Thunderstorms

"Goldie, do you hear yourself?” Lis swirled around and stared at her little sister. “I’m no expert at love, Lord knows, but you should marry someone who sees you the way you want to be seen,” Lis said slowly. “You want a man who genuinely thinks you’re unforgettable, smart, funny, and hell, even powerful—always, even on the days when you don’t believe it yourself.”

The words hung between them before Marigold asked, “Have you had a love like that?”

Lis's blue eyes hardened. “This isn’t about me!”

Marigold gazed at the small pond just down the hill, where she hoped to exchange vows one day. “Lis, you’ve got to make mistakes or you’re just not living.”

Lis sighed. “Who told you that baloney?”

Marigold shot back, “You did!”

Lis laughed—a laugh so contagious, Marigold couldn’t help but join in. I wish she laughed more often, Marigold thought. It’s the first she’s laughed in ages.

Suddenly serious, Lis took Marigold’s hands. “Do you love him?”

Marigold’s eyes welled up. “So much my heart hurts.”

“Goldie!” Lis groaned. “Have I taught you nothing?”

“I know,” Marigold moaned. “You always said, ‘Never love a man more than he loves you or you’ll be miserable forever.’”

“Well, sometimes I’m an idiot and you shouldn’t listen to me,” Lis said jokingly. “Sometimes I’m right on the money.”

“What I meant when I said he makes me wish I were a better woman was that he does make me feel all those things,” she trailed off. “But what if one day he realizes I’m not so great?”

Lis let out another whoop of laughter. “Goldie, you’re amazing and you’ll make a wonderful wife. If you really want to get married here, we'll make it happen. Let’s put down the deposit.”

“Really?” Marigold cried as she threw her arms around her sister. In that moment Lis was thankful Marigold couldn’t see the worry etched across her brow.

“Who called the secret service?” Camelia joked as she side-eyed the tall handsome man in sunglasses who had just entered the kitchen. He wore a charcoal trench over an indigo 3-piece suit.

Lis wiped her flour-dusted hands down her apron and sighed. Great another distraction—Camelia had just barged and berated her for promising Marigold she could get married at Prairie Pines. As the eldest and most practical sister, Camelia insisted Marigold wed at City Hall and have a small dinner at the Italian restaurant where Lis worked. “Something we can actually afford, not this fancy venue that’s beyond our price range!”

No matter, Lis was doing whatever it took to get Marigold her dream wedding. Outside of hostessing at the restaurant, she'd booked a baby shower to cater. Thankfully the local church let her use the kitchen when she needed, as long as it didn’t conflict with events on the calendar.

“Hello, is Amaryllis here?” the man said as he slid off his sunglasses. He had short sandy hair, a sharp jawline and wide, golden-flecked hazel eyes.

Lis gaped at him for a full minute before Camelia answered, "That's her."

A smile broke across his face. “I'm not sure if you remember me—”

“Earl Grey!” She practically shouted, as the recognition of her skinny 11-year-old fishing buddy flared. She reached for a hug but stopped—suddenly realizing she hadn’t seen him in 15 years.

“This is my sister Cam,” Lis introduced them.

“Hi, I’m John Earl,” he shook her hand. Cam’s eyes swung from him to her sister and back again. “I should run, nice meet you.” She grabbed her handbag and headed for the door. Behind his back she mouthed, “Wow!”

“I was sorry to hear about your dad,” he told her once they were alone.

Lis bobbed her dark head. She hated talking about her father’s accident. It had been five years now, but he’d been checked out of her life long before his motorcycle went hurtling off a rain-soaked country road. “Thanks.”

“Sorry I missed the funeral, I’d just started a new job—”

“Must be important.” She took in his suit.

“I work in finance, nothing exciting,” he sighed. “I moved to Chicago after college. How about you?”

“I went to college in New York, but moved home after,” she answered. The truth was she’d returned when her dad had died to take care of Marigold.

“Have time for a cup of coffee?” he asked.

She glanced around the kitchen—she was already so far behind an extra half hour wouldn’t matter. She untied her apron and said, “There’s a great cafe around the corner.”

Lis couldn't stop staring, she so badly wanted to ask him, “How does it feel being the best looking guy in any room you enter?”

He was warm, smart and funny—and oblivious to all the women who walked by and inevitably looked his way. They’d first met when he was 6 and she was 8. Their dads were childhood buddies who would take them fishing at Carsten’s pond, which was owned by the farmer their fathers had worked for every summer throughout high school. Camelia had no interest and Marigold was too little, so most Saturdays it was just Lis, John Earl and their dads. At the time she’d been obsessed with Agatha Christie novels, where she’d learned about Earl Grey tea—and has thus nicknamed John Earl that, which was eventually shortened to Grey. Over the years it stuck, until her mom died and her dad moved the girls to Virginia to live with his sister. He’d moved them back a few years later when Aunt Jane got married.

“It’s so great to see you,” he grinned. “Those fishing trips were some of my best memories growing up.”

