Chapter 12
TWELVE
“Look!” Sienna pointed outside when Emily came downstairs the next morning. “A tiny break in the clouds! I’m going to take a long walk on the beach. Want to come?” She was already in a pair of stretchy shorts, wearing sunglasses and flip-flops.
Emily yawned. Her neck ached from sleeping on tight shoulders all night. “I think I’m going to have some coffee first, so I can wake up. And with Blair asleep, I should probably stay in case Patrick comes by to get his things.” She nodded toward the pile of kitchen items, bags, and food containers.
“Okay. I’ll be back in about an hour. A long stroll will do me some good.”
“Be careful.”
Sienna waved and let herself out the oversized glass doors leading to the pool.
The furniture was still stacked against the house, and the pool cover was on.
The house crew would probably be by later to set it all back up for them, and then they could lounge all day, drift off between cocktails, and finally get back to their girls’ week.
Emily padded over to the counter, made herself a steaming cup of coffee, and took it to the living room.
The playing cards, books, and magazines were still on the coffee table where Sienna had dropped them.
With her coffee in one hand, Emily fanned out the magazines, deciding on what she felt like reading.
But a single cover stood out from the others.
She’d seen it before when they’d first arrived: the one with Patrick’s feature.
Had Sienna even realized what she’d picked up?
She set her mug on the table and immediately scanned the contents, looking for the article about Patrick.
Page 32. She flipped as quickly as she could and then there he was.
A glossy photo filled the page: a spruced-up version of Patrick in a dress-white uniform.
His strong jawline was set in a slight smile, and his blue eyes sparkled as though they were looking into her very soul.
She had to drag her line of sight from the image to the words beside it.
The title of the article read, “From Battleships to Beachfronts: Life after the Navy.” She scanned the quote highlighted in blue type on the side of the page:
“The military taught me discipline and humility. I spent years sailing the world with the navy, but nothing feels more like home than here.”
She read more about his naval service. He’d served for eleven years—two deployments, a slew of awards for leadership under pressure, and a reputation for unshakable poise.
A culinary officer, he was one of the navy’s rising stars in food service management.
Assigned to a Navy SEAL Team, on a top-secret mission in the Pacific, he oversaw a galley that fed twenty elite officers with tight supplies and tighter timelines.
She picked up her coffee, her eyes glued to the page.
He was a quiet man who loved order, his country, and his family, which included his sister Julia and her husband, Daniel Simpson.
Daniel wasn’t just his brother-in-law; he was also Patrick’s best friend since high school.
The two had joined the navy within months of each other and eventually found themselves on the same deployment.
During a routine resupply maneuver, a fuel line ruptured in the ship’s lower engine room.
Patrick had just finished prepping the galley for the night’s meal when alarms blared.
Daniel was on the first response team. Patrick left the galley and headed for the central command post. Minutes later, a flash erupted, and a section of the engine room buckled.
Smoke rolled through the corridors. Daniel and two sailors were lost in the blast, killed instantly, leaving Patrick in shock, and Julia and her one-year-old son on their own.
After the incident, Patrick experienced unshakable grief, anxiety, and nightmares.
Emily gripped her coffee, her heart pounding.
How terrible. Suddenly, Patrick’s demeanor made a lot of sense.
His stoic nature and jumpiness during the storm came into focus; there was so much more to the story now than a distant chef.
Had she been able to somehow sense his hardship?
Was that why she’d felt curious about him, wanting to have a conversation when her friends didn’t seem as interested? She read on.
Eventually, Patrick was evaluated by a navy mental health officer and entered into counseling. After several months of treatment and no improvement in his operational capacity, Patrick applied for a discharge under navy guidelines for psychological hardship and family dependency.
“At my lowest point, I went home to help my sister, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he was quoted saying. “In the midst of tragedy, the love of family and shared grief kept me going. We came out of this together. I couldn’t have done it without them.”
It had been five years since the accident, and while Patrick still dealt with post-traumatic stress, he’d found solace in his family and took great honor in the duty of raising his nephew, Winston.
Having to learn how to use his talents outside of the navy, Patrick began his company, Main Course.
Word spread about his heroic return, and his skills were unmatched.
Before long, his company was a full-blown success, catching the attention of celebrities vacationing in the area.
Main Course had earned a reputation as one of the most exclusive culinary establishments in the state, catering to celebrities, musicians, and Fortune 500 executives with seamless precision.
His work was recognized in Worldwide Traveler Magazine as a “Top Private Dining Experience,” and was praised for redefining luxury hospitality through its personalized menus and discreet service.
Main Course had also been awarded the Blue Ribbon of Excellence for Innovation in Cuisine, solidifying its reputation and confirming that it had achieved the highest standard in culinary artistry.
He became so incredibly popular that he was opening his highly anticipated restaurant, The Low Tide Supper Club, catering to high-end clientele with unique coastal cuisine.
The restaurant’s launch was expected next summer.
When asked what he did with all that notoriety, he offered a humble chuckle. “I keep to myself,” he was quoted saying. “I enjoy the privacy.”
While his company continued to thrive, Patrick retreated further into the secluded life of a civilian, letting the success of Main Course and the buzz of The Low Tide Supper Club be the sources of interest—not him.
