Chapter 23
Daphne and Lucy had barely entered Wisteria Inn before Daphne was pulled straight into action. There wasn’t time to do anything
else—not with the entire building humming with need, service, confusion, and fear.
Just on the drive from Main Street to the inn, she’d seen some of the devastation. Downed trees, submerged houses, rivers
overtaking fields and barns. And people, all sorts, walking through sludge to find a dry place of shelter as night grew closer
with each minute.
Harry and Margaret Coleman, generous beyond a doubt, had flung open the doors of the forty-five-room estate to anyone needing
refuge.
And the people had come.
Even with the town hall, a half dozen churches, and the middle school gym offering shelter, the inn was packed—families huddled
on cots, elderly folks wrapped in blankets, toddlers clinging to soaked teddy bears. Daphne hadn’t expected this many. No
one had. But Margaret, on the brink of panic, had found her and handed her the reins with a breathless, “Please—help me organize
this.”
Daphne had barely nodded before diving in. Organizing was what she did. It helped her make sense of her world, gave her some semblance of order. And it kept her mind off the fact that she was very much out of control and had no idea where Finn was.
Or Granny D.
Or about two dozen other people from town.
And without any means of communication to find out, everyone . . . waited.
And prayed.
Because even if she didn’t know, she trusted God did.
And He was taking care of them.
Her throat tightened. Whatever that meant in His economy.
After helping convert the front parlor into a children’s playroom, Daphne left Lucy and Winston in the arms of a small army
of grandmothers equipped with games, crayons, and unconditional love. Just being around people—instead of alone in her apartment—lifted
her spirits. And the inn, thanks to its backup generator and water system, had power, plumbing, and plenty of room, which
made a world of difference in comfort, even if it meant a little crowded comfort.
She was surrounded by people she knew, and those she didn’t know all seemed to be working toward the same goal: service.
In as many varied ways as the imagination could conjure up.
The place buzzed with activity. The butler’s pantry was now a first-aid station. The solarium held rows of cots. The long
buffet table in the dining hall overflowed with bottled water, granola bars, and donations that came out of nowhere—and everywhere.
Work boots from the hardware store. Dry socks and thermal blankets from Packed-Up’s camping shop. She’d even heard of local
farmers using their tractors, backhoes, trucks, and wagons for rescue efforts or to build makeshift roads over washed-out
places in order to get people out.
It was chaos. Beautiful, hopeful, sometimes heart-wrenching chaos.
And the whole town showed up for the assignment.
Someone from the Wisteria Fire Department had parked their truck out front and was helping triage the elderly as they came in.
A man she recognized from the vet clinic came in with a load of pet carriers and started helping get animals into one corner.
“Figured folks wouldn’t leave without their critters,” he said. “Heard you had room.”
“We’ll make it work,” Daphne said, setting up another folding table.
Volunteers poured in—shop owners, high school students, church members, even teenagers from the hiking club. People showing
up not because someone told them to but because it’s what one did in their town.
They lent a hand. Or a coat. Or a shovel.
Whatever they could to help a fellow Wisterian.
Case in point, Daphne walked by a storage closet that had been turned into a make-shift communication center where Milo Jenkins—fifteen,
homeschooled, and fiercely proud of his FCC license—had dragged his ham radio up from his basement the minute the cell towers
went down and looked for a place to be useful. With a thermos of lukewarm cocoa and his granddad’s World War II headset clamped
over his ears, he was patching through updates from emergency services, giving local volunteer updates—especially related
to the dozen churches that had not only opened their doors but were offering hot meals from their grills and gas stoves, recounting
calls for extra hands with four-wheel drives, and passing them across Wisteria. He and old Wallace Granger—army signal corps
veteran and local lawn-chair philosopher—had been taking turns at the helm of the “radio club” for the past few hours.
No cell towers. No internet.
But plenty of connection. In the face-to-face, arms-wide kind of way.
And stories. So many stories.
People walked in soaked to the bone and carrying hope like it weighed nothing.
For the past three hours, Daphne had been in full work mode as daylight faded into dusk. But there was an overwhelming amount to do, and at the moment not only was she busy, but she began to realize more and more that she’d been one of the more fortunate ones.
The water levels had stopped rising. The rain had ceased. So, even if her shop was destroyed, she still had all the things
in her apartment to salvage. From the stories coming in, so many people had lost homes. Some—her chest squeezed—had lost much,
much more.
