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It was coming back.
Jennifer Winn watched the gigantic black cloud gather momentum as it rolled off the Pacific Ocean, swallowed the sandy shore, the rocky bluff and every last ray of evening light. When its thick saliva began to coat the windowpanes of the Grand Hotel, she took an involuntary step back.
Storms, floods, droughts—these Jennifer took in her stride as Courage Bay's resident meteorologist. But this insidious fog, which robbed her of sight, upset her on a deep visceral level she could not explain.
"Isn't it perfect?" Russell asked from behind her.
Jennifer spun away from the blackened windows to face her fiancé's bright smile. She'd been so caught up in thoughts of the fog that it took a moment for her to realize he was talking about the ballroom.
Her eyes swept over the expansive space with its twenty-two-foot ceilings, sparkling chandeliers and shiny marble floors. Waiters in pristine attire prepared place settings of crystal and fine china on tables covered in white linen. According to the hallway banner, tonight the room would be filled with a prestigious law school's alumni celebrating their twenty-year reunion.
"Very nice," she said, "but big."
"Don't worry about filling the tables," Russell said. "My invitation list alone will do that."
"Yours will have to. Mine has no more than a dozen names." She hadn't meant the comment to come out with sadness, but it seemed to.
Russell clasped her hand, rubbed the large diamond on her finger. "Jen, you deserve a big, beautiful wedding, and I'm going to see that you get one."
He would, too. Russell was the cliché of every woman's fantasy—handsome, charming and more than ready to commit. From the moment they'd met the year before, he'd done everything he could to sweep her off her feet.
By all rights this should be the most exciting time of her life.
"I gave the hotel manager the deposit," Gina called as she came into the hotel's ballroom from the adjacent hall.
Jennifer found herself frowning at her approaching friend. "Why did you do that? We haven't decided yet."
"But Russell said—" Gina began.
"I told her to give him the deposit, Jen," Russell interrupted. "This place is normally booked at least a year in advance. The only reason they have an opening next month is because of a last-minute cancellation. I wouldn't have even known about that if the manager wasn't a patient of mine."
"This is the first place we've seen," Jennifer said. "There may be something else that—"
"Not at this late date," he declared. "The only other available reception halls are dumps. Mother's already checked them out. A reception says a lot about a couple. We want ours to say the right thing about us. This is the place that will."
Jennifer once again surveyed the elegantly appointed room. No doubt about it. Russell fit right in here.
He moved closer, circled his arm around her.
"I want us to be married next month, Jen, not next year. If we don't take this right now, someone else is going to. We can't let this chance pass us by."
"Russell's right," Gina said. "My group used to perform here. The acoustics are great. You're going to be able to hear the band's every drumbeat."
"What band?" Jennifer asked.
"The one Mother hired for us on Thursday," Russell said. "Eight-piece. Three vocalists. You'll love them. Their repertoire includes everything from classic to contemporary. She gave them a list of all the songs we like. 'My One and Only' will be what they play when we have our first dance together as man and wife. Great pick, isn't it?"
Of course it was. Russell and his mother had impeccable taste. So did his father and sister, for that matter. The Sprague family genes were positively oozing with the stuff.
"And now let me give you a preview of the coming attractions," Russell said.
He clasped her hand and whisked her on to the dance floor, waltzing to the music being piped through the ballroom. As with everything else he did, Russell was a precision dancer, each move executed with perfect timing. Jennifer concentrated on matching his steps.
"Can't you see us right here next month—me in my tux and you in your wedding dress—all eyes on us? We're going to have a great wedding. All you have to do is leave it to me."
A big part of her wanted to. Russell was a man who knew how to get things done. And what he didn't have time to handle, his mother would be more than willing to. Between them they would put together a first-class affair.
But this was her wedding. Shouldn't she be in the thick of the preparations? Wasn't that supposed to be half the fun? Why was she content to sit on the sidelines?
Jennifer began missing steps, no matter how diligently she tried to keep up.
Russell eased to a graceful halt. "Tired, darling?"
"A little." Until she said it, she didn't realize how much. It had been awhile since lunch. Maybe she needed to eat something. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. Maybe—
She felt a tap on her shoulder.
