Her windows rattled in a long, sustained gust. She slid from under the covers, wincing at the icy sea of linoleum beyond the island of braided rug, and shut the windows. Eric had let her know he considered the weather to be disappointingly fair, but here was his storm. She was excited enough on her own account. It was a northeasterly; the wind came down between the islands with a wailing rush. Foam-smeared seas ran high past the harbor mouth and crashed on the end of the breakwater. The high point out beyond the Campion house helped to shelter the harbor. Cat’s-paws struck downward over the trees and hurried continually across the gray water, but there was very little action of the boats, and the usual gulls walked on the wet black roofs of the fishhouses or stood, breasts to the wind, on the half-submerged ledges outside Nils Sorensen’s wharf. The house strained in the wind. The buildings on this side of the harbor had no real protection from a northeaster, with the open meadow behind them.
