Chapter 3
THREE
GABI
At least until I found my own place.
Grabbing my medical bag from the passenger seat, I climbed the wooden steps to the wraparound porch.
Through the front window, I caught glimpses of movement in the kitchen—Caroline’s dark head bent over the stove, Hoyt’s tall frame reaching into an upper cabinet.
I hadn’t missed dinner after all. At the front door, my hand hesitated on the knob.
After ten hours of dealing with patients, I craved the quiet of my upstairs bedroom.
But the faint scents of garlic and olive oil as I let myself inside prompted my stomach to growl loud enough to wake the dead.
“Look who finally made it home!” Caroline’s voice rang out as I shut the door behind me.
I dropped my bag by the stairs and picked my way through a maze of toys in the living room, back to the spacious kitchen.
The room was warm and inviting, with an array of herbs growing in painted clay pots along the windowsill of the wide window that overlooked the dunes.
Bright stainless steel pots hung from the ceiling rack over the rustic island that was the centerpiece of the space.
It was the kind of kitchen Caroline had always wanted.
The woman herself wiped her hands on a dishtowel and turned to flash a bright smile my way. “I was starting to think we’d have to send out a search party.”
“Clinic ran late, and I popped by the Brewhouse for a drink before I came home.” I gave the air a sniff. “Is that albondigas?” The rich aroma of Mexican meatball soup made my mouth water.
“With extra cilantro, just how you like it.” With one hand resting on the swell of her baby bump, Caroline stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. “And I made fresh tortillas because the little alien demanded it.”
“Thanks to the little alien.” I draped an arm around her shoulders. “You feeling okay? Not doing too much?”
“I’ll have you know it’s been a whole three days since I vomited. I think we’re past the worst.”
Hoyt and I exchanged knowing looks. With her previous two pregnancies, the morning sickness hadn’t fully abated until the start of her third trimester.
The thundering of feet on the stairs rattled the hanging pots. “Tía Gabi!”
Audrey crashed into my legs, her dark curls wild around her face. Logan wasn’t far behind, brandishing a crayon drawing. “Look what I made!”
I knelt down to properly admire the artwork—a surprisingly detailed fire truck rendered in red and yellow. “This is amazing, mijo.”
“It’s for Daddy’s station!” Logan beamed, showing off the gap where his front teeth used to be.
The chaos and noise washed over me. Courtesy of that drink at the Brewhouse, I managed to smile instead of wince. I loved these two to pieces and never wanted to make them think otherwise.
“Alright, monsters, wash those hands if you want dinner.” Hoyt’s voice rang with the natural authority honed over years of firefighting. The kids scrambled toward the bathroom, shoving each other to be first.
“Need help with anything?” I moved to the cabinet for plates.
“Grab the sour cream from the fridge?” Caroline ladled the steaming soup into bowls, while Hoyt stacked still-warm tortillas on a plate lined with a bright, embroidered cloth.
The kids raced back, hands thrust out for inspection. “Clean enough?” Audrey wiggled her fingers.
“Pass inspection.” Hoyt gave them each a playful salute. “Now help your tía set the table.”
We moved around each other in the familiar dance of family dinner prep, the kids carefully carrying napkins and spoons while the adults handled the hot dishes. The kitchen filled with steam from the soup, the smell of fresh tortillas, and the sound of happy chatter.
Once we settled at the table, Caroline passed me a warm tortilla. “How was your day?”
I tore off a piece and dunked it in my soup.
“Busy. Everyone’s coming in for last-minute prescriptions before the storm.
Not that it’ll make much difference if it hits before the pharmacy has a chance to restock.
” That was the reality of being on an island.
We didn’t necessarily have access to everything all the time, and when weather cut us off from the mainland, we made do.
“I put in an extra order myself, but I don’t know if it’ll make it in on the last ferry or not. ”
“Smart thinking ahead.” Hoyt helped Logan cut his meatballs into smaller pieces. “Chief’s got us doing inventory checks at the station. Making sure all the generators are fueled up, chainsaws are sharp.”
“Speaking of prep...” Caroline shot her husband a look. “When are you putting up our shutters?”
“Tomorrow morning before shift. Already got the brackets cleaned out yesterday.” He reached across the table to wipe sauce from Audrey’s chin. “Though honestly, you should just pack up and head to Mom and Dad’s tonight. No point waiting.”
“We’ll go tomorrow after you finish the shutters.” Caroline’s tone brooked no argument. “I want to make sure everything’s secured first.”
I stirred my soup. “Need help with anything? I can come by after clinic hours.”
“Got it covered, sis.” Caroline squeezed my hand. “You focus on the medical center prep. How many patients are staying through the storm?”
“Thankfully, none. So far, anyway.” Our clinic could house up to four patients for the short term, but we weren’t a hospital.
Anything more serious than could be dealt with on site was sent to bigger facilities on the mainland or up at Nag’s Head.
I hoped none of those beds became necessary in the wake of the hurricane.
“Either way, we’ve got the generator ready and enough supplies to get us through up to a week, depending on circumstances.
