Chapter 3 #4
Sunshine glanced over her shoulder.
Evelyn hadn't moved from the sink.
"What do you mean?"
"The crackers."
She shrugged.
"He probably won't stop long enough for another meal."
Evelyn dried her hands on a towel before crossing the kitchen.
"When my husband was alive..."
A fond smile touched her lips.
"He was exactly the same."
Sunshine listened quietly.
"He'd leave before sunrise."
She chuckled softly.
"Come home after dark."
"Forget breakfast."
"Forget lunch."
"Then wonder why he had headaches every evening."
She reached over and tucked the packet of crackers beside the sandwich.
"I spent thirty-six years pretending I was packing lunches for the world's largest child."
Sunshine laughed.
"I don't think Remedy would appreciate hearing that."
"Oh, he'd survive."
Evelyn's smile softened.
"Some men spend so long believing they're supposed to carry everyone else that they forget they're human too."
The words lingered in the warm kitchen.
Sunshine looked down at the plate in front of her.
She wasn't trying to take care of Remedy.
Was she?
No.
That wasn't it.
She simply...
Didn't want him to spend another day hungry.
The realization should have felt simple.
Instead, it stirred something quietly dangerous inside her chest.
The same part of her that remembered birthdays.
Favorite foods.
Which children needed stories before bed.
Which women slept better with hallway lights left on.
She noticed things.
She always had.
Sometimes noticing became another way of loving people before you realized you'd started.
She carefully placed a folded napkin beside the plate.
She left no note and offered no explanation because recognition had never been the reason she made the lunch in the first place. Some acts of kindness felt more meaningful when they asked for nothing in return.
She lifted the tray.
"I'll be back."
Evelyn watched her disappear into the hallway before smiling to herself.
"About time," she murmured.
Evelyn's smile carried the quiet satisfaction of someone who had lived long enough to recognize the earliest signs of love.
It rarely announced itself with grand declarations.
More often, it arrived disguised as remembering someone's lunch, noticing their headaches, or quietly making sure they didn't have to face another difficult day alone.
The clinic remained empty when Sunshine returned.
Remedy's office door stood open exactly as she'd left it.
Charts remained stacked neatly across one corner of the desk.
His stethoscope rested beside the keyboard.
The fresh coffee she'd poured only minutes earlier still sent thin ribbons of steam curling toward the ceiling.
She set the plate beside it.
Then frowned.
The sandwich immediately caught his attention. It wasn't the hastily assembled lunch Bishop had grabbed earlier. Someone had taken the time to prepare it carefully, arranging everything with the same quiet thoughtfulness that seemed increasingly common around Harbor House.
She glanced around the office.
Everything about the room reflected the man who occupied it.
Neat.
Practical.
Orderly.
Nothing decorative except photographs and children's artwork.
One picture caught her attention.
It sat beside the computer monitor inside a simple wooden frame worn smooth around the edges.
Charlie couldn't have been more than a year old.
She sat in Remedy's lap beneath one of the oak trees outside the clubhouse while he held a picture book upside down.
Charlie looked completely absorbed.
Remedy looked completely unaware that he wasn't actually reading the story correctly.
Sunshine smiled.
Apparently Charlie hadn't cared.
She gently straightened the frame where it had shifted slightly askew.
Then immediately stepped back.
She shouldn't have touched it.
It wasn't her place.
A voice behind her startled her from the thought.
"Looks better."
She turned.
Lark stood in the doorway balancing a basket of freshly folded towels against one hip.
"I didn't mean to..."
"Straighten the picture?"
Lark smiled.
"I do it every other day."
Sunshine blinked.
"Really?"
"Charlie likes to pick it up."
Lark laughed quietly.
"She also likes carrying it around the clubhouse telling everybody Daddy used to read books upside down."
Sunshine couldn't help laughing.
"I believe that."
"Oh, it's true."
Lark stepped inside.
"Remedy was so tired that first year..."
Her expression softened.
"He'd fall asleep halfway through bedtime stories."
Sunshine looked back at the photograph.
"I guess Charlie didn't mind."
"She still doesn't."
Lark rested the basket on a nearby chair.
"To her..."
She smiled warmly.
"Her daddy hangs the moon."
Something about those words made Sunshine's heart ache.
Charlie adored him.
Every smile.
Every story.
Every scraped knee.
Every morning that started with pancakes and Mr. Pickles.
Children that loved so freely deserved adults who stayed.
The thought slipped through her mind before she could stop it.
