Daphne met the train at the station. It was later than she, so things worked out. They worked out until she found he was either not on board or did not disembark. Neither option gave her much hope. It began to drizzle, bordering on rain, so she pulled up the hood to her mackintosh and waited. Perhaps, disoriented, he took a rear door exit and got lost back amongst the baggage. But it was not a large station and how long can one wait as the downpour commenced.
Seeking shelter in the station house she sat on the bench and dripped to the floor. The fire in the potbelly died hours before and no hint of warmth was sufficiently left to comfort her. There was no comforting her. She would not have it. She would not be shamed by a poor decision. Had it gone further perhaps, but in fact he did her a favor by pulling out so early in the game. Less ventured, yet nothing gained.
Seeking shelter in the station house she sat on the bench and dripped to the floor. The fire in the potbelly died hours before and no hint of warmth was sufficiently left to comfort her. There was no comforting her. She would not have it. She would not be shamed by a poor decision. Had it gone further perhaps, but in fact he did her a favor by pulling out so early in the game. Less ventured, yet nothing gained.
Emory missed the train by ten full minutes. He was the least organized man he knew, and he knew it. This is insane, since when is a train on time, and since when does it leave without me? Never!
Never in twenty years of rail travel have I encountered such malarkey.
Daphne slept now, as the storm blew through. Someone, in the night was kind enough to bring some wood and flame, stoking the old potbelly back to warmth. She felt at once vulnerable, yet secure, by this act of kindness from an anonymous soul.
Telegraph was downed by the storm. Emory could not send word. Stations dark, rails shut down, The weather crushing their resolve.
Bridge inspectors scurry as rivers rise. Coastal routes deserted for threatening tides.
She awoke to the blast of a steam engine whistle, as sun glistened through drop spotted windows, still trailing with run-off, as rooftops ran with vestiges and gutters drained. It was over. Another day had begun, as the station master slid open his window and rattled open his cage. “Next train, Delaware Square…8 am! Arriving on time.”
Delaware Square? Emory’s route?! Another train? Is it possible? Was he sidetracked in the night? Was he about to walk back into her life?
No. But it was a moment of inspiration, knowing there will always be another train, at any station she chose.