“Mine, too,” she agreed. They’d sit on the dock with their poles, laughing while their dads sat in fold-up lawn chairs guzzling beer. Her dad told crazy tales, like the time he’d met an lonely Italian prince while skipping school in Junior High. “He said I reminded him of his brothers back in Italy. Once he asked what I wished for more than anything and I said cash,” he’d recount. “He said money never buys happiness, but I told him, well, I’d like the chance to try. When he moved on he left me a nest egg with a note that said ‘To use in thunderstorms.’ I think he meant to save for a rainy day?” Like anything else, Lis was never sure how true this or any of his stories were. “John Earl! After all these years!”

“Please call me Grey,” he asked. “I thought a lot about you the first time I visited London for work, I remembered everything you told me about in those Agatha Christie books. Have you ever been?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “I hope to, I just...never found the time.” Taking care of Marigold took priority after college. Travel was out of the question.

“Actually, I’ve thought about you every time I’ve been there,” he admitted with a lopsided grin. “I went to see The Mousetrap because of you.”

“Wow, you saw that!” she exclaimed. “It’s the longest running play in London!”

“You’d love it,” he nodded as he sipped his coffee and then reached into his suit pocket. “I’m helping my grandma move into a retirement community, and she told me where to find you because there’s something I want to give you.”

He slid a battered little black book across the table. “What’s this?” she asked. “It’s funny, Agatha Christie used to write down her story ideas in a notebook like this.” Inside the cover was an elaborate signature that read “A. Coia.”

“I found it in my dad’s old room, when I asked him about it he told me before your dad left for the Navy he passed it over to settle his poker debts,” Grey said. “I figured you might like it back.”

Inside were beautiful sketches of clouds and lightning. As she flipped through the book she paused on a page that was obviously drawn by a different hand. It was a crude map. Grey tapped it with his finger. “Look familiar?”

She studied the sketch, there was a tree with an “X” drawn beside it, and a fence-post near what looked to be a boat dock. It was titled, “Coia’s treasure.”

“Is that Carsten’s pond?” she asked.

“I think so,” he nodded. “Do you remember that Italian prince your dad always talked about? I did some digging, and an artist named Antonio Coia once rented a farmhouse behind your grandparent’s old place. He was traveling across the U.S. gathering inspiration and a few of his paintings were of thunderstorms.”

Her head was reeling.

“Let's take a little drive tonight after dark.”

Sneaking out to the pond was the most excitement Lis had in years. Grey, who looked even better in a Cubs t-shirt and jeans than his suit, parked by the tiny dock they used to fish off of as kids. They’d been there 10 minutes when a battered old pick-up truck came barreling up.

“Damn kids, hold it right there!” an old man in overalls commanded as he ambled out of the truck, shotgun in hand. In the glaring headlights Grey protectively moved to block Lis. “You’re trespassing!”

“Sir, it’s me, Pete Ellis's boy?” Grey held his hands up.

“Well, I’ll be, John Earl?” Carsten squinted at him as he lowered the shotgun.

“It’s been awhile!” Grey said. “I came out to look at the stars like old times.” He jerked his head towards Lis and added, “This is Amaryllis, we used to fish here as kids.”

“I remember, with your pops, sorry to scare ya, damned teenagers sneak out here to drink and make one helluva mess!”

"Sorry sir, I should’ve stopped up at the house first,” Grey apologized.

Carsten waved the words away. “Still studying those skies, eh? When you were in college I reckon you were out here every weekend, John Earl.” Then he asked after Grey’s family and expressed sympathy over Lis's father. “Well, I better scoot, the nightly news is on. Good to see you kids.” He tipped his John Deere cap before climbing back in his truck.

Lis smirked at Grey. "I used to bring dates up here since there was no light pollution,” he explained sheepishly. “You could see the constellations better.”

“Sure, sure, that’s why you came out here,” she nodded. “Girls actually fell for that?”

"Time and time again,” he answered.

“Gross,” she quipped.

He laughed. Then he pointed to the tree 20 feet behind them. “So there’s the oak, and the corner post. I'll get the shovel, where should we start?”

She circled the tree slowly. That’s when she saw the carving, a barely legible “X” faded into the side of the tree facing due North. “Right here,” she pointed. Twenty minutes later Grey hit something. A few minutes after that he pulled a dirty old knapsack from the ground.

“You do the honors,” he said as he placed it by her feet.

She opened the bag and shined her flashlight on bundles of $20 bills peeking out. Reaching inside she could feel more bricks and a crumpled note. In flowery cursive it read, “To use in Thunderstorms.” After counting the stacks she declared, “There’s $20,000 in here! You deserve half.”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “It’s all yours—just don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Some will go towards my sister’s wedding this fall,” she informed him. “Want to be my plus one?”

“I’d love to,” he agreed. She stared down at money again, in shock. Then Grey gently lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. In the moonlight his kind eyes swept over her entire face and landed on her lips. “On one condition.”

“What's that?” she whispered, breathless at his touch.

“We see The Mousetrap first,” he said. The way he stared at her made her feel like she was as shining and bright as Ursa Major twinkling in the night sky above.