Chapter 20 #2
If this was what weathering a storm looked like with him, she was all in.
@TeaThymeNC: [Photo: a cozy sitting nook with a mug and a teacup on the table and Lucy in the background looking at a picture book with
Winston napping at her feet. The storm is visible through the window.] Storm’s brewing, Wisteria. Time to put the kettle on
and settle in with something warm, comforting, and definitely not created with bean water.
Best storm beverage: a proper cup of tea.
Best storm activity: reading, baking, or hypothetically cuddling with someone who understands the importance of a cozy blanket
and interesting conversation. What’s your cozy comfort? #StormyTeaTime #CuddleUpWisteria #TeaIsLove
Comments:
@TGDpub: Tea won’t keep you warm like a double chili burger and someone who knows how to build a fire. Both kinds. Just saying. #TeamPubSnuggles
#ForksOptional #FireStarterFlirting
@SecondHandTreasures: Two cups. One apartment. One shared domestic aesthetic? #Sus #StormWatchButMakeItRomantic #WisteriaShippingSquad #BeveragesInCloseProximity
@JackAustenPhotography: Did no one else notice the reflection in the mirror? Zoom. Enhance. That’s a man’s elbow in a plaid shirt. Daphne, we know
Finn owns exactly one flannel. Plus, we can see both of your faces. Not just the cups are in close proximity. #Gross #CSIWisteria
#YourSecretsAreNotSafe #SubtleSisterFail
@PastorNateNHC: “Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor.” Ecclesiastes 4:9. Also, is that lipstick on his
mug? Or his cheek? #NotJudgingJustBlessing #LookAway
@OldManRutherforton: Storms always did bring people together. Back in ’78, we had thunder, lightning, and four engagements by sunrise. #BarometricPressureEqualsRomance
#HistoryRepeats
@GrannyDOfficial: I’ve got tea steeping, soup simmering, and binoculars pointed directly at the pub. This better end in a kiss or a pie. #GrannyDSeesEverything
@MrsWinslow: Daphne posted “cuddle” and thinks we won’t assume it’s about Finn? Girl, please. Besides, if you read what’s on his mug through
the reflection in the mirror (thanks @JackAustenPhotography), does that say, “Coffee First, Kisses After”? #MugMathChecksOut
#WelcomeToTheWatchlist
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: It’s giving Hallmark Original meets British Bake Off afterparty. That mug. That lighting. That child. You’re toast. And I love it. #HotDadsDrinkTeaToo #DaphneBlushingSomewhere #MatchmakingPerfection
@WisteriaGeneralStore: Just confirming the “Coffee First, Kisses After” mug is ours. Available in store or online. Monogrammed versions coming soon.
#BrandingWithFeeling #WisteriaSellsRomanceNow
@SheriffGrady: Official town ruling: Two mugs, one storm, lipstick smudge = probable cause for investigation. Sherlock Holmes could retire.
#NotOurFirstRodeo #StormSnuggleSurveillance #EyesOnTheMugs
@MrsWinslow: You can delete the caption all you want, sweetheart. The mugs told us everything. #OfficiallyInItNow #KnewBeforeYouDid
@WisteriaGeneralStore: New stock alert: “Official Wisteria Cuddle Committee” blankets. #YouAskedWeDelivered
“Nice job, Lucy. Those raspberries are perfect.”
Daphne smiled down at the little girl beside her, who beamed with sticky pride as she arranged a final swirl of fruit on the
mini tarts—raspberries, blueberries, kiwi—bright against the creamy custard. Two days until the wedding and the pressure was
on.
Not to mention some high concern about the weather. Overnight it had shifted from dreary to downright ominous.
Lucy’s school had been canceled—something about “erring on the side of caution.” So Daphne had volunteered to keep the little
cherub while Finn met with Harry up at the inn to finalize the groom’s breakfast setup. But that shouldn’t take too long,
hopefully.
And then he’d be back with them. Safely nearby.
According to the news stream on her iPad, tropical storm Danielle had veered wildly off course and was barreling straight toward western North Carolina.
Thunder grumbled low in the distance, a quiet warning.
The wind had been picking up all day, and customers were already trading stories about downed trees and closed bridges.
All the usual ones, sure—but still. Days of rain plus high winds? A recipe for disaster.
With wedding guests arriving in a couple of days, maybe they should invest in a canoe.
The lights flickered in the shop, and Daphne flipped her attention to Lucy, who kept happily humming as she decorated the
tarts with fruit. At least she wasn’t afraid. One less thing to distract Daphne.
A breaking news alert interrupted the quiet lull of the kitchen.
“Folks within the path of Buckwater Dam are advised to find higher ground as our station has just been notified that a lightning
strike has hit the dam’s control center.”
Daphne wiped her hands on her apron and reached for the volume button. The image cut to a field reporter standing beside a
grim-faced engineer. “We are with Dr. Jacob Davies, one of the engineers who helped design Buckwater Dam back in the 1970s.
Dr. Davies, based on your knowledge of the dam, what is the main concern here that our viewers should be aware of?”
“Well, the dam’s control station automatically opens the spillway gates to allow any excess water to release to keep pressure
down behind the dam, but if the control station has been damaged, then that’s not happening.”
“But isn’t there a manual control for it if the power goes out?” the reporter followed up.
“And backup generators.” Mr. Davies nodded.
“But those generators can’t handle the pressure coming in for too long.
” He paused to look down at his phone, his frown deepening.
“And I just got word from the manager of the dam that the access road to the dam is flooded. Emergency crews are having to go around the mountain—forty-five minutes on a good day.”
Daphne’s face went cold. She turned to the window, but the rain was coming so fast and heavy, she couldn’t see past the glass.
“And why is that a concern?”
