A Bungalow For Two

She shivered and realized she had no idea how to heat the place. She scrutinized the fireplace. Sure, why not? This was her home now. If she wanted to have a little fire in her own fireplace, who was to stop her? She stooped down beside the hearth and moved the grate aside. To her surprise, it already held several charred logs. Now if she could just find the matches she had packed in one of the boxes.

By the time she located the matches, it was dark outside and the rain was coming down harder than ever. A bone-chilling dampness seeped through the walls, one of the disadvantages of living in a bungalow perched on the edge of the ocean.

Frannie bent over the fireplace and made sure the flue was open, then took the classified section from the paper, lit it and coaxed the flames until they ignited the blackened wood. After several minutes she had a roaring fire. Frannie stepped back and folded her arms in satisfaction. See, she was a smart, capable, independent woman. She could manage without her father’s help!

Feeling a hunger pang or two, she returned to the kitchen and browsed through her groceries. Time for dinner. Maybe she would fix a salad, some broccoli and a hamburger. Not a feast exactly, but certainly adequate.

As she broke open a head of lettuce, she smelled something burning. How could that be? She hadn’t turned on the gas range. A crackling noise broke into the distant drumming of the rainfall. Ruggs barked. Frannie spun around and gazed across the room, the lettuce dropping from her fingers. Heavy, black smoke was billowing out of the fireplace and filling the house.

Frannie ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. If she could only smother the flames! But her awkward attempts were useless. The flames were too intense and the smoke too thick. Her eyes started smarting, her throat went dry and she began to cough. She couldn’t see. The acrid fumes were already stealing her breath. She dashed to the bedroom for her cell phone, then remembered that the battery was dead. She ran back to the living room and stared helplessly at the rolling smoke blanketing the room.

With her heart pounding in her throat, she grabbed Ruggs by the collar. “Come on, boy! Gotta find a phone and call the fire department!”

The moment she and Ruggs stepped out on the porch, she knew her trouble had only begun. The rain was coming down in a blinding deluge. There was no way she could drive.

“Dear God, help us!” She looked around, the rain streaming down her face and soaking her clothes. The world was a mass of liquid shadows and elusive shapes. Then, through the leaden gloom she saw a light flickering in the distance. It was the cottage down the beach. Someone was home!

“Come on, Ruggs!” Frannie broke into a run, her sneakers filling with water, her wet clothes sticking to her skin. She was drenched and out of breath by the time she reached the bungalow. She scaled the porch steps and pounded on the door until her palms ached. It seemed like an eternity before the latch clicked and the door creaked open.

Frannie caught a glimpse of a towering silhouette in the doorway, etched against the rosy glow of lamplight inside.

“I need a phone,” she blurted.

“Don’t have one.”

“Please! My house is on fire!”

The man stepped outside. He was tall and brawny, his face obscured by shadows. “Where?”

She pointed down the beach. “There! The next cabin!”

The man pushed past her and broke into a sprint. She nudged Ruggs and ran after him, her legs suddenly feeling like overcooked spaghetti. She slipped in a puddle and nearly went down. Somehow she caught herself and slogged on through the relentless torrents. She arrived at the beach house just as the man disappeared inside. She clambered onto the porch and pushed open the door. Smoke rolled over her.

Inside, the man’s deep, rasping voice bellowed, “Get out!”

She backed away, letting the door bang shut, and waited, holding Ruggs by the collar as the rain pelted them mercilessly. What if the stranger died trying to salvage her cabin? He could be asphyxiated by the fumes. How long did she dare wait before entering the house again?

Her questions were answered moments later, when the man burst out the door, his brawny chest heaving as he sucked for air. He was covered with soot, the stench of charred kindling so pungent on his body that Frannie turned her face away.

He took her arm and urged her away from the cabin. “Come on!”

She dug in her heels. “No—my house!”

“It’s okay. I smothered the fire. Nothing’s burning!”

“But I can’t just leave it.”

He stared down at her, impatience etched in his blackened face. “You can’t stay, lady. It’s toxic in there. We’ll air it out tomorrow.”

He took her hand and pulled her after him as if she were an obstreperous child. “Let’s go!”

She stumbled after him. “Where?”

“My place, unless you’ve got a better idea.”

She followed numbly, Ruggs galumphing after them through the downpour. By the time they reached the man’s bungalow, Frannie’s teeth were chattering. He opened the door and stepped aside. She hesitated only a moment as she recalled from childhood her mother’s repeated admonition Never go in the house of strangers. This time there seemed no other choice. Besides, she had Ruggs. He would protect her, unless the man made him stay outside.

She sighed with relief when he held the door for Ruggs, too. After Ruggs bounded inside and shook himself like an oversize mop, spraying water everywhere, the man came in and shut the door behind him. He broke into a spasm of coughing.

She looked at him with concern. “The fumes got to you.”

He wiped his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m okay.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and coughed into it.

Frannie politely looked away. Folding her arms to keep from shivering, she gazed around the cottage and realized how good it felt to be inside a nice, warm house. The furnishings were as spartan as those in her cabin—masculine pine furniture, worn overstuffed couch and chair, hurricane lamps, braided rugs and a red brick fireplace with a crackling fire. The cottage was nothing fancy, but at the moment it seemed immensely inviting.

The man touched her arm, and she jumped. “You’d better get out of those clothes, miss.”

She shrank back, her heart pounding. What if this stranger was a homicidal maniac? He was well over six feet tall and close to two hundred pounds. She’d be helpless to fight him off.

“I’m f-fine,” she stammered.

“No, you’re not. You’ll freeze in those wet clothes.”

She slipped over by the fire and held out her hands. “I’ll just warm up a minute and then be on my way.”

The man guffawed. “Really? You’ll be on your way…where?”

“Home.” They were both in this miserable predicament, and he was laughing at her! “I’ll dry off, then go back to my house. The smoke should be tolerable by then.”

Even with his face smudged with soot and his eyes tearing, the man managed a twinkle of amusement. “You’re not getting rid of that smoke until you open all the doors and windows and air the place out in the heat of day.”

Frannie’s ire rose. She didn’t want anyone telling her something that she wasn’t ready to accept—the fact that she was stuck in a strange house with a strange man for the duration of a bleak, rainy night. “I won’t be here long,” she insisted. “Once I’ve dried off, I’ll go get my car and drive to my father’s house.”

“You’d have to be a fool to drive in this deluge.”

“Well, I certainly can’t stay here all night.”

“Have it your way.” He pulled his wet T-shirt over his head.

Frannie gasped. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to go take a shower and see if I can scrub off some of this grime. And make the fire stop burning in my eyes.”

As he rolled his blackened shirt in a ball, Frannie couldn’t help noticing that he had the muscular build of a football player or weight lifter. He started down the hallway, then paused and looked back at her. “Listen, I’ve got some clothes you can change into, or a blanket—”

“No, I’m o-okay.”

“That’s why your teeth are chattering so hard you can’t talk?”