Chapter One: A Storm Blowing In Sparhawk Point, Michigan, 1943 When Spring storms blew through Sparhawk Point, they certainly made their presence known. They were quick and spectacular and turned the world a misty silver. And there was an ideal place to watch them: from the little house nestled in the firs; the house near the water where Alex and Jack Robicheaux lived with their mother. It was one of Ingrid Ahlstrom''s favorite places in the world. As soon as a heavy roll of delicious thunder crackled in the distance, Ingrid was on the alert and setting her notebook aside. She often wrote in her notebook to practice her journalism, for she wanted to be a newspaperwoman like her aunt Ebba. She had been jotting down an entry about how the war was affecting Sparhawk ­Point--­rationing! scrap metal drives!--­but then she noticed the odd appearance of the sky, and that hushed kind of moment before a rainstorm. While Ingrid noticed the impending weather immediately, it wasn''t until the thunder was accompanied by an eerie darkening of the springtime sky that her sister, Beatrice, looked up from the doll for whom she was designing a new wardrobe.

It was a lovely wardrobe, made out of scraps of cloth that Beatrice had pilfered from the foreign missions box. (Of course, Mrs. Hilton, the deacon''s wife, was aware of Beatrice''s pilfering; it was their little secret. Beatrice had been relieved that Mrs. Hilton had not minded; in fact, Mrs. Hilton had remarked that some of the clothes were simply too worn out to be of any use, so she was glad to see them repurposed. It was good to know that your pilfering was approved by a grownup after all.) "Looks like a keen storm," Beatrice remarked, joining Ingrid at her desk.

"Let''s get a real look at it." "I was hoping you''d say that," said Ingrid, eyes sparkling. "We''re going to the Robicheauxes''," announced Beatrice boldly, waving at their mother as she ran down the stairway. Ingrid did not run; she was more careful because she was afraid of the worn spots in the ­carpet--­what if she lost her footing? Mrs. Ahlstrom held up a halting hand. "It looks like a big one," she said firmly. But the glint in her eyes told Ingrid that she was probably going to let them go. "We''ll be all right," Ingrid promised.

"We''re very careful. It''s only just starting." "And we''ll be with the boys!" Beatrice laughed. At twelve, Beatrice was one year older than Ingrid, but at times Ingrid felt as if she were really the more mature one. Beatrice, in turn, thought her own flamboyant ways made life more exciting. Indulgent though she was, Mrs. Ahlstrom wasn''t about to let her two daughters go off into the rain ­willy-­nilly. "Put on your sweaters first," she instructed.

"At least then you''re not quite as likely to catch cold. And wear your raincoats, too." The trouble was that their sweaters were not the most protective sweaters in the world, considering their numerous holes. The girls, who had hurried into the parlor to fetch the sweaters where they had been left, were confronted with ­less-­than-­perfect garments. Ingrid stuck her index finger through a particularly large hole, probably from when she''d hooked her sleeve on the Robicheauxes'' fence. At least it was a pretty fence, unlike the one at the manse where the girls lived, which was half toppled over. "A broken old house," Mrs. Ahlstrom had called it when they first moved in two years before.

Reverend Ahlstrom had just been given his new post at Sparhawk Point Church, and they had all hoped that the designated minister''s home in this new village would be nice. But instead . "Hurry up, Ingrid!" said Beatrice, shoving her arms into her own sweater. It was on the tip of Ingrid''s tongue to go and tell her mother about this latest noticeable hole in her sweater (her only remaining good sweater, the ­tangerine-­colored one)--­but she bit the words back. Mrs. Ahlstrom would get out her darning needle at once, and the storm would roll over while she worked, and they wouldn''t get to the boys'' house at all. "That hole doesn''t matter," Beatrice reassured her, realizing the problem. "No one will notice it.

" But Ingrid couldn''t help glancing around the ­old-­fashioned parlor for a quick solution, eyes sweeping over everything in the room: the overstuffed secretary where Mrs. Ahlstrom did her letter writing. The mannerly grandfather clock with its ­red-­dial face and longcase height. The picture of a triangular wooden church with the words So jag slår vid dörren och klappar --­an antique from the days long before Depressions and World Wars, an antique from Europe. Both sets of the girls'' grandparents had emigrated from Sweden at the turn of the century, and one of them had brought this little framed print. And then there was the polished wooden door, somewhat ajar, that led to the small study where their father was speaking with a young couple set to marry in two weeks'' time. Ingrid''s eyes landed on the little table beside the stairs where the candlestick telephone resided. Beatrice''s, following hers, did as well.

"We can tape the hole!" the girls declared in unison. Beatrice yanked open the little table''s drawer and rummaged until she found a white dispenser with Scotch Cellulose Tape printed on the side. Reverend Ahlstrom had purchased it last spring when he was trying to paint the upstairs closet, and there was still a bit left. She pulled off a small piece of the brown tape and slid it under Ingrid''s sleeve to hold the torn place ­together--­did it show? It did. "Perfect," Beatrice said. Even though it wasn''t. That was the nice thing about older sisters. "I certainly agree with that.

" The sound of their father''s voice, coming from his study, startled both girls. They had thought he was still talking to the couple, but evidently they had gone and he was now speaking aloud as he typed up a letter. Reverend Ahlstrom often had to talk to himself to get just the right words down on paper. They could hear the typewriter clacking through the ­just-­open door as he went on: "And while I do wish there were more I could do to counsel the hurt and comfort the heartsick . I hope I am performing useful service nevertheless, from this small corner of the world ." Both girls knew what that meant. Every so often Reverend Ahlstrom had to write to his superior discussing how the Sparhawk Point Church was doing. Beatrice and Ingrid knew how much their father wanted to help people, but he felt discouraged in this tiny village where so few people attended services.

It discouraged them, too. He had wanted to go away, they knew. Two years ago, Dad had been offered the opportunity to travel to China on a ­months-­long missions trip, but he had turned it down because he did not want to leave his family for so long. Did that make it their fault he wasn''t helping more people? Could Dad have gone all over the world if he didn''t have them to worry about? They shot out of the house, both wishing, silently, to leave those feelings of guilt behind. Before long they would reach a small house where a woman hung somewhat shabby laundry on the line and where two boys lived and fished and waited for the world to right itself. And as the girls ran there, to the home of their best friends at the Point, they tried to forget the sound of defeat in their father''s voice.