Chapter 2
Sunshine
Remedy Parker looked like a man who knew exactly how to hold bleeding people together, but the moment his daughter settled against my shoulder, I realized he was far less certain about letting anyone hold what mattered most to him.
I stood in the clubhouse kitchen long after the side door closed behind him, one hand supporting Charlie’s warm little back while the other rested carefully against the soft tumble of blonde curls beneath my chin.
She was heavier than she looked, all sleepy trust and syrup-sweet breath, with one small fist curled around the collar of my sweatshirt as though she had already decided I belonged exactly where she had put me.
That kind of trust should have felt simple.
It should have felt like nothing more than helping a tired father during an emergency.
Instead, something tender and dangerous opened inside my chest, something I had spent years keeping locked away because children had always been the easiest part of me to wound.
Charlie sighed softly against my shoulder, and the sound moved through me with a tenderness that caught me completely unprepared.
It wasn't a sudden memory so much as the quiet echo of another life—the weight of small bodies curled against me during violent storms, little hands clutching the hem of my skirt in dark hallways, sleepy voices whispering questions about whether morning would come faster if we prayed hard enough.
The Order had stolen countless things from the people trapped inside its walls, but its cruelest theft had never been my freedom.
It had been teaching me how to love children I possessed no power to protect.
I closed my eyes for the space of a single breath before forcing them open again.
The ache still waited beneath the surface, but I refused to let it drag me backward.
Not while Charlie rested safely in my arms, trusting me without fear, and not while this kitchen smelled of pancakes instead of terror.
The batter bowl still sat on the counter, forgotten beside a carton of eggs and the flour I had managed to spill across the wood like fresh snow.
Breakfast at Harbor House had quietly become one of my favorite parts of every day because mornings gave people something solid to hold onto before fear had a chance to reclaim them.
Pancakes, coffee, sliced fruit, warm biscuits, and scrambled eggs weren't extraordinary meals, but they were ordinary in all the ways that mattered.
They reminded the women and children upstairs that their first waking moments now belonged to warmth, safety, and people who expected nothing from them except that they keep healing one day at a time.
Charlie shifted slightly, her cheek rubbing against my shoulder as she murmured, “Mr. Pickles needs syrup.”
The quiet certainty in her sleepy little voice caught me off guard, and before I realized it, laughter escaped me with a softness I hadn't heard from myself in a very long time.
“Of course he does,” I whispered, glancing down at the teddy bear still tucked under her arm. “That seems very important.”
Her eyes stayed closed, but her lips curved faintly.
“He gets hungry.”
“I can tell.”
The kitchen door opened before I could decide whether to sit with her or keep working one-handed, and Daisy stepped inside with wind-tossed hair, a purse dangling from one elbow, and the expression of a woman who had already battled morning traffic and lost patience with every driver in Horry County.
“I swear,” she muttered, pushing the door closed with her hip, “if one more person forgets how stop signs work, I’m letting Mace teach them road safety with explosives.”
Charlie stirred at the familiar voice but didn’t fully wake.
Daisy’s gaze landed on us, and the frustration softened instantly into something warm and knowing.
“Well,” she said quietly, crossing the kitchen, “looks like someone made herself comfortable.”
“She woke up for a second,” I said, trying not to sound as affected as I felt. “Remedy had to leave before you got here.”
“I know. Bishop called. Harbor House is already a mess this morning.”
Her eyes lingered on Charlie’s hand still clutching my sweatshirt.
“She came to you without fussing?”
I nodded.
Daisy smiled, but there was a sadness beneath it, a quiet understanding I did not yet know how to read.
Her gaze drifted from Charlie's sleeping face to the flour scattered across the counter, the bacon quietly sizzling on the stove, and finally the open windows where early morning sunlight spilled into the kitchen.
She looked as though she was remembering something precious rather than simply observing another ordinary morning.
Morning sunlight spilled through the windows, catching flour dust still floating lazily through the air while bacon sizzled quietly on the stove.
Outside, the first volunteers had begun arriving, their laughter carrying through the open screen door as someone unloaded fresh produce from the back of a pickup truck.
