21. Night Shift Knights
NIGHT SHIFT KNIGHTS
A little while ago, when Addison ran to her car
Dylan
T he wind and rain begin to settle. Addison is still in her car. At least she didn’t leave. I was unsure for a moment. The arch groans behind me like a wounded thing, and the Mr Langford’s glare could drill holes in bedrock. One crisis at a time.
“Ms. Bennett is clearly overwhelmed,” he snaps, trench coat flaring in the storm’s dying wind. “We’ll retain a professional crew first thing tomorrow.”
I plant a boot beside the tilted center post. “With respect, sir, there isn’t a crew within fifty miles that can get here before dawn. And this arch has about thirty minutes before gravity wins.” I tug the ratchet strap snug around the cedar leg, and the frame straightens another half-inch.
Meredith’s dad folds his arms, but rain has stripped his authority to damp wool. “You’re dismissed.”
“Can’t dismiss someone who wasn’t on your payroll.” I sight along the beam, gauging the lean. “I volunteered to help Addy, not you. And I’m not letting a storm ruin all our hard work. If you want Meredith walking a stable aisle tomorrow, grab that spare brace or get out of the way.”
His jaw works. I ignore him and thumb out a group text.
Arch down at the orchard in Bluewater Cove. Need string fairy lights, ladder, cordless drivers. Bring coffee. SOS.
I send it to two lists: Station 14 crew and Hawks parents. Another to Leah & Morgan because my sisters collect string lights like other people collect socks.
“Help is coming,” I tell the orchard manager, who’s hovering by the tool crate. “We need dry tarps and a generator.” He scampers off, relieved to have an order.
Then I fish my wallet out of my pocket, retrieve my builder card and shove it in his face.
“Not that I owe you anything,” I grit through my teeth.
“What can I do to help?” he sheepishly replies.
First lightning crackle since the downpour spits along the treeline — farther now.
The storm’s spine is broken, but the damage is done: fairy bulbs dangle, and the hummingbird keystone lies beak-down like a shot sparrow.
I kneel beside the carved wings and brush mulch from the grain.
Only tomorrow counts, I remind myself. Birds can wait. Vows can’t.
I sigh. “Help us pick up this mess.”
To my surprise, Mr Langford gets to work.
Meredith steps from the shadows, raincoat buttoned to her throat. “Daddy thinks you’re a gamble,” she says, voice shaking. “I think you’re our only hope. Tell me what to do.”
“Warm blankets for the bulbs so the glass doesn’t flash-crack when we rewire.” I grin, despite everything. “And maybe tell your stepmom to start helping or get out of the way.”
Meredith almost smiles, then trudges toward her parents. Good. A Langford in my corner will keep the wolves arguing among themselves.
The first truck headlights split the orchard gloom — my lieutenant, Cooper, in turnout pants and sneakers.
Two rookies ride shotgun, pallets of sandbags in the bed.
They unload like we’re prepping for a flood, which, in a way, we are.
Lucky the orchard is half-way between Bluewater Cove and Birch Harbor.
The first to arrive live closer to the orchard than others.
“Coach!” Rookie Lee shouts. “Did we win?”
“Game clock’s still running,” I answer, clapping a sandbag onto the base plate. “Grab cordless impacts. There are sheared bolts on that crossbeam.”
More beams of light bounce down the lane: three Hawks dads in an F-150 loaded with cedar scraps and a chop saw, and Morgan’s van, hazard lights strobing.
Leah’s in the back of the van, and she jumps out, lugging a plastic tote the size of a coffin labeled SUMMER CHRISTMAS — every spare fairy strand they own.
I meet Leah halfway. “You’re certifiable.”
She smirks. “So are you. Where’s your girl?”
I lift my chin toward Addy, who’s walking our way, confusion in her eyes.
Morgan thrusts a bakery box at me. “Pecan bars. Caffeinated.”
I wolf one in two bites and gesture to my sisters to give me some space.
Addy stops a few feet short, eyes wide, shoulders tight. “I didn’t know if I should come back,” she says quietly. “I thought I’d already ruined it all.”
I step forward, calm as ever and wanting to share it with her. “You didn’t.”
Her voice cracks. “I just… I panicked. And I’m sorry.”
I pull her into a bear hug and kiss her softly on her head.
“We got this, Addy,” I whisper, and she snuggles closer into my chest. I feel her head nod.
She leans back to look at me. “What do you need me to do?”
I lean in closer. “Be you.”
She giggles, and I feel the tension leave her shoulders. She smiles and nods. “Walk me through the site, then.”
We go by crews that are working on the structure. Tarps balloon, generators hum, and sawdust perfumes the damp air. There’s enough work to keep the volunteers busy. Morgan toggles her Bluetooth speaker until Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” pounds through the orchard, ridiculous and perfect.
Mr Langford stands off to one side, umbrella useless in the dead wind. I toss him a drill. “Pre-drill six pilots through that ledger. Use a quarter-inch bit. You want a wedding, earn it.”