Lark followed her gaze toward the lunch.
"You're the one who made that."
It wasn't a question.
Sunshine hesitated.
"I just..."
She searched for the right words.
"He forgot."
Lark's smile widened with quiet affection.
"He usually does."
"I've noticed."
"So have we."
She looked around the office.
"For years."
Sunshine turned toward her.
"Doesn't it worry everyone?"
Lark leaned thoughtfully against the doorframe.
"It used to."
"What changed?"
"We realized telling him to slow down doesn't work."
She chuckled.
"Trust me, Daisy tried."
"And Toxic."
"And Steel."
"Mace once threatened to handcuff him to a chair until he finished dinner."
Sunshine raised an eyebrow.
"I'm guessing that didn't work."
"Mace forgot Remedy carries bolt cutters."
They both laughed.
Then Lark's expression grew thoughtful again.
"The only thing that's ever worked..."
She glanced toward the coffee.
"...is quietly helping him before he realizes he needs it."
Sunshine looked at the mug.
"I wasn't trying to..."
"I know."
Lark's voice remained gentle.
"That's why it'll matter."
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Comfortable.
Outside, a breeze stirred the wind chimes hanging from the front porch.
The soft notes drifted through the open window like distant music.
Lark picked up her basket again.
"You know what my grandmother used to tell me?"
Sunshine shook her head.
"She said love isn't usually found in the big moments."
She smiled.
"It's found in remembering how someone takes their coffee."
After Lark disappeared down the hallway, Sunshine remained standing alone inside the office.
Her eyes drifted toward the mug she'd refilled.
One splash of cream.
No sugar.
She smiled to herself.
Then quietly slipped out before anyone could see that she'd been there.
She never noticed the small smile that spread across Melissa's face as she watched her leave from the end of the hallway.
Nor did she notice Bishop passing by moments later.
He slowed outside Remedy's office just long enough to see the fresh lunch.
The warm coffee.
The neatly folded napkin.
He didn't ask who had left them.
He already knew.
A quiet smile touched his face before he continued toward the veterans' meeting.
Some things didn't need to be said aloud.
Some things simply had to be allowed to grow.
The afternoon settled over Harbor House with the unhurried rhythm of a place that had learned healing wasn't something to be rushed.
The crisis from earlier that morning had eased into quiet conversations, counseling sessions, physical therapy appointments, and children rediscovering what laughter sounded like when they no longer expected someone to punish them for making too much noise.
Sunshine spent the next hour exactly where she always seemed to be.
Everywhere someone needed her.
She helped Evelyn organize donated clothing for three newly arrived women whose entire wardrobes now fit inside paper grocery bags.
She sat beside Maribel while the young woman nervously filled out paperwork for her first counseling appointment, quietly answering questions that had nothing to do with forms and everything to do with fear.
"Will they make me go back?"
"No."
"How do you know?"
"Because the people here don't stop fighting for the people they love."
Maribel studied her for several long moments before finally signing the last page.
"I want to believe that."
Sunshine reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.
"You don't have to believe it all today."
She smiled softly.
"We'll believe enough until you're ready."
Across the property, Remedy hadn't stopped moving.
The examination room door closed behind another patient as he finished reviewing medication instructions with an elderly woman recovering from hip surgery.
"I don't need the walker."
Mrs. Henderson folded her arms stubbornly.
"I've walked for seventy-eight years without one."
"You've also fallen twice this month."
"I tripped."
"You tripped over the same rug."
She looked entirely unapologetic.
"It's a dangerous rug."
"I'll speak to it."
"It doesn't listen."
"I suspected as much."
She laughed, finally accepting the folded walker beside her chair.
"You sound just like my grandson."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should."
She reached out and patted his hand.
"Thank you."
After helping her to the hallway, Remedy immediately checked the appointment board.
Three names remained before the afternoon support groups began.
Then inventory.
Then medication orders.
Then paperwork.
Always paperwork.
He rubbed absently at the back of his neck.
The headache Charlie had kissed earlier had never completely disappeared.
It had simply settled into the background with everything else.
"You're doing it again."
Remedy looked up.
Melissa stood beside the reception desk holding a clipboard.
"Doing what?"
She pointed toward his shoulders.
"They're practically touching your ears."
He rolled one shoulder experimentally.
"I didn't notice."
"I know."
She smiled sympathetically.
"You never do."
"I'll stretch later."
"You said that two hours ago."
"I meant it then, too."