Chapter 23 #4
Was that new piping too?
She blinked. But she hadn’t asked Mr. Lawson to fix those pipes yet.
“Finn paid for it to be temporarily repaired until you could get to it,” Jack said, bringing some of the untouched cookware
from the top shelves and placing it in a box he’d carried in with him. “He didn’t want me to tell you. Just wanted to help
you get by.”
Tears blurred her vision as the words settled in.
Finn.
His pub was closer to the river than hers, even if just a little. He had to have lost more. His brand-new kitchen. Refinished
floors. Custom tables. All of it.
And still . . .
He’d paid for her plumbing?
Before they were even together?
She looked around at the peeling wallpaper, the shattered teapots, the life she’d built—now swimming in sludge.
And then—from somewhere outside the back door—came a sound.
Laughter.
High-pitched. Surprising. Pure.
Daphne turned toward it.
Across the river, two little girls raced beside the florist’s shop, a floppy-eared puppy barreling after them through the mud.
Their giggles echoed over the quiet ruins.
Someone had set out a few pots of vibrant flowers—bright yellows and reds against the gray-brown wreckage, like a declaration: We’re still here.
Life and hope still remained.
Rising from the remnants. From the hearts.
Her breath came out in a long, shaky exhale. Her gaze lifted to her brother—and then toward the adjoining wall.
The damage and loss were real. But the most important things?
They were still here.
So she stepped forward into that hope.
“Let’s go see what Finn needs,” she said softly. “Then we can start loading up the truck.”
She turned and slogged back to the front door, stepping over Finn’s broken sign to enter his restaurant. The scene was similar
to her own shop. Mud. Shattered glass. The stillness of a place still sitting in shock.
He stood in the middle of the room, his back to her, hands at his sides and shoulders hunched. As they neared, he turned.
Eyes red-rimmed. Jaw tight.
His body straightened. “How’s Tea Thyme?”
“The same,” she said gently. “Hard.”
He nodded once. “It is.”
“Nate’s truck is out back, Finn.” Jack’s voice broke into the silence as he looked up from his phone. “Said you’re welcome
to use it—to salvage anything from the pub or the apartment.”
The offering reminded Daphne that the Cabriolet sat somewhere beneath the river’s slowly decreasing waters.
Finn swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving slow and heavy. “Tell him . . . thanks.”
Jack dipped his head and moved back through the restaurant toward the kitchen, likely making a similar assessment as he’d
done in Daphne’s shop.
Or giving Daphne and Finn some privacy.
Seeing the struggle on Finn’s face spread the growing ache through Daphne all over again. That quiet grief that came when one wasn’t sure whether to cry or rage or just sit down in the middle of the mess in shock.
This kind of loss hit people differently. Some crumbled. Some rebuilt. And others . . . left.
When it came down to it, would Finn really stay?
He didn’t have roots here. And she wouldn’t blame him if the cost to rebuild was too high.
But suddenly, losing Tea Thyme didn’t feel like the biggest risk.
Losing him and Lucy did.
“It’s going to take a lot to rebuild.” Finn breathed out the words, almost as if he’d been reading her mind.
Her body tensed as he stepped away and picked up a bag from a nearby table. “But maybe this will help.”
She studied him and took the bag, its contents surprisingly heavy. With a little pause, she opened the bag and a whimper curled
from her throat. Inside, all cleaned up, cream with blue flowers, was her Scottish teapot. The one her granny had ordered
from a special shop in Inverness called Hopewell.
Hope. There was no escaping it.
Even in the wreckage, hope found a way.
Her voice broke. “How . . . ?”
His eyes softened as he watched her, likely accompanying a smile behind his own mask. “When I came looking for you and Lucy,
I found it. I’m sorry, it’s the only one that—”
“It’s perfect, Finn.” Her voice cracked as she pressed a masked kiss to his cheek.
His eyes creased, soft with warmth.
And then Daphne’s gaze landed on an item across the room. A framed piece of Mrs. Morgan’s wallpaper. The only remnant of the
wallpaper that was left. She almost grinned. Finn had kept a part of it. How had she missed seeing it before?
Even back then—she’d mattered?
She looked at him again, at the weariness on his brow, the heartbreak behind his eyes, and realized just how much she’d come
to love him. And Lucy. And this stitched-together, snarky, gentle, sweet, full-hearted version of a life they’d started building—without
even meaning to.
And right now, he needed her.
Just like she needed him.
No matter what came next. She could love him now. However many nows God gave her with him, because if she’d learned nothing else in her life so far, life was unpredictable.
She crossed the room, lifted the frame from the wall, and held it up. “I see you have something to start over with too?”
His eyes lit. And he laughed.
A quiet laugh, but one nonetheless. “It’ll be the first thing I hang in my new pub,” he said, voice still rough but lighter
now. “A tribute to Wisterian history—and God’s sense of humor.”
“I think that’s an excellent plan.”
She stepped closer—and before she even reached him, he caught her free hand in his.
“I want to rebuild here,” he said, voice steady now. “This exact spot. If I can.”
“Do you?” She grinned up at him, some of the pain dimming in the glow of his tender look.
He nodded. “Because it’s right next to you. And that’s where I want to be. Even if it means I occasionally drink tea or eat”—he
shuddered and topped it off with a wink—“pretty little snacks masquerading as meals.”
She laughed. “Well, at least you’ll be surviving with class.”
And then, with another chuckle, this one with a bit more volume, he slipped his mask down, tugged at hers, and pressed a quick
kiss to her lips. “Sounds like an excellent beginning to me.”