The chime of the doorbell startled Emily. She wasn’t expecting Patrick this early. She ran her hands through her unbrushed hair, and quickly closed the magazine, shoving it under a pile of others on the coffee table, and sprinted to the door.
“Hey,” Patrick said on the other side. His voice was tight and controlled, a wild look on his face.
“Hi.” She willed her heart to stop pounding to no avail.
The storm in his blue eyes made sense now, but something else was brewing. She took in the rugged lines on his forehead and the tightness of his jaw as she opened the door wider and ushered him into the house.
He side-eyed her as he entered and peered around. Then he looked at the stairway, and his brows pulled together, but he didn’t say anything.
Emily followed, not sure what he was doing.
Her mind was occupied with whether she should bring up the article, given his mention of staying out of the limelight.
If he’d wanted her to know, he’d have mentioned it when she’d asked him questions about the restaurant.
But didn’t the fact that he’d agreed to a national article give her the go-ahead she needed? Why had he agreed to that?
She was still debating the idea when she got to the kitchen.
“Have you not heard?” he asked, almost exasperated.
“Heard what?”
“The tropical storm offshore is gaining speed.” He wiped down the grill and packed it away in haste. He was moving with incredible swiftness.
An awkward hush fell between them, and she turned to the window.
“Oh no,” she said, squinting at the menacing dark gray in the sky. “The clouds are rolling back in.”
“Late last night, they were warning people to evacuate. I figured you all would be packed and heading home.”
Emily’s mouth dropped open. “Sienna took a walk down the beach. I hope she’s turned back.” She peered outside, but there was no sight of Sienna. “Let me run up and get my phone to call her.”
“Yeah, you’d better.”
She ran upstairs. On the way to her room, she knocked on Blair’s door. “You might want to get up. A big storm’s coming.”
A groggy Blair opened the door as Emily rushed past, swiping her phone off the dresser and dialing Sienna’s number. A phone rang down the hall.
“Shoot.” Emily ended the call.
“What’s going on?” Blair asked, padding into the hallway.
“Sienna went for a walk. She’s nowhere to be found, her phone’s here, and the storm that’s been brewing is now a tropical storm.”
Blair’s shoulders jerked in panic. She followed as Emily rushed down the stairs.
“No luck?” Patrick asked as he packed his final few things.
“She left her phone here.”
Blair got the remote and turned on the TV. On the screen, lines of cars, bumper-to-bumper, streamed out of town while newscasters discussed the impending storm.
Blair whirled around. “How quickly is it coming?”
Patrick remained focused on the screen. “Faster than I thought.”
Outside, the palm trees bent in the high wind, the usually docile waves slamming onto the shore. Emily frantically looked outside again.
“Do you know which way your friend went?” Patrick asked, his tone direct and confident—controlled despite Emily’s growing panic.
“I didn’t pay attention.” Emily’s mouth dried out, her heart slamming in her chest.
“The wind could knock her down,” Patrick said.
Emily rushed over to Patrick and took hold of his biceps. “She’s pregnant.”
The information visibly sank into his eyes, but he remained steady, not rushed in any way. “I’ll go look for her. Stay here until I get back. Don’t. Move.”
As the first giant drops of rain began to plonk onto the decking, Patrick opened the French door and darted out.
“Should we do anything?” Blair asked, terror flashing across her face.
“He said not to move, so I’m not doing a thing.
He knows better than we do.” Helpless, Emily ran to the door to watch, but Patrick was already down on the beach and fading out of sight.
“Let’s pack up our stuff,” she said as the forecasters chattered on.
“If we can get Sienna back in time, we can try to get out of town.”
“I’ll pack for her,” Blair suggested.
They both ran upstairs.
Emily ran to her room and wrestled her way out of her pajamas.
She pulled a T-shirt and shorts from her suitcase and threw them on.
She’d grown up in Virginia, and they’d had their share of tropical storms and hurricanes, but she’d never been this close to the shore before.
If this thing hit, the devastation could be widespread.
With trembling hands, she brushed her teeth, then jammed her toothbrush and a comb into her purse and lumped everything else in her suitcase, then zipped it up.
She rushed around the room, gathering her phone charger and her jewelry off the nightstand.
Within minutes, she was ready to go. She pulled the covers up on the bed and rearranged the pillows to double-check that she hadn’t left anything.
When she had her bags in the hallway, she ran over to help Blair. The click of a door and the sound of the wind over the balcony drew her attention.
Sienna and Patrick had just burst inside, both of them soaking wet.
“Thank goodness,” Emily said from over the balcony, relief flooding her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Sienna said, out of breath, pulling her soaked hair into a temporary ponytail and squeezing the water on the floor. “Patrick told me about the storm, but I was already on my way back with all the rain.” She shook her wet hair.
Emily and Blair dashed downstairs.
“We were about to pack your stuff,” Emily told her.
A breaking-news alert sounded, and they all turned toward the TV.
“In the last twenty-four hours, the tropical storm has intensified, and it’s looking like it’s going to hit land more quickly than expected.
A last-minute shift has this storm headed straight for the Gulf Coast. If you have not begun your evacuation, we suggest you shelter in place.
Do not go out unless it’s an absolute emergency.
You have about a half an hour before landfall. ”
“Well,” Patrick said, “I hadn’t planned for that.”