Page 46 of When Summer Returns

Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating her face in stark relief. Luke felt his own vulnerability rise to meet hers, all pretense of certainty stripped away by the enormity of what they’d lost and what they might still find.

When she slowly placed her hand in his, the simple contact sent warmth radiating through him despite the rain that streamed over both their skins. He closed his fingers around hers with gentle pressure, marveling at how perfectly they still fit together after all this time.

“We should get out of this storm,” he said, though he made no move to stand. “Check on the bar, start preparations.”

“The house?—”

“Can wait another hour.”

They remained connected, hands clasped in the downpour, as if the simple contact contained a current neither was willing to break. The house loomed behind them, windows gaping open to the elements, exposing its interior to cleansing rain for perhaps the first time in its existence.

“I don’t want it,” Jessie said, her voice stronger now. “The house. I’ll donate the land, or tear it down, or—I don’t know. But I won’t live with his ghost.”

“Whatever you decide,” Luke replied, his thumb brushing across her knuckles in a gesture so tender it surprised him with its naturalness. “I’ll help.”

Thunder crashed directly overhead, startling them both. Luke rose, still holding her hand, helping her to her feet with gentle support.

“I’ll drive to the bar and get my truck,” he said. “We can pick up plywood and tarps on the way back.”

She nodded, rain streaming down her face, mingling with tears she no longer tried to hide. “Thank you for finding me.”

“I’ll always find you, Jess,” he said softly, the words emerging from some deep, unguarded place inside him. “I should have found you fifteen years ago. I should have looked harder, asked more questions. But I promise you this—I won’t lose you again.”

As they walked away from the broken house, shoulders occasionally brushing against each other, Luke felt the weight of understanding settling across his shoulders. Not a burden, but a responsibility. A second chance neither of them had expected.

The hurricane was coming, its outer bands already reaching toward Seeker’s Island with inexorable purpose. But as rain washed away years of misunderstanding, Luke sensed something taking root in the space between them—fragile but persistent, like the first green shoot after a forest fire.

Some storms, it seemed, came not to destroy but to clear ground for what needed to grow in their wake.

CHAPTERTEN

Two daysof hurricane preparation had transformed Seeker’s Paradise from a casual beach bar into a fortress of practicality.

Industrial-grade roll-down storm barriers—Luke’s investment after the last major storm—now enclosed the normally open-air structure, sealing off every side that usually welcomed ocean breezes. Sandbags lined doorways and vulnerable areas, stacked with military precision. Water drums, emergency supplies, and generator fuel occupied the storage areas once filled with extra liquor and party supplies. Everything not essential had been moved to higher storage, the kitchen equipment secured, the bar’s precious bottles relocated to inland safekeeping.

But it was the transformation inside that struck Jessie most profoundly as she surveyed their work on what would likely be Hurricane Benedict’s landfall day. The dining area now housed neat rows of cots and sleeping bags, each with a small plastic container of essentials—flashlight, water bottle, energy bars, basic toiletries. The bar itself had become a command center, complete with weather radio, status boards, and medical supplies. The open-air restaurant that had once specialized in island indulgence now stood ready to provide bare necessities.

“Doesn’t look much like a party anymore,” she said, more to herself than anyone.

“Depends on your definition of party,” Miguel replied, appearing at her elbow with a clipboard. “My abuela calls anything with more than three people a party. By that standard, we’re about to host the biggest event of the season.”

Luke emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. The past forty-eight hours had carved new lines into his face, exhaustion settling in the shadows beneath his eyes. But his movements remained precise, efficient, as though the greater the external chaos, the more centered he became.

“Latest forecast?” he asked, crossing to the makeshift control center where a battery-powered radio crackled.

“Landfall expected around eight tonight,” Jessie reported, checking her notes. “Still category two, but the surge predictions are rising. Seven to nine feet along the eastern shore.”

“The clinic?”

“Maggie’s bringing the last of the emergency supplies over by four. They’ve evacuated three patients to the mainland, but Mrs. Calloway refused to go.”

Luke’s mouth twitched. “Of course she did. That woman wouldn’t leave this island if God himself showed up with a lifeboat.”

“I heard she once chased a hurricane researcher off her property with a broom,” Miguel contributed, checking items off his clipboard. “Said his fancy equipment was scaring her cats.”

“It wasn’t a broom,” Tasha corrected as she passed by with a stack of blankets. “It was a baseball bat. And it wasn’t the equipment she objected to—it was him telling her she needed to evacuate.”

A sharp crack of thunder punctuated her statement, making them all glance toward the sealed storm barriers. The morning’s intermittent showers had intensified into steady, diagonal rain over the past hour, the first real evidence of Benedict’s approach. By all forecasts, conditions would deteriorate rapidly as the day progressed.

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