Every morning looked a little different, yet somehow they all felt exactly the same. People came because someone needed them, not because anyone expected it of them, but because they had chosen to build a place where no one carried their burdens alone.
Daisy rested both hands on the counter.
"When Harbor House first opened," she said quietly, "we all thought we'd be teaching people how to survive again."
She smiled to herself.
Her smile deepened as she looked toward Charlie sleeping peacefully against my shoulder. "Turns out they ended up teaching us instead. Every woman who finds the courage to start over, every child who learns how to laugh again—they remind the rest of us why this place exists."
I followed her gaze.
Charlie had somehow managed to fall completely asleep again, Mr. Pickles tucked securely beneath one arm while tiny wisps of blonde curls spilled across my sweatshirt.
"I don't understand."
"You will."
Daisy's voice softened.
"After enough mornings like this."
She reached over and gently brushed a curl away from Charlie's forehead.
"This little girl grew up watching women arrive here with nothing."
She smiled.
"So now she assumes everybody deserves something."
"To Charlie, kindness is wonderfully uncomplicated," Daisy said with a quiet smile. "She believes everyone deserves a hug when they're hurting, a pancake when they're hungry, a teddy bear when they're frightened, and a second chance whenever they need one." I swallowed.
Daisy looked back at me.
"She's friendly with everybody."
I smiled.
"I noticed."
"Trust is different."
The words settled quietly between us.
I looked down at Charlie sleeping peacefully against me.
"What makes you say that?"
Daisy smiled knowingly.
"Because she fell asleep in your arms."
Daisy spoke the words so simply they almost drifted past unnoticed, yet they settled somewhere deep inside my chest with surprising force, awakening emotions I'd spent years convincing myself no longer existed.
Children had an extraordinary way of recognizing the things adults spent years learning to see. They noticed kindness before appearances, gentleness before reputation, and safety long before anyone thought to explain it.
The words slipped too close to places inside me I hadn’t let anyone touch. I adjusted Charlie gently, focusing on the practical instead of the emotional.
“I can take her upstairs if you want.”
Daisy shook her head and set her purse on a chair.
“Let her sleep a few more minutes. Once she’s up, she’ll be running this place before breakfast is done.”
As if she heard the challenge, Charlie blinked slowly, lifted her head from my shoulder, and stared at Daisy through the heavy confusion of interrupted sleep.
“Miss Daisy?”
“Morning, trouble.”
“I’m not trouble.”
Daisy’s smile widened.
“That’s what trouble always says.”
Charlie considered this with grave seriousness before turning her face toward me.
“Are we making pancakes?”
“We are,” I told her. “But only if you’re awake enough to help.”
Her eyes opened a little more.
“I am very awake.”
Daisy snorted softly.
“That is the face of a child who could sleep standing up.”
Charlie ignored her and wriggled until I set her carefully on one of the sturdy kitchen stools.
She immediately placed Mr. Pickles beside the mixing bowl, patted his head, and informed him that he had to supervise because Daddy said bears who fought dinosaurs needed protein.
I had no idea what that meant, but Daisy nodded as though this was completely reasonable, so I accepted it as one of the clubhouse laws no one had warned me about.
Within ten minutes, Charlie had flour on her nose, pancake batter on one sleeve, and complete confidence that she was the only thing standing between breakfast and disaster.
Daisy moved around us with practiced ease, preparing bacon and fruit while I helped Charlie stir.
The kitchen slowly filled with warmth, the buttery scent of pancakes, and the kind of laughter I used to believe only belonged to other people.
A few women from Harbor House came down first, moving carefully into the room as though noise still felt dangerous.
One of them, Maribel, paused in the doorway, her eyes darting to Charlie, then to Daisy, then to me.
She had arrived two nights ago with bruises fading yellow along her jaw and a fear of men so severe she had flinched when Bishop merely stepped aside to give her more room.
“Good morning,” I said softly.
Maribel’s fingers tightened around the sleeves of the borrowed sweater she wore.
Charlie looked up from the batter bowl.
“We’re making pancakes. Mr. Pickles helped.”
Maribel blinked, clearly unsure how to respond to a child presenting a battered teddy bear as kitchen staff.
Daisy gave her a plate.
“Coffee’s fresh. Sit wherever feels comfortable.”