

And then all of Wendell’s pent-up rage exploded and he roared as he raised the poker. Another blow. Another. Another.

Wendell stared disbelievingly at the carnage. The gore-encrusted poker dripped blood onto the carpet, and scarlet ribbons had sprayed across the floor and onto the walls, his shirt, his face. Wendell stumbled backward, dropping the poker. What have I done?

Then a ghastly smile twisted his face.

I’m not here. I’m on the train.

His laughter nearly spiraled out of control, but then his ruthless discipline reasserted itself. He saw Tate’s watch fob extending from his vest pocket. Careful to avoid the splattered blood, Wendell grabbed the shovel from the fireplace tools and brought it down hard on the pocket. There. The broken watch would set the time of the attack-a time that Wendell could establish he was not in town. Now I must get to the train station and complete the charade.

After wiping the blood from the shovel and replacing it in the stand, he retraced his path through the house.

In the stable he found a basin and fresh water. He washed himself before dressing again in his own clothes. Wendell dumped the basin into the deepening flood and watched the crimson-toned water twist in the flow before disappearing. He checked his watch: 12:14. Now to make his way to the station.

As he stepped outside into the alley, the wind lifted his bowler and sent it flying away. Wendell glanced down at the bloodstained shirt, kerchief, and cloth cap in his hand. He’d planned to dispose of them as he walked to the station, but instead he raised his arm. The wind ripped the clothing from his hand and sent it flying to join the anonymous debris of the storm.

The umbrella was now only a partial shield against the stinging rain. He headed for the station, slogging through the flood. An apothecary sign sailed past his head, soaring like a kite. North of the Garten Verein, the wind ripped the umbrella from his hands. Wendell raised his coat collar above his head and grasped it closed below his chin, like a shawl. He kept moving.

Wind battered him while the waters clawed at his legs. While the flood receded as he reached the highest point on the island, the wind and rain redoubled their attack. He had to bend low, shuffling sideways, fearing that at any moment he could be ripped from the earth and sent sailing like his hat. Past the crest, the waters rose, swamping the sidewalks, reaching his waist.

When the terminal appeared through the driving rain, the scene stunned him. Out to the west, the inbound train stood stalled on the tracks. Steam poured from the engine’s swamped boiler. Lines were strung between the train and the station as men helped the women and children through chest-high waters to the terminal.

There would be no afternoon train, no escape from the island.

Wendell felt something bump against him.

It was the body of a young woman, floating facedown in the water.

The trip south to his mansion was an excursion through the nightmare landscapes of Hieronymus Bosch. Collapsed houses, a trolley abandoned on the street, dead animals, and in the midst of it all a plague of small toads, thousands of them, clinging to the debris in the water.

And more bodies.

He could no longer establish his alibi. But could anybody challenge it? He could say that when the train died, he left his compartment and headed directly home. He’d wait out the storm and catch the next train to Fort Worth.

Yet gnawing at his brain was the knowledge that he was a murderer. Tate was dead at his hand. He might insulate himself from charges, but he’d never escape that condemning knowledge.

He plowed through the water. Then he was dropping, lost in a crater scoured away by the waters, submerging him in the vile mixture. He fought for the surface, finally breaking into a twilight world, brightened only by lightning.

It was sweet relief when he trudged up the steps of his home. The waters outside had not yet reached within the house, thanks to the pilings it was built upon, like most of the houses in Galveston. Wendell found a lantern and lit it, using its light to climb to the second floor. He stripped to his skin in the upstairs bathroom, leaving his clothes in a sodden, stinking pile. They were ruined, fit only for burning. Only his pocket watch was salvageable.

After drying himself, Wendell went into his bedroom and dressed. He stretched out on his bed, meaning to rest for a minute. But after the trials of the day, Wendell was asleep when his head touched his pillow.

He looked up and saw Tate above him, his face smashed and bloody. Tate’s eyes glowed a hellish yellow as they gazed down at Wendell. In Tate’s hand was a poker. Wendell watched as it rose high above him, and then…

Wendell cried out, waving his arms to block the blow. His eyes popped open and Tate vanished.

Still, Wendell woke into a nightmare. The rain outside sounded like a million nails being driven into the walls. The room’s windows had imploded, allowing a tornado of wind to roar inside. The walls groaned and twisted as Wendell watched.