He shifted his gaze away, hesitating, and then looked back at the reporter. “I warned the town council a few months back of
a hairline crack in one of the critical concrete abutments of the structure. With the amount of water pressure coming in and
now a control station failure, I just don’t know . . .”
The reporter stared at the man a moment, coming to the same conclusion as Daphne. “Are you saying the dam could break?”
“There’s a real possibility,” Mr. Davies replied, his voice grim. “Especially with the circumstances being what they are.”
Daphne’s chest hollowed. What did that mean?
As if reading her mind, the reporter leaned in. “And what . . . what would that mean for our local viewers?”
Davies drew in a deep breath. “Buckwater isn’t a large dam, and it was well-placed when it was built, but . . . it means anyone
along Gulf Hollow or Laurel’s Rest needs to get out now. Until the storm passes. Because—God forbid—if the dam breaks, the
excess water won’t just rush down the mountain. It’ll fill existing bodies of water and cause additional flooding. So . . .
the higher you are, the better.”
Daphne’s gaze shifted to the window. The Ashbourne River curled around one side of Wisteria. Penner’s Creek bordered the south.
With waterways already swollen, how far could a break reach?
And who did she know in its path?
Her fingers flew across her phone, group-texting Jack, Nate, Granny D, Rosemary—anyone she could think of—urging them to pass
it on.
“I only ate four more blueberries,” Lucy confessed solemnly from the counter.
The words pierced through Daphne’s spiraling panic like a warm light.
She turned, managing a smile. “Only four? I’d call that admirable restraint. Blueberries are my favorite too. And we certainly
wouldn’t want any of them to go to waste.” She winked at the little girl, who promptly snagged another one with a delighted
grin.
“I’m going to peek at the weather outside for a sec, okay, sugarplum?”
Lucy nodded, now rearranging the last two tarts like a fruit-focused architect.
Daphne slipped her phone into her pocket and cracked open the front door.
Wind whipped water into her face and bent nearby trees low. The row of shops on her side of town backed up to the park, which
led into small neighborhoods and pastureland beyond. It wasn’t the lowest part of town—but even here large pools of water
dotted the park, much bigger than anything she’d seen before.
Her eyes narrowed toward the road leading to the Laurel’s Rest neighborhood. A manmade pond bordered the entrance. It had
breached its banks, spilling across the road. A passing car sent water splashing high onto its roof.
Oh Lord, protect us.
Main Street sat on a gradual knoll, with the north end higher than the south. Tea Thyme was closer to the lower half. Finn’s
pub sat even lower still. The water rushing down the street likely fed straight into the river below, raising its already
dangerous level.
How high was the Ashbourne now?
The TV’s volume spiked behind her, drawing her back inside.
“It seems that Tropical Storm Danielle has stalled over the region,” the announcer said, “dropping continued rainfall on already
saturated ground. Flooding is imminent. Move to higher ground immediately.”
Daphne shut the door with trembling fingers and grabbed her iPad. “I think we should take these tarts up to my apartment,” she said, keeping her voice chipper as she reached for a tray. “Want to help?”
It was just rain. They’d had floods in the area before.
Lucy perked up. “Ooh! Can I see Winston?” She crawled down from the stool and started for the stairway.
“Of course. He’s probably napping on his bed, dreaming about you.” Daphne swooped the tray of tarts and fruit into her arms.
“And maybe we can put on a movie while we wait for your dad to get back from the manor, but I’m going to grab a few things
from the shop first.”
Lucy nodded and followed Daphne into the shop where Daphne took her two favorite teapots from the special shelf and set them
on the tray . . . just in case. “All right, Lucy, let’s get upstairs and text your dad.”
They’d just turned toward the stairs when the front door burst open, jangling the welcome bell. Wind swept in—and so did Finn,
soaked and hauling five sandbags.
He met Daphne’s gaze. His was grim.
“You heard?”
She nodded.
He dropped the bags by the door with a heavy thump and shook back his hood. “I’m stacking these around your door. There’s at least four inches of water rushing down Main Street,
and the river’s made it to Joe’s filling station.”
She blinked. That was only five buildings away.
“I’m taking Lucy up to the apartment,” she said evenly, hoping calm counted for something. “Higher ground.”
“And we’re gonna watch a movie!” Lucy added cheerfully. “A princess one. You fink?”
Finn smiled, the edges of the worry on his face softening. He knelt and kissed her forehead. “Perfect.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“We’ll make it a loud one,” Daphne added with a small grin. “With singing. The obnoxious kind.”
Finn didn’t respond to her humor but instead stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Jack just got back from the inn. Back bridge
is out. And two of the main roads into town have partially collapsed.”
Daphne’s breath stalled. “Which means it’s probably not the best idea to try and leave?”
He held her gaze. “Probably not.”
Her phone buzzed at her hip. Granny D’s name flashed on the screen.
Daphne’s stomach dropped. “Granny D?” she answered on speaker. “Please tell me you’re not at home right now.”
“I’m here,” came the clipped reply. Tense. Unusual for her. “Car’s nearly been washed away. Chicken coop definitely has.”
Which meant the water was already way too close to the house.
And Granny D lived at the very edge of Gulf Hollow. Too close to any trajectory of water from the dam break.
Finn was already yanking up his hood. “I’m on my way, Granny D,” he said, searching Daphne’s face and backing toward the door
he’d just entered. “Get Lucy upstairs. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She grabbed the truck keys from the counter and tossed them to him. “Take mine. It’s bigger.”
At least bigger than a Cabriolet.
Their eyes locked. His grin crooked—just for a second.
“Be careful,” she whispered, her arms tightening around the tray.
He held her gaze for a breath longer. Then with a glance at little Lucy, who had no idea what any of this meant, he turned
and bolted into the storm.