Chương 8 - Rain on the Windshield
The afternoon thunderstorm hit the neighborhood with sudden, violent intensity, turning the asphalt into a churning black mirror. I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing a ceramic bowl when my phone buzzed against the counter with an incoming call from an unknown local number. I pressed accept, expecting a telemarketer or a school administrator.
"Elena?" Julian's voice came through the speaker, accompanied by the muffled, rhythmic thud of heavy rain and the whine of an electric motor failing. "I'm about four blocks away from your street. The alternator on the sedan just died, and I'm stranded by the old municipal park."
I stared out the kitchen window, watching sheets of water lash against the panes. "Why are you driving through my neighborhood in a rental car?"
"Because I tried to send an email through the mediator and realized I didn't want to hide behind paper anymore," he said, his voice tight with frustration and damp chill. "The car gave out right as I rounded the corner. I'm sitting in a dead vehicle with water leaking through the sunroof."
A reluctant, dry laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. The image of Julian Sterling—titan of industry, master of glass towers—stranded in a sputtering economy sedan during a Midwestern downpour was entirely absurd.
"Stay where you are," I said, grabbing my yellow raincoat from the hook by the back door. "Don't walk. I'll get the umbrella and bring the station wagon around."
Fifteen minutes later, the sedan was pulled safely against the curb behind my dented station wagon, its hazard lights blinking a dull orange through the gray deluge. Julian stepped out of the passenger door of my car, shaking water from his dark hair, looking remarkably human in a damp white shirt with his tie loosened around his collar. When we stepped through the front door of my apartment, the air inside was warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon tea and damp wool.
Lily was sitting on the living room rug, her crayons scattered around her, looking up as the front door swung open. She didn't look frightened; her wide, curious eyes simply tracked the tall man dripping water onto the entryway mat.
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"Mom," Lily said, pointing her purple crayon straight at Julian. "That's the man from the hotel."
Julian froze, his hand halfway to removing his jacket. He looked down at my daughter, his throat working as he swallowed hard, before looking up at me for permission. I gave a slow, barely perceptible nod.
