Page 85 of Until the Storm Breaks
“Thanks for handling all that,” I say, meaning it.
“It’s Mom,” Theo says simply. “Of course.”
We’re still standing there, this incomplete family unit, when the distinctive roar of a motorcycle cuts through the morning quiet. Jack. He pulls up fast enough to spray gravel, pulling off his helmet to reveal hair that’s definitely too long for Mom’s taste and that grin we all know means trouble.
“Miss me?” he asks, swinging off the bike like he’s been gone for a weekend instead of missing most of the summer.
Laila abandons Chloe to investigate Jack, sniffing his boots with interest.
“You made it,” Theo says, relief clear in his voice despite trying to sound neutral. We’d all been worried he wouldn’t make it in time.
“Cutting it close, as always,” Dominic says, but there’s affection beneath the sarcasm. That’s just how they talk to each other, always have.
“Flight from Nice was delayed twice. Mechanical issues, then weather in Paris,” Jack explains, pulling off his riding gloves and absently petting Laila. “Then I had to Uber from SeaTac to Tommy’s place in Georgetown to get my bike. Got stuck on I-5 for an hour. But I’m here.”
“We weren’t sure you’d make it,” Dominic admits, which is as close to ‘I’m glad you’re here’ as he gets.
“Hey, Chloe-bear,” Jack says, immediately crouching down to her level, his whole demeanor softening. “That’s a pretty flower you’ve got.”
“It’s for Grandma,” she says solemnly, showing him the daisy. “For the water.”
Grief passes over Jack’s face, quick and raw, before he gets control of it. “She would love that. Yellow flowers were her favorite, did you know that? She used to make me pick dandelions with her when I was your age.”
Cars start arriving shortly after that. Neighbors who’ve known us since we were kids, friends from Mom’s book club, people she touched over the years. The crowd grows, filling the space between the house and the bluff with quiet conversations and shared memories. Chloe and Laila wander off together toward the chairs, Chloe still clutching her daisy while Laila stays protectively at her side.
I spot Maren’s car pulling up and feel my chest loosen. She’s here. Whatever else happens today, she’s here.
She emerges looking beautiful in a simple black dress, her hair pulled back, moving with that particular grace she has. Our eyes meet across the yard, and the world narrows to just that. Her looking at me like I’m worth crossing a crowded lawn for. She starts toward me, but Dolores Henderson intercepts her, needing to share some memory about Mom. Maren listens with patience, nodding, touching Dolores’s arm gently, even as her eyes flick back to me.
“So that’s happening,” Jack observes, following my gaze. He’s lit a cigarette despite Theo’s disapproving look, leaning against the porch railing like he owns the place.
“Shut up,” I say.
“She’s good for you.” He takes a drag, exhales slowly, watching the smoke drift. “Mom always said Maren had the best heart in Dark River.”
“Mom was right.”
“Usually was.” Jack watches as Maren finally extricates herself from Dolores, making her way toward us through the growing crowd.
Maren reaches us, and Jack grins at her with that particular charm he’s been perfecting since high school.
“Well, well. Maren Strand, destroyer of hearts and pourer of drinks,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette. “You clean up nice.”
“Jack Midnight,” she says, shaking her head but smiling. “Still making inappropriate comments at inappropriate times, I see.”
“It’s a gift,” he says cheerfully. “Thanks for everything you’ve been doing. The memorial planning, taking care of this grump.” He jerks his head toward me. “Must be exhausting dealing with all that brooding.”
“You have no idea,” Maren says, playing along.
“Tragic,” Jack agrees solemnly. “You know I tried to teach him how to have fun once. Summer before he left for college. Complete failure.”
“I’m standing right here,” I point out.
“We know,” they say in unison, and then Maren’s laughing, a bright sound that somehow fits into this heavy day.
“How’s the season going?” Maren asks him. “Still racing?”
“It’s good,” Jack says, his expression shifting to something more genuine. “Competitive year. The team’s solid, and there’s talk about a full seat next year if things go well. I’ll know more after Monza next week.”
