Page 61 of When Summer Returns

“So,” Miguel said, leaning against the bar with calculated casualness. “Corporate partnerships. Jets on standby. Seems like island bar ownership might have some stiff competition.”

Luke chose not to engage with the bait, focusing instead on restocking the cooler. “The island’s not for everyone.”

“True. But everyone’s not Jessie James.” Miguel nodded toward the corner booth. “From where I’m standing, she fits back in here like she never left.”

The observation hit uncomfortably close to Luke’s own thoughts. Despite fifteen years away, Jessie had adapted to island life with surprising speed—pitching in during the hurricane preparations, working tirelessly during recovery, developing easy rapport with his staff. She approached each new task with the same determined competence she’d shown as a teenager, though now tempered with the confidence of adulthood.

“Fitting in and staying are different things,” Luke finally replied.

“Indeed they are,” Miguel agreed with unexpected solemnity. “Indeed they are.”

The morning progressed with the controlled chaos typical of post-hurricane operations. Limited power meant creative solutions for everything from food preparation to credit card processing. The water situation remained precarious, with the municipal system functioning at minimal capacity, requiring careful rationing and frequent trips to refill containers from the island’s emergency supply stations.

Through it all, Jessie remained closeted with Abernathy, their conversation occasionally animated enough to draw curious glances but never quite loud enough for eavesdropping. Luke deliberately kept his distance, focusing instead on the practical matters of running the only functioning restaurant on the eastern shore.

By late morning, the bar had filled with a mix of islanders seeking hot food, cold drinks, and working bathrooms. The atmosphere hummed with the particular camaraderie disaster tended to foster—neighbors checking on neighbors, sharing resources and information, finding humor in the shared inconveniences of recovery.

“Any news on the north road?” Luke asked Reece, who had remained at the bar despite having finished both coffee and banana bread.

“Still underwater at the low point,” Reece replied. “Might be passable by tomorrow if the drainage system starts functioning again. Right now we’re routing everyone around through the eastern access.”

“That explains the lunchtime crowd.” Luke gestured to the steadily filling tables. “We’re the only stop between the southern ferry and the northern residences.”

“Free enterprise at its finest,” Reece agreed. “Though I did see Margie trying to get the diner generator working. If she succeeds, you might have competition.”

“I welcome it. We’re running low on supplies, and Mateo’s about to stage a culinary revolt if he has to make another batch of hurricane chili.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Maggie, looking as if she’d slept even less than Reece. Her normally immaculate blond hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her scrubs rumpled beneath a light jacket.

“Please tell me you have coffee,” she said without preamble, sliding onto the stool beside Reece. “The clinic’s generator is prioritizing refrigeration for medications, which means the staff breakroom is running on prayers and profanity.”

“We’ve got coffee,” Luke confirmed, already pouring. “Though the quality is questionable.”

“I’d drink motor oil at this point,” she replied, accepting the mug with grateful hands. “Forty-eight hours of generator power is not conducive to proper medical care, especially with the influx of post-hurricane injuries.”

“Anything serious?” Reece asked, professional concern evident in his tone.

“Mostly lacerations from cleanup, a few cases of heat exhaustion, one suspected broken arm I had to send to the mainland.” She sipped the coffee with a grimace that suggested Luke’s quality assessment had been accurate. “And of course, the usual medication management issues when people evacuate without their prescriptions.”

“Islands and hurricanes,” Luke said sympathetically. “Not always the most compatible pairing.”

“Speaking of pairings.” Maggie nodded toward the corner booth, where Jessie and Abernathy appeared to be concluding their business. “How’s that going?”

Luke chose his words carefully, aware of both the public setting and his own conflicted feelings. “It’s going.”

“Eloquent,” she teased. “Very descriptive.”

“What Luke means,” Miguel interjected, sliding a plate of surprisingly fresh-looking fruit beside Maggie’s coffee, “is that romance blooms even amid hurricane debris, but may be threatened by corporate sirens calling from the mainland.”

“Miguel,” Luke warned.

“What? It’s not gossip if it’s obvious to everyone with eyes.” Miguel gestured broadly to the bar at large. “The entire island is invested in this romantic subplot. We have very little entertainment since the power went out.”

Before Luke could formulate a suitably devastating response, Jessie approached the bar, her expression unreadable after the extended consultation with Abernathy. The lawyer followed a few steps behind, his portfolio once again neatly secured.

“Everything okay?” Luke asked, studying her face for clues.

“Define okay,” she replied, her attempt at lightness not quite reaching her eyes. “The legal wheels are turning. Apparently my father’s estate is more complicated than expected.”

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