A Bolt from the Blue. Maggie Wells

Hope raised her arms enough to show she wasn’t exactly dressed for full interrogation. “My passport is in the house. Along with my mobile phone, my clothing, and whatever dignity I may have left behind when I crawled out of the house.” She donned her late husband’s most haughty tone and co-opted a smidgen of his stuffy British accent as she pointed to the house. “Would you be a love and go fetch my things for me?”

      The boy looked nonplussed. He stared at her long and hard, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Did you say passport?”

      The relentless rain chose that moment to abate, leaving an awkward sort-of silence in its wake. Hope shivered and closed her eyes, murmuring a prayer for patience. She was about to open her mouth and spill her entire sad, soggy story to this prepubescent patrolman when her plea for help was answered in the form of a wailing siren. Holding her breath, she waited for the flash of white headlights to go with the blobs of red bouncing off windows and walls. The officers turned to look as the fire engine roared its way to them. Thankfully, this one slowed and approached.

      “Officer, do you mind…” She let the words trail off as she gestured to the patrol car blocking the entrance.

      “Oh!” The young man switched off the spotlight and clutched the steering wheel.

      Hope’s vision cleared enough for her to see him dither for a moment on whether to pull in closer to the house, or reverse out of the drive. The fireman behind the wheel of the idling truck made the choice easier by laying on his horn. Startled by the blare, Hope sprung away from the wall and followed the car and the truck down the drive and into the paved courtyard. One of the uniformed firemen hopped down and jogged toward her while another pulled equipment from the truck.

      “Are you the owner, ma’am?”

      It took a full second for Hope to process the fact that the firefighter standing in front of her in full gear was a woman. “Yes. Well…yes,” she asserted, figuring there’d be time enough for explanations later. “Lightning struck a tree on the back lawn. Took the power lines out, but a few minutes later…” She paused, her brain clicking into gear as she was about to tell this young woman she believed lightning had struck her property twice.

      Coup de foude.

      She could still hear John saying the words, his French almost as badly accented as her own.

      Almost.

      She’d fallen in love with The Right Honourable John Elliot, Lord Ashford, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Trampled his foot, actually. He liked to say they stumbled into love, but the tiny flaws she found in an otherwise nearly flawless man tipped her head over heels. Like his abysmal French and horrible tastes in music. He put orange marmalade on anything that didn’t move. She particularly liked it when he’d spread it all over her.

      “Ma’am? Are you all right?” The firefighter placed her gloved hand on Hope’s arm, jerking her back to the present.

      “Oh! Yes. Sorry,” she apologized reflexively. “I was in the kitchen watching the storm when lightning hit. I smelled electrical burning, saw some smoke, and ran”—her voice caught on the fib—“right out the front door.”

      Hope watched as one of the firefighters jogged around the side of the house. Another stood on the front porch shining a bright flashlight into the darkened house. When prompted, she rattled off her name, phone number—not that the information would do them a bit of good at the moment—connection to the property, and all of the clues they might find inside to back up her story. The first firefighter appeared out of the darkness at the side of the house and gave the woman speaking to Hope a thumbs-up, then trotted toward the door.

      The young woman nodded. “Yep. Tree’s down. Looks like a branch took out service to the house.”

      “I didn’t smell the burning until after the second strike, though.”

      Shrugging, the firefighter glanced at the house as the other two went in. “The power going out helps us. I’m going to let our friends know we’ve got the scene.” The young woman gestured to the police car. “It’s a nasty night out, and emergency services are spread thin.” She grimaced as she looked Hope up and down. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you go inside until they clear the area.” She reached into a compartment and pulled out a sheet made out of shiny silver material. “I know you’re cold, but if you can hang on for a little longer—” She opened the side doors and gestured for Hope to climb in. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

      “I’ll be fine.” Hope took the blanket and wrapped the crinkly Mylar around her body. “I can’t get any wetter. Or more humiliated.”

      Chapter 2

      The house was still standing. Hope’s attention strayed from the female firefighter to the open front door and back again. The young woman gestured broadly as she spoke to the police officers, but she must have gotten her point across fairly quickly because she turned and jogged to the door to join her team inside. A second later, the patrolman rolled his lights and tweaked his siren again. Drenched and walking on shredded feet, Hope moved aside as the jackass performed a perfect three-point turn. He gave her a jaunty salute as he cruised past.

      Hope hauled herself onto the lip of the truck and glared at his taillights. “Protect and serve, my ass,” she seethed. “I’m gonna remember this when it comes time to dole out the bequests, les cochons!”

      “Yeah, you tell ’em,” a voice drawled from the front of the truck.

      She jumped. “Oh! I’m sorry.” The apology popped out automatically. “I didn’t know there was anyone in here.”

      The driver smiled at her. “Holding down the fort.”

      Hope finger-combed her rain-flattened hair. Because when a woman is caught running around one of the swankiest bits of Chicago lakefront in nothing but a shirt and underpants, she should try to look her best. “God, what an awful night.”

      “Spring,” the young man answered laconically.

      Hope stopped fiddling with her hair and pulled the blanket tighter around her. “I bet you’ve had a busy night.”

      “Beats watching HGTV.”

      She turned to look at him, puzzled. “HGTV?”

      He waved the question off. “The captain’s got a thing for home improvement shows. They drive me nuts.” He peered through the windshield toward the house. “Who cares what color pillows they put on a couch built out of plywood and an old mattress? No one’s going to sit there, anyway.”

      He fell silent, and Hope had the impression she was supposed to make some kind of response, but her thoughts were logy and she hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about. She wasn’t a television viewer, for the most part. “Right.”

      She let her head fall forward. Tangled strands of hair lashed her cheeks, but she didn’t have the energy to fight with them. Her feet throbbed. She moved beyond teeth chattering to full-on body shakes. She checked the space behind her to see if she could stretch out. Settling into the space, she jumped when the female firefighter appeared in the open doors.

      The name GRAHAM was written on the breast of the heavy coat she wore. A reassuring smile curved her lips and crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You were right. Electrical fire. Looks like a small one. Burned itself out.” She wrinkled her pert, upturned nose. “I’m afraid we may have caused more damage than the fire itself, but we had to check inside the walls.”

      Hope had no idea what she meant by the part about the walls, but she wasn’t worried about the mess. She needed to sweep up the pieces of the shattered mug, anyway.

      “Your wiring is messed up. You’ll need a good electrician.”

      “There she goes, drumming up business again,” the driver said in a teasing tone.

      Confused, Hope tried to make heads or tails out of what they were saying, but gave up. She was too muddled. “Pardon