All That Glitters. Mary Brady

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      “She ran her car off the road following me up here.”

      Hunter snorted. “I guess leaving her in the ditch to sit out a hurricane might have been a bit much. I don’t suppose she did it on purpose.”

      Zach thought of how far her car had left the road, how frightened she had been when he had hauled her out and wondered if anyone was that desperate for a story. “I doubt it.”

      “You don’t have her in the loft with you.”

      It was a nonquestion that begged a negative response. “I put her in the house. We’ve got power now. If Owen did his job, the generator is functioning and there’s plenty of gas.”

      “Well, the old guy’s intentions will have been good.”

      Zach snorted this time. He didn’t trust Owen Calloway to be a perfect groundskeeper, but he trusted the old guy and his wife not to meddle and not to gossip. Those two qualities made his only close neighbors gems.

      “At any rate I’ve got plenty of wood. As long as the fireplace works, and according to the contractor there should be barely a puff of smoke even in a hurricane. We’ve got food and hot water.”

      “You might find Delainey and I squatting up there one of these days.”

      Hunter had a new fiancé who enriched his life in every way and Zach was glad that kind of thing worked for the two of them.

      “Anytime. Anytime,” Zach said putting a bag of apples and one of oranges on the counter beside the bread. “And I’ll keep the reporter at arm’s length.”

      “A little farther away might be better.”

      “Maybe she’ll stay tucked in the house.”

      “They predict the storm could stall.”

      “I’ll feed her once in a while.”

      “Be careful of what you feed her. She has a lot of good journalism to her credit, but her last story has been labeled as a desperate grab at a Pulitzer. She’s been down and out since, so she’s most likely very hungry.”

      “I’ll slip food under her door.”

      Hunter laughed. “Yeah. Be careful and good luck, Zach.”

      “Thanks, and I meant it about you and Delainey.”

      He signed off with another promise to be wary.

      Zachary McClure Hale in loyal and patriotic fashion had been named after his grandfather Zachary Hale and an ancestor by the name of McClure who had brought his wife and infant to the very young United States of America in the early 1800s.

      By time and attrition the McClures of New England had either died out, or a few, but not many, had left Maine and lost interest in the family heritage. Virginia McClure, his grandmother, had drilled into him that a Mainer knew where he came from and he protected that legacy. For most of Zach’s adult life, it had been up to him to maintain the ancestral home and the antiques within.

      The old McClure mansion was his to look after, but caring for the heritage home had not been a burden. Money to keep the house in good repair was also not a problem. At issue, he had little time for the place and there was scant interest outside himself for keeping it in the best historically accurate repair.

      He didn’t begrudge the time he gave. The loft above the garage had become a place to retreat, where he didn’t usually allow people to follow him. Since the time when control had been bequeathed to him, there had never been a reporter and never a woman here other than Cammy Logan, who cleaned the house and the loft and kept a keen eye on any repairs or issues that occurred with either.

      Reporters he usually met at a café or his office. Women he wished to entertain in private, he met at restaurants or posh hotels. His penthouse condominium in Boston was also private territory.

      The mansion on Sea Crest Hill he kept to himself, until today.

      He’d deal with this reporter exactly how he’d dealt with those in Boston. She’d get referred to his attorney for a blanket statement neither confirming nor denying any wrongdoing at Hale and Blankenstock. He gave the loft a quick inspection. The windows were specially installed to withstand a strong nor’easter and even an occasional branch or bit of debris. He was hopeful they would hold out in a hurricane.

      The interior with its old blond wood of the 1950’s had withstood time and even come back into fashion a few times. The light-colored paneled walls gave the place a feeling that it was larger on the inside than out. And it was a welcome and necessary refuge he needed in his life.

      He had updated the appliances last year and made sure the bed was large and comfortable. Cammy had added a pillow here and there, a few fabric wall hangings and a handmade quilt on the back of the couch to soften the man-effect, but he had to admit they added more comfort.

      Zach had barely finished the conversation when the lights flicked out again. He’d have to check the generator.

      He grabbed the flashlight and a baseball cap from the ones on the wall pegs and headed down the stairs where he donned a dry jacket from a hook in the garage. Then he sprinted toward the generator shed.

      The wind slapped him and the rain did its best to blow him off course as he approached the shed, where behind the lawn mower, weed whacker and other tools to maintain the exterior of the old home, would sit the rarely used generator that powered the essentials of the house whenever necessary. Right now all he needed were two rooms.

      When he got inside, out of the storm, the shed smelled of old wood, fuel and age. Built sometime in the middle of the last century the wooden frame could withstand a direct hit from a hurricane if it had to.

      The bright beam of his flashlight spread out, illuminating the shed as he closed the door behind him. The fuel cans sat lined up behind the lawn mower next to the generator. Zach moved the mower and grabbed a can of fuel. The can lifted easily. Empty. The second can, same as the first.

      Owen did outside maintenance and kept the gasoline rotated and stocked in the shed for emergencies, or he was supposed to keep the fuel stocked. Today two cans stood full and all the spare cans were dry as “bones guarding a pirate’s treasure,” Owen would say. That meant there was enough fuel to fill the generator with a bit to spare. Apparently Owen had mowed and weed-whacked all summer and he was always “Ah-yuh, goin’ ta get more gas tomorra.”

      If the reporter used the space heater, the lights, her computer and who knew what else the woman would plug in, the gas would last less than a day. This storm was not going to pass for at least thirty-six hours.

      He rubbed the back of his neck as he considered the fix Owen had left him in. A day. Maybe a day.

      He dropped his hand to his side. By himself, he could make the generator last several days.

      He should have left that woman in the ravine. Other than claiming to be a reporter, he had no idea who she was and didn’t want to find out. Grandmother might frown on his spare hospitality, but he hoped the woman would sit huddled in front of the space heater, burn up the gas with a hair dryer and use her laptop as long as the power lasted and then sit in the dark under a quilt and wait out the storm.

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