"Your relief is here," Gina said. "I'll drag his inept butt around the dance floor a few times and give your poor stepped-on toes a chance to heal."
Gina always did have a good sense of humor. Jennifer gave her friend a smile and moved aside.
As Russell and Gina whirled away, Jennifer looked around, to see that the waiters had finished their preparations and left. She headed for the nearest table and lowered herself onto one of its cushioned chairs to watch her fiancé and best friend.
They were something to watch. Gina shared Russell's dark coloring and height. She was a professional dancer, performing on stage throughout Southern California. Together they turned what proved to be a difficult beat for Jennifer into a flowing art form.
Maybe I should take lessons, Jennifer thought. Russell loves parties and socializing. There'll be a lot of dancing in our future.
Wish I enjoyed dancing more.
Her gaze drifted to the blackened windows beyond the twirling couple. Whatever this strange mood was that claimed her, it seemed in some way to be linked to the unsettling fog.
For nearly a week, the coastal community of Courage Bay had been consumed each evening by the ominous cloud. It wreaked havoc on the roadways, as residents, trying to navigate through the unaccustomed gloom toward the light of hearth and home, found themselves in pileups and ditches and the hospital's emergency room.
And with every weather forecast she gave, Jennifer had nothing to offer but more of the same. The precipitating conditions of unseasonably warm air masses mixing with the cold water upwelling along the coast persisted.
It was as though the fog were a ravenous predator, rising out of the ocean each night to hunt its human prey.
Jennifer jumped right out of her chair as an ominous roar suddenly drowned out the music. Two gigantic eyes glowed out of the dense fog and stared right at her—giving shape to her darkest imaginings. Time stopped as her disbelieving eyes locked on those of the disembodied beast.
Then a private airplane materialized out of the black night and smashed through the windows, spewing glass everywhere, tearing the crystal chandeliers from the ceiling and crashing onto the floor in a cacophony of blinding light and deafening sound.
And beneath its rocking, twisted body were Russell and Gina.
Jennifer yanked her cell phone out of her purse as she ran into the wreckage. She darted through the broken glass, ducked beneath ripped and dangling electrical wires hanging from the ceiling, still emitting sparks.
A flurry of startled voices and stomping feet erupted behind her. She paid them no heed as she vaulted over a smashed chandelier. By the time she'd told the 911 operator what had happened, she'd reached Russell beneath one of the plane's sheared-off wings.
She dropped to his side, her heart beating high, fast. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. Broken glass and pieces of plane and other debris surrounded him, but she could see no blood to indicate a wound.
"Russell?"
No response. She groped for the pulse in his neck. For what seemed like forever, she felt nothing but the pounding of her heart. Then a steady beat registered beneath her fingertips. Relief left her light-headed.
"Ms. Winn?" the manager's voice called from somewhere behind her. "Where are you?"
"Over here," Jennifer answered. "Beneath the wing."
"Hold on. I'll be right there."
Jennifer heard the noise of glass crunching beneath shoes. A soft curse. Then the manager came into view and squatted beside her. He was a gray-haired man whose face got grayer as he looked at Russell's unconscious form.
"The pilot's dead," he stated. "Russell isn't…?"
"His pulse is strong," Jennifer assured him. "I called 911."
"Glad to see someone's keeping it together," he said, and she noticed his hands were shaking.
She gave him a brief smile. "I'll be falling apart later. Right now I can't afford to."
Jennifer started as she heard Gina groan.
"That's my friend," she said, wanting to go to her, but not willing to leave Russell.
The manager seemed to understand her dilemma. "It's okay. I'll stay with him."
She quickly bent to kiss Russell's cheek before jumping to her feet and scurrying off in the direction of the next groan. It took a frantic search through the rubble before she found Gina at the other end of the wreckage. Her friend was lying on her side behind the tail portion of the plane. A triangular-shaped piece of glass stuck out of her arm, the wound pulsing blood.
Jennifer dropped to her knees, whipped off her belt and wrapped it tightly around the top of Gina's arm to stop the blood loss.
"Jen?"
"Right here."
Gina blinked up at her. "You're fuzzy."
"Most of the lights on this side of the room are out," Jennifer said, hoping that was the only reason her friend was having trouble seeing her.
"I'm cold."
