“Shit,” Lark says “Go. I’ve got this.”
I hand her my keys, touch her shoulder briefly. “Damn. The Southpaw special for tomorrow?—”
“Two parts Maker’s, one part cherry liqueur, three dashes of bitters, orange peel twisted left. I’ll make sure we have everything prepped.” She squeezes my hand. “Go.”
The milelong path from the bar to the cabins on the Midnight property curves through Douglas firs that block out most of the moonlight. The mid July night carries a Pacific Northwest chill that shouldn’t exist this time of year. It’s been an unseasonably cool July—the kind of summer that had locals grumbling and tourists yapping about wanting their money back. I’ve walked this path a thousand times, but tonight the trees lean in like they’re offering shelter or witness. I feel completely present, completely aware.
I know every root, every pothole, every turn. Ten years living in the Midnight family cabins will do that. Ten years walking this path, first as Susan’s tenant, then as something more like family. Her five sons—the Midnight boys as everyone calls them—all walked this same path growing up. Only Theo, Alex, and Dominic still do. Jack is all over the world these days racing in Formula 1, and Calvin is too busy being a moody literary icon to make the three-hour drive from Seattle.
The main house looms first, a Victorian hulk of weathered shingles and fading grandeur. Susan had been struggling with the stairs for a while, but it was the storm last year that finally drove her out, when a tree came down on the roof. Her sons tried to push renovations so she could move back in, but it only upset her and left her more confused. She was happier in the cabin connected to mine. For a year now the big house has stood empty—windows dark, paint peeling—yet it still carries a kind of weary dignity. Waiting.
Beyond it, Susan’s cabin glows with warm light, Patricia’s shadow moving behind the curtains. My own cabin sits dark.
I cross to Susan’s front door, knock once and let myself in. The smell of illness mingles with lavender oil. Patricia’s been burning Susan’s favorite candles. The single-room cabin has been rearranged around the hospital bed, Susan looking smaller than ever against the white sheets.
Patricia rises from her chair, professional sympathy mixed with genuine affection on her face. “She’s been in and out. More out than in. But she keeps asking for you.”
I nod, already moving to take a place beside the bed. Laila, Susan’s golden retriever, lifts her head from where she’s curled on the floor beside the bed, tail giving a weak thump of greeting. I run my hand along her fur as I pass, and she sighs deeply before settling back down, keeping her vigil.
Susan’s hand feels fragile but warm. When I squeeze gently, her eyes flutter open.
“You closed early? For little oldme?” Her voice is a whisper, but there’s that spark of humor that nothing could dim.
“Lark’s covering the late shift,” I say, smoothing her hair back. “She can handle the Friday crowd.”
“That bar’s got good bones.” She struggles to focus on my face. “Just like you.”
“Susan—”
“Tell me somethinggood,” she interrupts, holding onto our little ritual even now. “Tell me something that happened tonight.”
I swallow hard, then lean closer. “Bill came in wearing the scarf Dolores knitted him. Bright pink with orange stripes. He looks like a dignified sunset. And those kids from the college who come in every Friday? Tonight they paid for a stranger’s whole tab. Didn’t want credit, just wanted to ‘pay it forward.’ Your kind of people, Susan.”
“Good kids.” Her eyes drift closed, then open again. “The best ones always find their way to the bar.”
My throat tightens as she studies my face with sudden clarity.
“You found your way there too,” she says, her hand squeezing mine with surprising strength. “Right when we both needed it most.”
“Susan—”
“After I lost so much, when Hank died and the boys were all grown, there you were,” she continues, voice stronger for a moment. “A young woman who needed a place to belong. And I needed... I needed someone to remind me I still had something to give. We saved each other, didn’t we?”
“Yousavedme,” I whisper.
“No, sweet girl. It was mutual.” Her eyes are so clear, so present. “That’s how the best families work.”
I don’t even fight the tears now.
“The house...” She’s struggling now, words coming slower. “Don’t let them... the boys need to remember... it’s about more than walls...”
“Shh.” I start humming low—You Can’t Hurry Loveby The Supremes—the song she used to hum when we worked in the garden together, back when she first took me in. Shattered by my parents’ death, I was drifting through Dark River like a ghost. Susan saw me,reallysaw me, and offered me the cabin for almost nothing. A place to call my own, somewhere to rebuild.
Tears slide down my face as I keep humming, keep holding on. I tell her about Eleanor’s Viking romance novel, about the regulars who still ask after her. About how the bar stays warm even on cold nights, how people still share their good news there first. I describe all the life still happening, all the small brightnesses she helped create.
“Keep making it bright,” she whispers. “Even when it’s dark. Especially then.”
Her breathing slows, steadies. Patricia hovers nearby, checking monitors quietly. I keep humming, keep holding, keep being present for this woman who saved me by letting me save her a little bit every day.
