Page 5 of Until the Storm Breaks
I nod against her shoulder, unable to speak for a moment.
She pulls back, studies my face, then starts making coffee.She unwraps one of the sandwiches from the bag and slides it across the bar with that gentle bossiness that saysI love youbetter than words. “Eat. Not optional.”
I manage a few bites. “Thanks.”
“People will have heard,” she says “Want me to handle the questions?”
“No.” I wipe sandwich crumbs from my shirt. “I’d rather talk about her than pretend nothing happened.”
Lark nods, squeezing my shoulder before going to check the tap lines.
The afternoon crowd trickles in. Bill arrives first, gives me a long hug without words. Then the Hendersons, who heard from Patricia. Eleanor brings a still-warm casserole she insists on leaving in our kitchen. She must have started baking the moment she heard. These areSusan’speople, really. They knew her behind this bar for years before I bought it. It’s nice, not having to explain, not having to pretend. Just people who knew her, sharing the weight a little.
Marcus arrives and orders his Manhattan, raises it. “To Susan.”
“To Susan,” I echo, and pour myself a small shot of Maker’s.
By now Susan’s boys will be making plans, figuring out arrangements. Dominic and the others are probably already gathered at the house, starting to make decisions about the property. Calvin, the author and professor, is supposed to come up from Seattle, though when he’ll actually show is anyone’s guess. The thought of him settles strangely in my chest—a weight I can’t quite name and don’t have the energy to examine.
Susan told me years ago that I’d always have a place in the cabins, no matter what happened to the estate. Still, whoever buys the big house will become my new landlord. After ten years of Susan’s kindness and below-market rent, who knows what comes next.
I’ll worry about the details later. Tonight it’s just me and thebar, keeping things going, keeping people cared for the way Susan taught me.
The door chimes. New faces, weekenders probably, just looking for a drink. The work continues. It always does, and that’s exactly what I need right now.
“Welcome to The Black Lantern,” I say, a smile clicking into place like armor. “What can I get you?”
CHAPTER 2
CALVIN
The Puget Sound glitters in the July sun, too cheerful for my mood. I pull the battered copy ofThe Weight of Quiet Thingsfrom my jacket pocket, run my thumb over the creased spine one last time, and hurl it into the water. It hits with a soft splash and disappears beneath the deceptively calm surface.
Good fucking riddance.
I hop back in my old Ford pickup, which groans along the gravel drive that curves up from the bluff, windows down despite the mist rolling in off the water. Tom Waits growls through the speakers—Hold On, a song about surviving hard times—because apparently my phone’s shuffle function has a sick sense of humor. The summer air tastes like salt and crushed pine needles, like childhood and all the reasons I left Dark River.
Mom’s urn sits in a cardboard box in the backseat, still wrapped in the burgundy velvet bag that Hartley & Sons Funeral Home insisted was “complimentary with the bronzepackage.” Like I give a shit about their bronze package. Like any of this makes sense. I’d actually thanked the funeral director when he handed me her urn on reflex, like he’d just passed me my coffee order.
Dominic’s text this morning was typically efficient:Pick up Mom on your way in. They close at 5. Don’t be late.
Three days. She’s been gone three days, and my brothers are already in full logistics mode. Dominic’s probably at his gym, working the heavy bag instead of feeling anything. Theo and Alex are definitely at the restaurant they own—those two can’t leave that place alone for five minutes, even for grief. Jack? He’s probably partying between races in Vegas, Monaco, or Dubai. He always appears and disappears on his own schedule, so who knows when he’ll show up.
And me? I waited until the last possible moment to make the drive from Seattle, stopping at the funeral home like I’m picking up dry cleaning.
Just get through the summer, I tell myself. Sign the paperwork. Sell the estate. Pocket twenty percent and get back to my quiet apartment with its one houseplant (half-dead) and my schedule that makes sense. Simple.
I need gas before heading to the house, so I stop at the Shell station just off of Main Street.
I’m filling the tank when I hear it: “Calvin? Calvin Midnight?”
It’s a woman about my age in running gear with earbuds dangling around her neck. She looks familiar in that small-town way, like maybe we had a class together back in high school.
“It’s me, Jen Sullivan.” She smiles, and I vaguely remember a girl from AP English. “My book club read your essays last year. We were allobsessed.”
“Hey, Jen.” I keep my eyes on the pump. $47.82. $48.15.
“God, you lookgood,” she says, stepping closer. “Even betterthan on those Tiktoks I always see. The whole literature professor thing really suits you.” She laughs and touches my arm briefly. “You moved out to Seattle, right? What brought you back?”
