A Home by the Sea. Christina Skye

out the way he’d hoped. He’d gotten all the way to the bar when he realized his cell phone was locked in his car, parked on the street three blocks over. Noah never used his private cell phone at work. He carried his official pager at all times, but with the storm coming tonight he wanted his cell in good working order. If his family had problems, he needed to be able to contact them.

      “Hey, Noah. Where are you going, buddy?” The door opened just as he was turning back, and light spilled over the thin layer of blowing snow. “First round is on the house. Second round is on me. So what are you waiting for?” Two more men from Noah’s explosives unit appeared, peering out. Laughter and smoke and low jazz spilled into the wind.

      “I forgot something, Donovan. I’ll be back in ten. Make sure you keep my seat warm and my drink cold.”

      The taller man nodded. “You got it.” But Joe Donovan’s eyes were troubled. He had worked with Noah since their select, top-level unit was put together, staffed by experts seconded from the FBI, the Secret Service and every branch of the military. Donovan was Noah’s closest friend and he wasn’t afraid to probe when the situation called for it. He moved down the stairs, speaking quietly. “That was one hell of a save today, buddy. How are you feeling?”

      “Fine,” Noah said tightly.

      “Glad to hear it. Next week we’ll have to figure out what to do when the next one appears. Because there’s always another one,” Donovan muttered.

      “The bomb business is good these days. You know that, Joe.” Noah felt the cold trail over his face and thought about how close he’d come to dying that afternoon.

      “But we’re good too. Yeah, we’re the best.” He clamped Noah on the shoulder. “And you’re gonna make us even better. Now get the lead out. Didn’t you hear there’s the mother of all storms headed our way?”

      “I heard. I won’t be long.”

      The door opened again. Someone shouted at Joe. He gave a wave and then vanished back inside. When Noah turned around, the street was covered by two inches of snow and more was coming down in big, fluffy flakes. Noah was glad his car had four-wheel drive.

      He crossed two streets, thinking about what havoc the storm might cause. As he turned the corner, a slim figure appeared in front of the townhouse where the party looked to be in full swing. Noah’s hands tightened.

      She was wearing a black wool coat now, fumbling in her pocket. No scarf. No hat. No boots. Delicate evening heels that were never meant to face snow or rain.

      Noah saw her drop her gloves. She picked them up and then stopped, looking uncertainly down the street. Her face was toward the light and Noah could have sworn he saw something glinting on her cheeks. Tears?

      His hands tightened again. Why was she crying? Had something happened at the party? Had that man—

       Not your problem. You’re supposed to be having a nice, rowdy night in a smoke-filled room, remember? Forget about her.

      Noah forced his feet on through the snow toward his old, reliable Jeep. He located his cell phone and locked up the car. Suddenly impatient, he jogged back across the street.

      He turned his head. Through dancing snowflakes he saw her pass a small art gallery, open for an evening event. Then she stopped, scanning the parked cars and the nearby alley.

      Noah didn’t see anything but a row of garbage cans and locked cars. What was she looking for? Had she dropped something?

      He tracked her prints back to the townhouse, looking at the snow. Nothing on the ground. No scarf and no fallen purse. It didn’t make sense.

      A snow truck growled past, wipers flapping, its big tires throwing up snow in sheets. When it passed, she was gone.

      GRACE REFUSED TO FALL APART.

      All she needed was one or two minutes. Time to calm down, pull herself together and take control. She was a pro at taking charge of her life, after all.

      She’d pulled herself together when her mother had stopped caring about her or anything beyond the inside of a bottle. A few months later her grandmother had come down with lupus. She had died within the year. Through it all, Grace’s grandfather had done everything he could to shield her from the dark realities of her life, and Grace had gone along, putting up a brave front, always optimistic and enthusiastic.

      Yes, she was famous for pulling herself together. People thought she was serene and unflappable. Grace worked hard to make them believe that because she wanted to be those things.

      But now as snow dusted her face, she felt the knife twist and twist again, stabbing deep. She had lost the man she loved a year earlier. After the funeral she had managed to pull her life together, helped by friends and the complex research jobs she loved. She was actually starting to feel whole and happy again.

      Then she had found the letter.

      Then she’d had a call from an old friend, just bursting to give her the helpful news that the man she’d loved and lost had a wife in Thailand. And there had been more gossip about other women, scattered over his far-flung travels as a UN negotiator. He had quite a record as a lover, it turned out. Yes, it had been a nice call, just a helpful update from a concerned friend.

      Grace was still trying to recover from the news, and the pain was raw. Did you ever really know a person, she wondered? Or was everything just bits and pieces of a performance?

      She brushed away a tear as snow crept down her collar and in the process dropped her gloves in the swirling snow. When she bent to pick them up, she heard a low, muffled sound from the row of cars across the street.

      A cry?

      She crossed the street, wishing she had brought her boots. Ignoring her frozen toes, she stopped to listen.

      Another sound, plaintive and soft.

      The noise seemed to be coming from a small alley just beyond a nearby art gallery. A cardboard box tumbled toward her, carried by the wind. When Grace grabbed it, she saw that it was empty.

      The sound came again, only this time the muted cry of pain and exhaustion tore at her heart. She plunged forward into the shadows, shivering as snow slid into her sling-back heels. Fumbling a little, she raised her small key-chain light and searched the alley.

      A pair of eyes flashed against the darkness, bright in the sudden light. Grace saw a dark shape against a Dumpster near the alley’s far wall. Bending down slowly, she saw a cat half covered with snow and newspapers. As the papers moved, Grace realized there were at least three kittens huddled next to their mother, all of them half-frozen in the snow. If someone didn’t help them, they were going to die. She knew it without question.

      Anger made her hands clench. Had someone dumped a pet here to avoid unwanted kittens? Had they hoped that the storm would solve their problem? In Oregon she had seen that kind of callousness too often. She knew the fear and pain of abandoned animals only too well.

      But there was no time to be lost. The temperature was dropping and she needed something to hold the shivering animals. They wouldn’t survive the storm that was already pounding the outskirts of D.C.

      The big cat’s eyes were dusted with snow and she seemed to struggle to move, nudging one of the kittens closer to the shelter of her body. When she saw Grace lean down, her eyes pricked forward. Then she purred softly.

      Grace’s heart lurched at the sound of trust and hope. “I’ll find a warm home for you, sweetie. I promise. Let’s get you somewhere safe.” Grace scanned the Dumpster with her light, looking for a box. But most of the trash was gone; only newspapers remained in one corner. How was she going to bundle the strays back to her car, which was four blocks away?

      Frustrated, she leaned down into the Dumpster and rooted through the papers inside.

      “Hello?” Snow crunched behind her. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

      Grace shot to her feet. A man stood at the mouth of the alley.