And I’m coordinating with some of my staff and the EMTs from the fire station to set up a makeshift clinic at the community center, in case it’s needed. ”
“Smart thinking. Coast Guard’s sending a team down tomorrow too,” Hoyt said between bites. “They’re bunking at the station while they help with prep. Chief’s got them doing door-to-door checks with us, making sure everyone’s got evacuation plans. and whatnot.”
My spoon clattered against the bowl. Heat crept up my neck as three pairs of eyes turned to me.
“Sorry.” I picked up my spoon, focusing on the chunks of potato floating in my soup. My heart thudded against my ribs.
Don’t be ridiculous, I ordered myself. It was completely normal for the Coast Guard to help during a hurricane.
It wasn’t like I’d be seeing that particular Coastguardsman.
He was on the other side of the country, living his best life without me.
There was no reason whatsoever for me to feel like I’d just been punched in the stomach.
“Gabi?” Caroline’s voice was soft, concern etched across her features. “You okay?”
“Just tired.” I pushed back from the table, my appetite vanishing. “Think I’m gonna head up. Tomorrow’s going to be crazy at the clinic.”
Caroline frowned. “You haven’t finished your soup.”
“I ate some appetizers at the Brewhouse.” The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. “Really, I’m fine. Just need some sleep.”
“Want me to save you a bowl for later?” Caroline’s dark eyes studied my face.
“Please.” I kissed the top of her head, then bent to hug the kids. “Goodnight monsters. Be good for your mama.”
“Night Tía!” they chorused.
I took my bowl to the sink, then retreated. My medical bag was where I’d left it by the stairs. I grabbed it, going up two steps at a time. In my room, I closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath.
Hurricane Daniel. That wasn’t the actual name of the storm that had trapped me in a stairwell during my second year of residency, during the worst storm to hit New Orleans since Katrina.
But it was how I thought of the man who'd been there to keep me sane during those long hours.
Because he'd swept into my carefully ordered life like a category five hurricane and disrupted everything before blowing back out again, leaving nothing but wreckage in his wake.
My head dropped back against the door as the memories flooded in with the force of a storm surge.
How the wind had howled outside that concrete tunnel like a living thing, as rain pelted the building in sheets so thick you couldn't see two feet past the windows.
The emergency lighting had cast everything in an eerie red glow, and I'd been fighting full-blown panic when Daniel appeared—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of calm competence that made you believe everything would be okay.
His steady voice with that hypnotic Louisiana drawl had a Cajun edge that wrapped around each word like honey, walking me through Coast Guard protocol, explaining how they tracked storms and predicted their paths.
The way his hands had sketched patterns in the air as he detailed wind rotation and pressure systems, those long fingers moving with such precision and grace that I'd found myself mesmerized despite my fear.
He'd made meteorology sound like poetry, turning technical jargon into something beautiful and understandable.
The power had flickered once, twice, then died completely, plunging us into absolute darkness.
And his fingers had found mine in that black void, strong and warm and callused from years of rope work, giving me an anchor in the storm when I felt like I might float away on a tide of terror.
I'd turned toward him as the only stable thing in a world gone mad, and somehow our mouths had brushed in the darkness.
An accident at first, a collision of breath and uncertainty.
Then, so very much not an accident as we'd dove at each other with desperate hunger, his hands tangling in my hair as he'd pressed me back against the cold concrete wall and made me forget about everything but the storm he stirred inside me.
I shoved away from the door, pacing my small room like a caged animal.
The hardwood floors that Caroline had lovingly refinished creaked under my restless steps.
It hardly mattered anymore, I told myself fiercely.
That kiss that had tasted like coffee and promises.
The time that followed, when we'd spent every spare moment together—him showing me hidden corners of the French Quarter, me stealing him away to quiet cafes where we could talk for hours about everything and nothing.
None of it had meant enough to make him stay.
Or even discuss staying with me, like I was someone whose feelings mattered.
He'd just announced one day, casual as you please, that he'd been promoted and was moving to Seattle.
As if my opinion, our relationship, the way I'd whispered his name in the dark—hadn't factored into his decision at all.
And no matter how he'd acted during those stolen months, how he'd held me like I was precious, I knew it had been a choice.
He'd chosen his career over me without even the courtesy of a real conversation about it.
The wood floor creaked beneath my bare feet as I prowled to the window, my reflection a pale ghost in the glass.
Beyond, beach grasses whipped in the strengthening wind like dancers gone wild, bending nearly horizontal before snapping back upright.
The ocean was already showing whitecaps, waves building as they rolled toward shore.
Another storm was coming, and part of me welcomed it.
At least natural disasters were honest about the destruction they brought.
But I'd weather it just fine, I reminded myself, squaring my shoulders against the phantom weight of old heartbreak.
I was a Carrera, after all. We'd survived everything life had thrown at us—an abusive father who'd used his fists more than his words, the devastating loss of our mother when we were still so young, crushing medical school debt that would follow me for years.
A broken heart that had taught me never to trust a man in uniform again.
What was one more hurricane in the face of all that?
At least this time, I knew the storm was coming.