“He puts a lot of pressure on himself,” Julia said.
Just then, Patrick came back in, and the conversation hushed.
“The roads are blocked, but I think I can get you all home the way we came if you want to pack up after breakfast.” He clicked off the radio. “I can take you on my way into town.”
“I’m sure you’ll want to get back to your luxurious accommodations, instead of hanging out here,” Julia added.
“I should probably return to see if there’s any damage to report to the homeowner anyway,” Sienna said.
While Emily understood what they were all saying, she couldn’t help but feel that Patrick had an ulterior motive. By his inability to look directly at her, her gut told her he wanted them to go, but she wasn’t sure why. He was more distant than he had been before the storm, keeping himself busy—not sitting or having breakfast. It was as if he was avoiding them. Perhaps it was best they leave.
SEVENTEEN
The ride into town was both surreal and sobering. The woods were eerily quiet as they drove through them—a stark contrast to the day before’s journey. The only sounds were the engine and the crackle of the tires through the terrain. The air was saturated with a heavy dampness that carried a thick scent of mud and seaweed. When they finally got onto the roads, they were layered with sand and debris. Patrick didn’t flinch as his truck bumped over splintered boards, shingles, and palm fronds scattered in haphazard piles.
On the main route, heading toward the beach house, Emily gasped. Storefronts and cottages were visibly battered, some with broken windows, shutters hanging loose, and siding peeled back by the storm’s force. They were all dark, clearly without electricity. Patrick maneuvered slowly around the power lines that drooped low, some tangled in their leaning poles.
In his truck, they were as quiet as the calm after the storm. Both Blair and Sienna pulled out their phones to text their significant others an update, but once they’d finished, their phones sat silent in their laps.
Patrick drove past his restaurant, craning his neck to view the property. The glass was boarded up, the coming-soon signsall removed, and the scaffolding hauled away. “Looks okay from the outside,” he said, rolling slowly past. “No flooding or anything that I can see—that’s encouraging.” He pulled up to the stoplight.
“Hopefully, it will all be okay,” Emily said.
“Our grand opening is in a little less than a year. This storm wasn’t on the schedule. I’m going right over to check as soon as I drop you off.”
“Let me know if you get in there and need any help. If there’s anything I can take off your plate, it would be the least I could do after all you’ve done for us.”
They turned onto the road with the beach house. Piles of ruined furniture, mattresses, and soggy belongings were already pushed to the curbs, waiting for cleanup crews; other items—clearly not there on purpose—had been shoved sideways and deposited in unusual places by the storm surge, such as a boat resting clumsily in the middle of a side street.
Emily turned away, the reality of what they’d made it through hitting her. They’d been tucked away, sheltered from this. She looked over at Patrick with a newfound respect and adoration for saving them.
The whole town was caught between ruin and resilience; when only a day or two ago it had been buzzing with life, it had now been muted with destruction. But within that, it was alive with the first signs of recovery, as people dotted the streets, talking with one another, pointing, lifting debris. It was as if the whole community were holding its breath, waiting for regular life to return.
When they arrived at the mansion, the gates were still standing strong, although palm branches were wedged between their iron rods. Patrick entered the code and, miraculously, the gates opened.
“Does that mean the house has power?” Emily asked.
“The owner told me last night it has a pretty substantial generator,” Sienna replied, “so we should have power no matter what. And the grounds crew were able to secure everything pretty well.”
Patrick pulled to a stop in front of the house, and they all climbed out. The beach itself was scarred from the storm, the dunes moved around, a boardwalk down the coast snapped in two as if it were a twig. Seagulls circled low, picking through the wreckage. But the palms on the property were all standing, surprisingly, and the house looked unscathed.
Patrick pulled their suitcases from the back of the truck and began taking them up the stairs to the front door.
Sienna let them in.
The hallways were dark from the electric shutters that had protected the glass from the storm. A small line of emergency lights running along the edges of the entryway illuminated the floors. Sienna clicked on the wall switch, the chandelier above them sending beams shimmering across the marble floor.
Patrick set their suitcases inside the door, then walked past them and into the other room. In a few minutes, there was a snap and then a hum as the metal shutters retreated to their cases above each window. Sunlight poured through the house, the bright-blue skies a stark contrast to the wreckage in town.
“Everything looks fine here,” Blair said, dragging her suitcase to the elevator. “How lucky, compared to the rest of the area.”
Sienna walked over to the French doors leading to the pool. “The outdoor patio needs a good sweep, but the pool’s still covered,” she said, pulling out her phone. “I’ll do a final check of the property and call the owner.” She opened the door and stepped outside.
“It must take forever to clean everything up,” Blair said.
“Yeah. It’s always a tough climb back to normal, but we’ve experienced worse.” Patrick strode in. “The owner usually hasthings put back together pretty quickly, and if it’s just clearing the patio, consider yourselves fortunate. The storm turning saved us. One move in the other direction and you’d be digging the swimming pool out from under a few tons of sand.”
A lull fell between them.
