Page 57 of When Summer Returns

CHAPTERTWELVE

Generator power hadits own soundtrack—a persistent mechanical hum punctuated by occasional sputters that Luke had learned to interpret like a second language. The steady rhythm now meant all systems functioning, the slight catch every twentieth cycle merely a quirk rather than a warning. After four days of hurricane recovery, he found the sound oddly comforting—a reminder that Seeker’s Paradise had survived yet another island baptism.

Morning sun filtered through the newly repaired thatched roof, casting dappled patterns across the bar’s polished surface. The space looked almost normal, which had required near-heroic efforts from his staff over the past seventy-two hours. Broken glass swept away, salt-crusted surfaces scrubbed clean, toppled furniture righted and repaired. The hurricane shutters remained partially deployed on the ocean side where Benedict’s fury had been most concentrated, but the rest of the structure had been opened to catch the island’s healing breezes.

Luke surveyed his domain with the practiced eye of ownership, noting the small imperfections invisible to casual observers but glaringly obvious to him—the slightly crooked sign behind the bar, the patch of mismatched thatch above table seven, the hairline crack in the corner support post that would need proper attention when real supplies arrived from the mainland. For now, Seeker’s Paradise stood ready to serve its most essential function: island gathering place.

“You realize we’re the only place on the eastern half of the island with ice, right?” Miguel commented, hauling another bag from the walk-in freezer. The young bartender’s perpetual energy seemed undiminished by days of disaster recovery. “We could charge five bucks a cube and make a fortune.”

“We’re not price gouging our neighbors,” Luke replied, though his mouth quirked at the suggestion.

“It’s not gouging, it’s hurricane capitalism.” Miguel dumped the ice into the well with dramatic flair. “Supply and demand, boss.”

“Supply and decency,” Luke countered. “The day we profit from people’s misfortunes is the day I sell this place to the resort developers.”

“You’ve been turning those guys down for what, five years now?”

“Seven. And counting.”

Jessie’s entrance from the kitchen momentarily stalled the conversation. She carried a tray of clean glasses with the careful concentration of someone still learning the rhythm of bar work. Her loose tank top and practical shorts showed evidence of the morning’s labor—a smudge of something dark across one shoulder, damp patches where she’d splashed herself filling water containers. The hurricane had stripped away her city polish, leaving behind something more essential that Luke found increasingly difficult to look away from.

“The water pressure’s improving,” she announced, setting down the tray. “I actually managed hot water for these last ones.”

“Progress,” Luke agreed. “Maybe we’ll have actual running water by next week.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” She reached for a towel, wiping condensation from her hands. “Mateo says the food delivery managed to get through. Limited menu, but at least we won’t be serving peanut butter sandwiches again.”

“Those were gourmet peanut butter sandwiches,” Miguel protested, hand to heart in mock offense. “I personally selected the finest hurricane rations available.”

“The crusts were soggy,” Jessie pointed out.

“Rustic style.”

“The jelly was questionable.”

“Artisanal preserves.”

She laughed, the sound warming something in Luke’s chest that had nothing to do with the rising island temperature. Her integration into their small team had progressed with surprising speed, especially during the crisis response. She moved differently now—with more confidence in the physical space, as if her body were remembering island rhythms long forgotten.

The past four days had established a tentative partnership between them that went beyond business arrangements or their nights together. They’d worked in tandem through the worst of the cleanup, anticipating each other’s needs with an efficiency that felt both new and achingly familiar. By unspoken agreement, they’d focused on immediate recovery needs, leaving deeper conversations for when the crisis had passed.

Which appeared to be approximately now, judging by the arrival of Theodore Abernathy at the bar’s entrance. The island’s only lawyer navigated the still-damp floor with careful steps, his wiry frame seeming frailer than Luke remembered. Benedict hadn’t been kind to the older buildings on the island, and Abernathy’s office—a converted Victorian at the island’s center—had lost half its roof to the storm.

“Miss James,” Abernathy called, waving a leather portfolio that had seen better days. “I was told I might find you here.”

Jessie wiped her hands on a bar towel, surprise evident in her expression. “Mr. Abernathy. I didn’t expect to see you until things were more…settled.”

“I’m afraid the legal wheels turn regardless of weather events.” He glanced around the bar with evident appreciation. “You’ve managed quite the recovery here. The only functioning establishment on this side of the island, I believe.”

“Luke’s generator priorities,” Jessie said, with a nod toward him. “Beer refrigeration before air-conditioning.”

“Island necessities,” Luke said with a shrug. “People need normalcy after a storm like Benedict.”

“Indeed they do.” Abernathy placed his portfolio on the nearest dry surface. “Which is partly why I’ve made the effort to find you, Miss James. There are matters regarding your father’s estate that require timely attention, hurricane notwithstanding.”

Luke caught the subtle tensing of Jessie’s shoulders at the mention of her father. In their nights together, she’d shared more about Jesse James’s abuse, each revelation making Luke wish the man were still alive so he could personally introduce him to the business end of a fishing gaff.

“I thought that might wait until the island was back on its feet,” Jessie replied, her professional mask sliding into place with practiced ease.

---