"I think it's about time we get you in bed before that stuff makes its rounds of your bloodstream," Dean said with a mock stern look. He knew she was on borrowed time given the alcohol's delayed reaction.
She laughed. "In the movies that would be considered a very"-she annunciated each syllable-"pro-voc-a-tive line." Dean felt the temperature climbing in his face.
"God, I can't believe I'm flirting with you! I have to stop this drinking!" She patted his hand. "Now I've gone and embarrassed you. I'm sorry." She started to rise but a serious look crossed her face. "I'm not sure I can get up!"
The thought passed Dean's mind that he'd already carried her to bed once today but he held his tongue. She rose, albeit unsteadily, and he grasped her in the now familiar position of his supporting arm about her waist. After paying the check he maneuvered the wobbly woman up the stairs while she chatted merrily about the meal, the weather and the price of steak. When they reached the rooms he took her key and opened her door. She put her arms about his neck in a bear hug and gave him an exuberant big sister kiss on the mouth.
She stepped back and looked him straight in the eye. "You're a nice, nice, nice, nice, nice man!" She pivoted and entered the room, taking baby steps and leaving him to close the door behind her.
When he reached his room both of the connecting doors were still open. He sighed but tactfully closed the panel on his side.
He had undressed and was in the bathroom splashing water on his booze-numbed face when the lights suddenly failed. There followed a rip of thunder. In the momentary silence that ensued Dean heard an outside door slam. At first it didn't register but then he quickly crossed to the window and looked out. There in the blur of a passing auto and mirrored in descending waves of rain was the huddled figure of Cynthia Byrne stumbling across the parking lot toward the road and the beach beyond. Dean swore to himself and fumbled for a pair of slacks and his raincoat, whacking his shin on the bed in the process. By the time he was out the door and down the stairs, Cynthia was nowhere in sight. He knew instinctively where she was headed.
Dean half-felt his way across the parking lot in his bare feet, cursing the pebbles and splashing through ankle-deep puddles at curbside before stumbling into the absolute darkness of the beach-side path. He yelled her name but the call was smothered by the cry of the wind and the crash of the surf beyond. He groped his way down the path, the wind whipping his raincoat behind him, until he felt the mush of soft sand beneath his aching feet. With the power out, the darkness was absolute. He yelled Cynthia's name as he stumbled ahead until he reached the wind-driven surf splashing at his feet. A feeling of helplessness and panic welled up in him as he strained his eyes against the darkness.