Page 7 of These Summer Storms

StormlikeStorm Technology?

StormlikeStorm Inside™?

Yes,she’d answer, and always with a laugh—like it was the cleverest, most original thing anyone had ever said—when what she’d really meant wasNo. Not like that. That’s my father.When what she’d really meant wasDon’t think about it. Don’t remember. Just let me be commonplace. Common name.

And then she’d pretend to be someone else. Because someone else was always more interesting than the truth, which was this: No matter how hard she tried, the most interesting thing about Alice Storm had always been her last name. She had been an outline of a person, shaded by the stories of her father—madcap genius, daredevil billionaire, visionary world-changer. And then she’d been shaded by the story of what she’d done to him—how she’d betrayed him, how he’d exiled her. How she’d either deserved it or was better for it.

Another rumble in the distance, louder. Closer.Of course.

“Names make things complicated,” she said, finally, meeting his gaze, intent beneath a furrowed brow, like he was trying to understand. “I know it sounds dramatic, but my life is complicated enough this week. Any chance we could just…skip them?”

He understood. “Sure.” He nodded and looked down at his phone. “My car is almost here.”

She mirrored his actions. “Mine, too,” she lied. Benny hadn’t moved since the last time she’d checked.

“It’s late,” he said. “Are you going to a hotel?”

“No.” A hesitation, leagues long. “Are you?”

“I’m staying at the Quahog Quay.”

Her brows rose at the mention of the motel that had been a Wickford landmark since electricity had come to South County, with its blinking neonVacancysign. No one ever stayed at the Quahog Quay. “Why?”

“Why the Quahog Quay? Or why, in a more existential sense?”

“I assume you chose the Quahog Quay for its clever name.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I can’t resist alliteration.”

Alice smiled and tilted her head, warm from something other than the summer evening. “Do you even know what a quahog is?”

“I assume it’s not something to be discussed in polite company.”

She laughed. “And the existential sense? Why are you here?”

A pause. “Work.”

“Superior business center at the Quahog Quay, I hear.”

“I prioritize a quality fax machine.” When his smile flashed in the darkness, something coiled inside her: desire. And then, with a heavy thud, something else: suspicion.

She met his eyes. “Are you a journalist?”

“No.”

She had absolutely no reason to believe him, and still—“Scout’s honor?”

“Should I build you a fire to prove it?”

A rumble in the distance, and she looked to the sky. “Think you can do it before the storm gets here?”

“I’ll have to owe you one.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

When she returned her attention to him, there was something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in a while. That she hadn’t realize she missed. “Good.”

She liked that word, clipped and certain, as though this was a man who made promises and kept them. Who’d be around long enough to keep them. Then he was closer, and something had changed, making her wonder what would happen if she took a night for herself before facing…the inevitable.

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