Reuniting loved ones had become her favorite pastime of the last few hours.
She’d even helped a man find his missing dog.
Daphne directed teens from the hiking club to organize shoes by size. She sent two shopkeepers to assist in the kitchen, organizing
meals over propane burners. She labeled donated clothes with a Sharpie and helped translate for an elderly couple who’d lost
their hearing aids in the storm.
Each task gave her purpose. But none distracted her for long.
Because every time that front door creaked open, her heart jolted. Please be him.
And every time it wasn’t, she buried the fear deeper and kept moving.
Then finally—the front door opened and . . .
“Granny D!” Daphne dropped her clipboard on the nearby table.
Granny D, wrapped in a blanket like a warrior-queen returning from battle, was flanked on one side by a young woman trying
to give her directions and a man who looked as if Granny D had already given him a piece of her mind . . . because he walked
a few steps behind.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you.” Daphne rushed across the foyer. “Are you okay?”
“Fit as a fiddle, darlin’. Though I’m so damp I’m either going to mildew or sprout something green.”
Daphne choked out a laugh and wrapped the older woman in a hug. “And Finn?”
“He’s fitter than me, and that’s a fact, though he’s likely even soggier.” She huffed out her laugh as Daphne adjusted the
blanket around the woman’s shoulders and focused on her every word. “We got a ride in the fire truck, and let me tell you,
them boys were something special. I’ve always wanted to be carried around like a prize, and they were just the ones to do
it.”
Daphne’s whole body sagged with a sudden wave of relief. “So . . . he’s okay?”
“Half mad but alive. Last I heard, him and Jack were floating around on a boat looking for stragglers. That man can paddle
like an Olympic rower. I saw it with my own eyes.” And her grin crooked enough to let Daphne know that Granny D was mighty
impressed with what she saw.
Another much-needed laugh shook from Daphne’s chest. “Good. Great.” Daphne breathed out the words and guided Granny D to a
room nearby lit by a warm fire and even warmer company.
“Did you say you was lookin’ for Finn Dashwood?” A woman, clothes damp and wrinkled, stepped forward as Daphne returned to
the entry hall.
“Yes, I am.”
The woman’s bottom lip quivered, her dark, damp hair plastered to her forehead. “He got me and my boy off the roof of our
house. I heard he joined up with Jack Austen.”
A man nearby enough to overhear joined the conversation. “And Pastor Nate’s out there with a few of his elders doin’ the same.
They cut through the woods out on Possum Run and brought my mama to the church.”
And as more folks poured in—soaked, stunned, thankful—the stories kept coming.
“Finn and Jack just got Mrs. Jessup off her porch roof!” someone said.
“Pastor Armbrister brought the Stanley twins in a kayak—they were clingin’ to their swing set.”
“Jack dove right into that water and rescued a cat that didn’t want to be rescued, given the scratches he left on Jack’s cheek.”
On it went. Story after story. Hands offered. Lives saved. Each person carrying a bit of someone else who’d helped them along,
tying everyone closer together in the middle of such enormous tragedy. Unexpected loss.
Hope among the devastation.
This is what it looked like.
And then, Mr. Clark, who’d been rescued from his antique shop that stood right next to Finn’s pub, brought a painful truth
to light.
“I don’t know how we’re gonna recover,” he muttered. “Forty years in business, and now it’s gone. Finn just got that pub up
and running. Brand-new. I don’t know if he’ll want to rebuild. If he even can rebuild.”
Daphne froze.
He’d invested so much into The Green Dragon. Would the loss push him to leave?
After all, he’d only been here a couple of months.
What if, once this was all over, he looked at the wreckage of his pub—his dream—and decided it wasn’t worth salvaging? What
if the people of Wisteria—she—were not enough to get him to stay?
Imagining what tomorrow might look like for anyone who’d lost part of their lives nearly sent her into hysterics. But she
had a community here. A life here. It was home.
What choice would Finn make after the waters cleared and the devastation shone in the light of day?
She told herself not to panic. Told herself to trust.
But her fingers curled tighter around her clipboard.
Because how could she expect Finn to stay when he lost everything that brought him to Wisteria in the first place?
The boat skimmed past a mailbox, its red flag barely visible above the rushing brown water.