His eyes flare, but Meredith murmurs something at his elbow. I catch the words ‘please, Daddy’, and he takes the drill. Ten minutes later, he’s sweating in his Italian leather loafers, and the new ledger doesn’t wobble.
Addy is making sure that everyone is busy. Everyone has a job to do. She’s checking ribbons and solar jars like she never stepped away. We work for hours.
The storm is a memory. Stars flicker through torn cloud seams. We raise the replacement keystone — cruder than the first bird but solid — and lag it home.
Leah strings two hundred LED bulbs across the arch face, and suddenly it’s #ChristmasinAugust. I test the dimmer.
Soft gold spills down the aisle. The collective exhale fogs in the cool air.
I scan for weaknesses: braces tight, lights spaced, sandbags hidden by ferns. We’re at wedding-level again, maybe better. At the far edge of the clearing, Gina mutters into her phone.
Mr Langford folds his arms and studies the scene. “This is… admirable.” The word sounds extracted under anesthesia. “We’ll inspect again at seven.”
“Do. But we’re golden.”
He eyes me. “Ms. Bennett’s conduct —”
“— is blameless,” I cut in. Conversation freezes. Every volunteer ear tilts our way. “A jealous clip from a ridiculously jealous influencer doesn’t undo months of flawless planning.”
“You’re the one who saved the day,” he argues. “You should be compensated —”
“I will be, when she honors her side of our deal as the official planner for the Birch Harbor fire-hall fundraiser.”
There’s a long breath where the orchard only holds the hum of generators. He extends his hand. “We’ll honor the invoice.” I breathe at last and shake his hand, scraping damp hair off my forehead with the other. Addison walks up to us.
Meredith crosses the lawn, wide-eyed at the intact arch. “Addy, it’s … perfect.”
“You had us worried, Ms. Bennet,” he starts with a stern stare. “We’re happy you hired such a professional contractor. He didn’t miss a beat.”
Addison straightens, professional reflex sliding back like a glove. “Told you he was.”
Mr Langford continues. “Ms. Bennett, we will add a bonus for the emergency crew.”
Color floods Addison’s cheeks. She opens her mouth, maybe to refuse the bonus, but I squeeze her hand. She nods instead. “Thank you, Mr Langford.”
He nods, turns. “Ceremony rehearsal in two hours. Don’t be late.” They retreat toward the cars.
We watch everyone get in their cars and leave, waving and thanking everyone before they go.
I turn to Addy.
“Dylan, I —” She swallows, voice caught in her throat. “I shouldn’t have given in to fear and hidden in my car. I hate that I did.”
“You didn’t leave the orchard,” I say simply. “That’s what matters.”
She steps into my arms before I can reach for her. I crush her against my sawdust-stiff T-shirt, kissing her before the apology can congeal. She tastes of sleepless coffee and rain-washed apple blossom. Her binder thumps on the ground, and her fingers fist the back of my neck.
When we part, she’s crying the kind of tears that polish instead of erode. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did tonight, bringing people together and saving the wedding,” she whispers, forehead against mine.
“You were the mastermind behind this,” I murmur. “I just followed your lead.” I brush a curl from her cheek. Behind us, thousands of fairy bulbs wink awake in the rising sun. “I’m happy you stayed. I’ve been impatiently waiting for all those people to leave to finally hold you in my arms.”
Her laugh is half-sob. “Oh yeah?” She sighs, “I can’t believe I let a gossip clip rattle me. I won’t make that mistake again.”
“It can happen to the best of us,” I tease, but my throat closes because she’s smiling through tears, and the orchard never saw anything as bright.
Addison bends for her binder and wipes the cover. “I owe you more than a thank-you.”
“Start with coffee,” I say, lifting her hand to my lips, “and end with the first dance at the wedding.”
She arches a brow. “Pretty sure guests dance, not planners.”
“Then we’ll be guests,” I murmur. “Let Bluewater talk.”
She kisses me again — quick, certain — then shoulders the binder. Sunrise slants through the hummingbird cut-out, wings glowing amber.
There’s still work ahead—florist layouts to confirm, a last-minute swap on the chair delivery schedule, and the inevitable rehearsal jitters waiting to hit.
The to-do list hums quietly in the background, but for now, it all fades into something quieter, simpler.
The arch, draped in wild greenery and soft blush roses, stands tall at the edge of the bluff, its silhouette framed by the golden curve of late afternoon light. The breeze carries a whisper.
But what anchors me isn’t the view or the checklist. It’s her.
Addison Bennett’s fingers are laced with mine, warm and steady, like they’ve always known how to fit there.
Her grip isn’t tight, but it’s sure, like she doesn’t have to hold on too hard to know I won’t let go.
Her thumb brushes lightly against the inside of my wrist — absentminded, familiar, and somehow more intimate than a kiss.
And standing beside her, beneath a sky painted in watercolor pastels, it doesn’t feel like a task on a timeline. It feels like a beginning.