Page 83 of Until the Storm Breaks
As we’re finishing up and getting ready to leave, both brothers stop to hug me. Theo’s is gentle, careful, like he’s apologizing again for things he can’t fix. Alex’s threatens to crack ribs, lifting me slightly off the ground.
“Thank you,” Theo says quietly while Alex is bear-hugging me. “For taking care of Mom. For being there when we couldn’t be. We all know how much you did those last few months.”
“For putting up with Calvin,” Alex adds, louder, setting me back down. “We know he’s difficult. Moody. Prone to brooding in corners and writing depressing things in notebooks.”
“I’m right here,” Calvin protests, but there’s no heat in it.
“We know,” his brothers say together, grinning with the synchronization of people who’ve been doing this routine their whole lives.
In the parking lot, Calvin helps me into the truck, his hand warm on my back.
“Thank you,” he says once he’s in the driver’s seat. “For tonight. For dealing with my brothers’ teasing.”
“They’re sweet,” I tell him. “And they love you. That’s obvious.”
“Yeah, well, they have a funny way of showing it sometimes.” But he’s smiling as he starts the truck.
“Take me home?” I ask, suddenly tired from the wine and the emotions and the rich food.
“Yeah,” he says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Let’s go home.”
The drive back is quiet, but it’s a comfortable quiet. Calvin’s hand finds mine over the console, and I watch the familiar streets pass by. The harbor with its boats, the old church, the turnoff to the bar. I try not to think about how many more times we’ll make this drive together.
When we pull up to the property, Calvin doesn’t head to thecabins. Instead, he parks by the main house, the headlights sweeping across the front porch.
He leads me around to the side of the house, past the herb garden that’s gone wild without Susan to tend it, rosemary and thyme tangling together. We stop at what used to be a construction zone, where the sunroom has been under development since he got here. But when he opens the door, I gasp. It’s finished.
The room looks better than before the storm. New windows frame the view of the water perfectly. The water-damaged floors have been replaced with warm wood that gleams in the evening light. The built-in benches that got ruined have been rebuilt, painted the same soft white Susan always kept them.
“Calvin,” I breathe, looking around. “You fixed everything. It looks exactly like it did before. Maybe even better.”
“I tried to match what she had,” he says, running his hand along the new window frame. “The hardware store guy thought I was crazy, bringing in paint chips from the damaged wood to match exactly.”
“She loved this room,” I say, moving to the windows.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I wanted to finish it before Saturday. Before the memorial. I think I just needed it to be done. Even if I can’t save this house…”
He trails off, shaking his head, and we sit together in the chair that survived the water damage, the old leather one that was Hank’s, watching the last of the sunset through the new windows. The house is quiet around us, and I can almost feel Susan here, pleased that her favorite room is whole again.
“It feels like once we do the memorial, she’s really gone,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his arms tightening around me. “Like we’re admitting it’s real.”
Later, inside, we get ready for bed with the easy rhythm of people who’ve been doing this longer than we have. Calvinbrushing his teeth while I wash my face, me changing while he checks his phone for messages from Seattle he’s been ignoring, both of us ending up in bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thank you,” I say into the darkness. “For tonight. For your brothers. For the sunroom. For everything.”
“Thank you,” he says back, pulling me against him. “For taking a chance on this. On us.”
I fall asleep listening to his heartbeat, trying not to think about how many more nights we have. Trying not to count. Trying to just be here, now, in this moment that feels perfect even though everything around us is uncertain.
CHAPTER 22
CALVIN
Several days later I wake alone in the bed that still smells like Maren’s shampoo. The morning light filters through the curtains, softer than it should be for what today is. Memorial day. The day we say goodbye to Mom.
Maren left a note on her pillow:Had to get to the bar early to set up. Be back in time for the memorial. You’ve got this. -M