Grabbing the lantern, he ran to the upstairs landing. He couldn’t take in what he saw. The downstairs was submerged beneath black waters. Waves lapped at the top staircase steps.

Is this my fault? Is this storm mirroring my own loss of control? Then the floor rose beneath Wendell’s feet, bucking him back into the bedroom. Again it heaved, and with a final shiver the house floated free of its pilings.

He fought his way through the lashing wind out of a window, grasping hold of the roof. The house jerked and twisted in the flood. Then his piece of roof ripped free of the house, swirling away in the waters. Looking back, Wendell saw his home crumple as if God’s hands were wadding it up like a piece of paper.

The only light came from lightning flashes. What he saw confounded him. He could have been in the middle of a storm-tossed ocean, except for a few houses still standing, with their second floors and widow’s walks rising above the waves.

“I’ve been a fool, Amelia,” he shouted, hardly hearing himself above the wind. “Why did I leave you? Why did I lie? I’m sorry. So sorry. But I-”

He never saw the shingle whipping through the air. It simply appeared embedded in his chest. Blood whelmed up around it. He tasted blood in his mouth. Can’t breathe. Then his body went limp and he fell backward off the raft.

So cold, he thought as the waters covered his fading eyes. So dark.

Amelia looked up at the knock on the parlor door of the house she’d rented in Fort Worth. Arthur entered, followed by Donald Maret, both wearing grim expressions. The butler held a letter along with a small box.

“The report has come, Mrs. Asquith. I summoned Mr. Maret from his hotel so he could hear the news as well.”

She remembered when Arthur had told her on the train that “young Mr. Maret” was also a passenger, traveling on business to Fort Worth. Arthur had seen Donald in the dining car while getting a tray for Amelia. It seemed a lifetime had passed since that Saturday, yet it was only three weeks.

“Quite right, Arthur,” she said, taking the letter and box from him.

The first reports they’d heard placed the death toll at five hundred-a horrendous number but still a small fraction of Galveston’s population. But as time passed the number kept rising until it was unimaginable. Yesterday the paper said the final death toll would never be known but could be over ten thousand. With Arthur’s help, Amelia had dispatched a private detective to search for Wendell and Jamieson in the ruins of Galveston.

Amelia opened the envelope and withdrew the report, unfolding it carefully. She read it aloud:

Sept 25th, 1900

Houston, Tex.

My dear Mrs. Asquith,

Per your request, I traveled to Galveston. Train service is still restricted since the trestles have collapsed, but I found a man here with a sailing boat. He said he was from Virginia Point and had made it to Houston just before the hurricane. When we sailed past, we saw that Virginia Point had been wiped away.

Nothing remains of your home. Every structure south of Avenue N or east of 12th Street is gone. Destroyed buildings near the beach created a pile of debris. Pushed by the wind and waves, it plowed through everything in its path.

The authorities tried burying the victims at sea, but within two days the corpses washed back ashore. Instead they’re burning them. The toll was so enormous that the pyres still burn, filling the air with ash and the stench of charred flesh.

Jewelry or other possessions are often the only way to identify the dead. Amongst the recovered remains I found the watch you described. Your husband, Wendell, is listed among the dead. The other man you requested information on, Jamieson Maret, was severely wounded. He expired in the makeshift hospital here three days after the storm.

Please accept my condolences…

Laying down the letter, Amelia wiped a tear from her eye. Donald still stood beside Arthur, his head bowed. While Arthur maintained his stoic control, Amelia could see his eyes were full.

She opened the box. There was Wendell’s pocket watch, sitting on a bed of tissue paper. She stared at the dented cover; smelled the seawater in which it had been immersed.

Amelia stood up and held the box out to Arthur. “Please secure a graveyard plot and bury this watch there. Have them place a headstone above it with Wendell’s name and years. Also, send Elizabeth to me. I shall need black outfits.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur said.

“I could never believe something like this could have happened,” Donald said as Arthur left the room, closing the door behind him.

Amelia looked at Donald. After a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm they were alone, Donald stepped toward her, smiling. Amelia fell forward against him, grateful at last to be enfolded in his loving embrace again.