Jennifer wasn't surprised. They were on the very edge of the ballroom floor next to a yawning gap that had once been floor-to-ceiling windows. In the blackness beyond lay a two-hundred-foot drop to the sea. The chilling wet fog poured over them.
She pulled off her jacket, wrapped it around Gina, kicked away two large pieces of glass and sat on the floor. Propping Gina's injured arm against her knee, she settled her friend's head in her lap. "Better?" she asked.
"That damn thing came right at us. Did you see it?"
"Hard to miss," Jennifer said, working to keep her voice calm. She was shivering in her light sweater and didn't know how much of it was from cold and how much from shock.
"What in the hell was it?" Gina asked.
"A small plane. Did you see Russell when it hit?" Jennifer asked, trying to keep her mind focused and functioning.
"Hell, I was too busy diving for the floor. Where is he?"
"Other side of the wreckage. He was knocked out. How are you feeling?"
"My arm hurts like hell."
"How about the rest of you?"
"Okay, I guess. What's wrong with my arm?"
"Appears you got hit by a piece of flying glass."
Gina stared at her arm. Something must have been registering because after a succession of rapid blinks, a look of horror stole over her face.
"Get it out!"
"We'll have to wait for the paramedics," Jennifer told her.
"I'm bleeding!"
"Very slowly now. My belt's acting as a tourniquet, and I'm keeping your arm raised and supported. You're going to be fine."
"But all that blood!"
"It's not that much," Jennifer lied. "Now close your eyes. Try to rest. Help's on the way."
Gina's eyes remained open, darting about. "Jen, I'm scared. What if I lose my arm? What if I don't make it at all?"
"Don't be silly. You're going to make it."
"That's what they always say in the movies just before the guy dies."
"Aren't you glad this isn't the movies and you're not a guy?"
Gina's eyes steadied on Jennifer's face. "You've been a good friend to me. The best friend I've ever had. Do you know that?"
"You've been a really good friend to me as well."
"I feel so rotten."
The sound of sirens wailed up the road toward the hotel. "Hear that?" Jennifer asked, her voice high with relief. "Help is nearly here."
Gina closed her eyes and sank the full weight of her head onto Jennifer's lap. "It's too late. Everything's getting blurry. Jen, I can't die with this on my conscience. I have to tell you. I've been sleeping with Russell for the past six months."
Dr. Michael Temple's shift at the hospital had officially ended two hours before. He'd stayed on because of a deeply troubled young man.
Gary was twenty, a good-looking college sophomore on an athletic scholarship, with plenty of pretty girls interested in him and a shot at pro sports—until a few beers and some dangerous horsing around with his buddies resulted in his right hand being severed.
His scholarship had been terminated, and as far as Gary was concerned, so had his life.
A month after he'd been sent home from the hospital, Gary used his new artificial hand to apply a razor blade to his remaining wrist. His suicide attempt hadn't been successful.
The E.R. had stopped the bleeding. The O.R. had sutured his wrist. Now he lay in the psychiatric ward, both arms bound to the bed.
He'd turned away everyone who tried to visit him. Hadn't opened his cards. Kicked the vases of flowers and boxes of candy that arrived onto the floor. All his parents got were dead stares.
For the past three hours, Michael had listened as Gary finally opened up and let out the emotions seething inside him. He was full of rage, a sense of injustice, a roaring self-pity.
And a profound isolation.
Emotions Michael understood only too well.
But he had said nothing to Gary. The young man wouldn't have heard anything he had to say. Gary simply needed someone to listen to him today. Michael had listened.
And then he had given orders that Gary's bed be moved out of isolation and into the room where Leon, a twenty-one-year-old with osteogenic sarcoma, was recuperating after having the bottom half of his left leg amputated.
Leon was also at the point where he hated all well people and was ready to take out his anger on anyone who came within hearing range. But Michael saw the anger of both young men for what it was—a desire for change. They were fighting back.
Adapting to their new realities and healing their torn emotions would take more than time, however. It would take connection with someone who understood. They could help each other in a way he could not.
After finishing his case notes, Michael turned off his computer, stretching to get the kinks out of his shoulders and back. The workout at the gym was going to feel good tonight. Saturday was always his favorite time—no competition for the weight machines or overcrowding in the steam room.
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