Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

Moments after my alarm clock shook me out of

sleep, I heard Boggs walk by my bedroom door. The slats in the old wooden hallway floor groaned under the heels of his heavy boots. I imagined the whole house cringed when Boggs woke up. If there was really a ghost here, she probably curled up behind some old wall and waited for him to pass, too. At least by buying the alarm clock, I had denied him the pleasure of pounding on my door.

I needed something to wake me. I had stayed up late writing letters the night before. I hadn't intended to, but when I began to describe things to

Grandmother Hudson, I couldn't help but add all the details

about the school and the sights I had visited. My letter ran on for pages and pages, and I kept it all on a positive, happy note. My letter to Roy was the same. We had a great deal of catching up to do and I was full of questions about his new life, too. Finally bleary-eyed, I stuffed and licked the envelopes and went to sleep.

However, despite my exhaustion, I didn't fall asleep as quickly as I had anticipated. Many different emotions had been blended throughout the day until I had woven a tight cord around my heart, a cord with strands of sadness and anger, strands of joy and love, excitement and depression, hope and despair. Randall's beautiful eyes flashed before mine and the faces of some of the troubled women depicted in the paintings I had seen at the National Gallery appeared as well, some of them making me think of myself.

There were also many things during the day which had reminded me of Mama and Beni: a black woman with her little daughter in the park, some black girls laughing and walking on the street, the sounds of hip-hop coming from a boom box, a black mannequin in a storefront window dressed in a pantsuit similar to the one Mama used to wear, all of it conspiring to make me melancholy.

That wasn't all that threw me back in time. When I held Randall's hand as we walked along the streets of London, I recalled holding Roy's hand, his fingers wrapped fully around mine, clutching me as if he thought I was a balloon that might float away should he lose his grip. Back in those days, Roy's hold on me filled me with a sense of safety. I never felt vulnerable and in danger as long as he was at my side, no matter where we were or who was nearby.

But a girl my age needed more than just a sense of security, I thought. I needed to cling to love as well as strength. There were other emotions to explore, other feelings to have travel over the wires that ran back to my heart. I wanted laughter to sound like music; I wanted every smile to brighten the day even more; and I wanted words to find comfortable places in which to settle and plant the seeds of memories that would grow forever and ever until I was too old to remember or too old to care.

Could Randall Glenn do all that? More important, did I want him to? Did I want anyone to, or was I afraid of the pain of disappointment? The questions rattled around in my head, keeping sleep waiting at the door until finally even my mind surrendered and shut off the light that kept these thoughts as bright as neon signs.

Now I grumbled like a woman four times my age when I got out of bed. I stretched and yawned, resembling a sleepwalker as I moved around my closet of a room, plucking clothes out of the wardrobe. Finding my sneakers, I plodded down the hallway to the bathroom to wash and dress, and of course, pin back my hair to satisfy Mr. Boggs.

Sunday was another big breakfast day, or as Mrs. Chester called it, a full English breakfast. Out came the sausage, bacon, eggs, scones, kidney, jams, biscuits and tea. She and Mary Margaret were scurrying about the kitchen as if we had twenty guests this morning. There were no greetings or good mornings when I joined them, just orders barked at me: "Get that pan, wash this dish, cut those biscuits, take out the tea and be careful with those cups."

Great-uncle Richard was at the table with his morning paper. He was dressed in his suit and tie, his hair brushed impeccably, looking like he had been up for hours. When does he relax? I wondered. It was Sunday. Did he always wear a business suit?

Even my great-aunt was formally dressed with her hair done and her makeup complete as well. At first I thought they were going to church, but picking up their chatter as I moved about the dining room, I learned they were going to the country right after breakfast to visit with some friends at their estate. It was good news for us, for Boggs came into the kitchen to announce they wouldn't be back for dinner and we had the night off as well.

Contrary to the odd way Great-aunt Leonora had been acting the day before when I had gone up to speak with her, she was bubbly and energetic this morning. My great-uncle didn't look like he was really paying attention to her, but she talked at him as if her words could cut right through the newspaper he held up in front of him. She thought it was a very important day because they were going to the country home of someone who had been recently knighted. There was even a chance the prince would appear, but in any case, according to Great-aunt Leonora, "the best of society would be there." She talked about these lords and ladies, royals, in a way that made me think of Greek deities, gods and goddesses who made occasional visits to earth and gave mere earthlings the opportunity to kiss. their hands or stand in their shadows.

"I think it's so unfair that you haven't been knighted yet, Richard," she complained. "No one is more deserving of the honor than you:'

"Patience, my dear," he said folding his paper. He glared at her a moment. "Patience and not letting everyone know how much you want it is the recipe," he warned.

He turned to me because I was just standing there listening to them. I was still fascinated with the way they spoke, not only to me and the other servants in the house, but to each other. It was as if they were on a stage performing before an audience.

However, he made me feel like I had been eavesdropping and I spun around quickly to return to the kitchen. "Just a moment, Miss Arnold," he said.

I turned back slowly, expecting to be

reprimanded. "Yes?'

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and brought out a small envelope.

"In light of what you are mainly here to do, I thought you would appreciate this," he said.

"What is it?" I asked, surprised. I stepped forward to take the envelope. He waited while I opened it. "Play tickets?"

"Two tickets to tonight's performance of Macbeth at the Royal National Theater, the Old Vic, I thought you might want to take along a friend, perhaps someone else from the drama school."

"Isn't that nice?" Great-aunt Leonora said. "Very thoughtful of you, Richard."

"Yes. Thank you," I said, quite taken aback by the unexpected gift. I didn't think he thought that much about me. Sometimes, when he looked at me, he wore an expression of wonder, as if he hadn't known I was here or had forgotten. Maybe he didn't think I would stay.

"You don't have to dress foi many, but you should dress decently," Great-uncle Richard instructed. "It's located on the South Bank of the Thames. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding your way there, now that you are a seasoned London traveler," he added.

I smiled and thanked him again.

"It's nothing, I have some influence with theater people these days and those are very good seats," he said. "Let me know what you think of the