Page 3 of Brought By the Storm

Chapter Two

Eric

Mrs. Howard must have realized how awkward it was that I didn’t know their first names as we began loading the groceries and their luggage into the cargo section of my car. “Please call me Olivia,” she invited, handing me a fancy bag with her right hand while balancing an umbrella in her left. “Our assistant is Stefan, who should have told you that himself when you introduced yourself earlier,” she noted, shooting a reprimanding look his way. “The other one failing to exhibit good manners today is my son, Carrington.”

Of course, his name was Carrington. It was suitable for a self-pretentious prick. Carrington seemed more annoyed than embarrassed by his mother’s chastising, ignoring her and making his way to the back passenger door. “You may want to sit up front,” I warned him. “You being the tallest and all,” I explained when he shot me a questioning glare. “It’s just that the back seats are kind of tight. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

Carrington huffed, but heeded my advice and piled into the front passenger seat. I walked Olivia to the door behind him, opening it for her and helping her inside. Once Stefan loaded the last of the luggage and took his place behind the driver’s seat, I hopped in to take us on the ten-minute journey home.

“What a charming little town this is,” Olivia observed, glancing at the main street we were traveling. The quaintness was evident even in the middle of a storm.

“Thanks,” I answered, making eye contact with her via the rear-view mirror. “We have more houses from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries than any other town in the United States—well, except Marblehead, Massachusetts.”

“Does secondary placement merit mentioning?” Carrington asked.

I pretended it was a comment made in jest, and tried to make a joke in return. “That’s why some friends and I are going to Marblehead this summer on an arson mission.”

Carrington glanced at me with horror, then he must have realized I wasn’t serious. He rolled his eyes and directed them back to the windshield. “It’s interesting what Americans consider historic. Those houses would be considered new construction in our country.”

“Carrington, be polite,” Olivia admonished. We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

“So, what country are you from?” I ventured, noticing the three passengers exchanging furtive glances in response.

After a pause, Olivia acknowledged my question. “It’s a small country that most Americans have never heard of. It’s near Finland.”

Okay. Whatever. If I found out later it was Sweden, I was going to be insulted by their assumptions regarding my intelligence. It felt like they were avoiding mentioning the name of the country, but I wasn’t going to push it. I was more concerned about why they were so secretive about everything, and wondering anew if I was inviting danger into my home.

“We’re almost there,” I informed them, turning off the main street into my development. As I slowed to pull into my driveway, all three passengers studied my house with varying degrees of curiosity. “Home, sweet home,” I mumbled, worrying their silence conveyed disappointment. I gathered from their clothes and manner that they were wealthy, and my house was upper-middle class, at most. I was proud of it, though. Upon seeing it, I had fallen in love with the saltbox colonial reproduction, its wooden post fence, the expansive yard with mature trees and plantings and the barn-style detached garage. The neighborhood comprised other homes with an Early American architectural style, creating a cohesive feel to the area.

“Well, it’s lovely,” Olivia exclaimed with a look of delight that appeared genuine.

I looked to Carrington, whose scowl remained. As if catching himself, he nodded in agreement with her. “Yes. Indeed.”

I handed Carrington a key and pointed to the side door. He looked perplexed. “Let yourself and your mother in so you don’t get too wet. I’ll unload the car with Stefan.” I caught a glimpse of Stefan in the rear-view mirror, and he didn’t seem to mind me including him on the task.

“Will I set off a security alarm?” Carrington asked.

“It’s not turned on,” I assured him.

“But you do have one? One that is operational and can be activated this evening, correct?” Stefan piped up.

“Uh, yes,” I responded, wondering if the worry was related to their secretiveness, or if it was Stefan’s assessment of the neighborhood’s probable crime rates. “But I can assure you, the area is very safe. The worst you ever hear about is an infrequent car break-in by an under-privileged kid from Hartford. Even then, it’s because somebody left valuables in an unlocked vehicle. I always garage the Audi.”

Stefan looked out of the windows in every direction, almost as if preparing to ward off a would-be thief. “Yes, it looks peaceful, as you said. Still, best to secure the alarm.”

They were giving me serious creep vibes. It was too late to back out of my commitment, though. While the security system would protect me from those outside my home, it wouldn’t protect me from my house guests. I made a mental note to place a kitchen knife under my pillow before sleeping.