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She went back inside the house long enough to wash her face, brush her teeth, and pull her hair back into a ponytail. Afterward, she left again, easing past Royal on the front porch, carefully opening the damaged screen door, and walking down the front porch steps. By the time her feet hit the front lawn, the taps and cracks of Royal prying boards from windows had resumed.
Kit made her way down the driveway, stepping carefully over several thick oak limbs that had fallen during the storm, their jagged ends pointing toward the sky. She tilted her head back and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with clean, salt-tinged air, the soft breeze cooling her bare face, neck, and arms.
Despite the fierce lashing of rain and wind, the majority of live oak trees lining the dirt road still stood tall, their thick trunks and long branches sprawling in all directions with sturdy strength. Moss draped along limbs rippled in the soft morning breeze, and tree frogs, presumably pleased with the newly formed freshwater puddles, croaked together in a vibrant chorus that echoed through the dense forest.
Golden light cut through the tangle of moss-laden limbs as the sun cleared the tree line, and Kit picked up her pace, her spirits lifting at the renewed beauty of a storm-free morning. But her steps halted at a large obstruction in the center of the road.
A cage—one of Beau’s—lay in the road, half-buried in mud and dirt. She crouched down, brushed away a layer of dirt and moss, and peered inside. The mesh bag inside the cage remained in one piece, and what looked like several dozen oysters were still inside, scattered and chipped, most of them resting in a haphazard pile at one end of the cage.
“Oh, no . . .” Her voice trailed away as she spotted a lone oyster resting on the dirt, the storm having flung it from the cage.
She picked it up, wiped the mud off with the hem of her shirt, and turned it over in her hand. The shell had cracked open, and it was a loss, as would be a lot of Beau and Viv’s crop, she imagined.
Kit stood and glanced around. The sight of another damaged cage several feet ahead in the center of the road made her shoulders slump. Beau should—as Viv had pointed out last night—have spent the final precious hours before the storm lowering cages to the bottom of the creek and securing equipment to minimize the damage.
But he’d come to Teague Cottage to help her instead.
Kit bit her lip and ducked her head, continuing up the winding dirt road, still cradling the dead oyster in her palm.
The gate to the Suttons’ property was open, and she entered, casting a look around. Several large limbs, similar in size to the fallen branches at Teague Cottage, littered the front lawn, and four more cages lay damaged in the grass.
Rhythmic clinks and clanks rang out across the property, and Kit followed the sound to the backyard and along the deepwater dock. She spotted Beau toward the end of the dock, standing in front of the culling table, with several damaged cages stacked in piles around his feet. His hands, strong and skilled, moved over the oysters strewn across the table, picking out the largest ones, dropping them into buckets at his feet, and placing the smaller ones into mesh bags at the opposite end of the table.
The hybrid bay boat was overturned nearby, one end submerged beneath the waters of the creek and the other lodged between two dock pilings. The Suttons’ larger boat was absent, taken out, she supposed, by Nate and Cal, who were probably scouring the creek for cages.
Kit hesitated, her eyes drinking in the tall, lean lines of Beau’s muscular figure, her hand tightening around the dead oyster in her palm. “Do you think you’ll be able to save any of them?”
Beau’s gloved hands stilled over the oysters, and his head lifted her way, his blue eyes seeking hers. He smiled, but it seemed forced. “I’m going to try.”
He studied her for a moment, his attention roving over her face and lingering on her mouth before dropping to her closed fist.
She unfurled it, walked over to him, and held out her palm. “A few cages were blown into the road, and I saw several in your front yard. I was hoping the oysters might’ve made it, but from the looks of them, I think the majority—if not all—are gone.”
He tugged his gloves off, then cupped one of his hands around her upturned palm and took the oyster with the other, inspecting it. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that’s all we’ll find when we start rounding up the ones that were thrown from the creek.” He tossed the oyster into a bigger bucket placed several feet from the culling table and squeezed her hand. “The cottage looked okay this morning. It’ll take a few days to clear out the broken limbs and repair the roof, from what Royal showed me, but it didn’t look like any severe damage was done.”
She smiled and covered his hand with hers. “Because of you. If you hadn’t helped us the way you did, we would be in a lot worse shape.”
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. “It was worth it.”
Beau released her, tugged his gloves back on, and returned his attention to the oysters on the table, his big hands resuming their task.
She rubbed the inside of her wrist with her thumb, already missing the warmth of his touch. “What can I do?”
He glanced up briefly, then motioned toward the culling table. “You’re welcome to help sort. Toss the market-sized ones that are still viable in this bucket”—he nudged the bucket closest to him with the toe of his boot—“put the babies back in the bags at the opposite end of the table, and throw all the damaged ones over there, in the recycling bucket.”
Kit dipped her head in agreement and took up a position on the opposite side of the table. Beau reached into a bag underneath the culling table, withdrew a pair of gloves, and tossed them to her. She put on the gloves, then dug in, sifting through the oysters, tossing several market-sized ones in the bucket nearby, and throwing even more in the recycling bucket behind her.
“Is Viv here?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the task at hand.
His hands stilled briefly, then resumed sorting. “No. I haven’t seen her this morning.” Shells clanked as he tossed a handful of dead oysters in the recycling bucket. “I figured she got caught by the storm when she didn’t come back last night, and your dad told me the two of you stayed up talking most of the evening.” His hands paused again. “How’d it go?”
She shrugged. “Pretty good, all things considered. I think we have a shot at making things better between us, if we work at it.”
The pile of shells in front of her blurred, and she ducked her head a bit more, blinking rapidly and willing the tears back.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “Not right now. But later.” Her eyes burned, and it was hard to speak. “You and I need to talk later.”
