“That was enough,” Beth replied.
We laughed. It felt good—light, unforced. The kind of laughter that came from being well-fed and well-rested and not needing to be anything for anyone.
By late morning, we were back at The Palmetto Rose, shoes kicked off, bodies arranged around the pool in a loose constellation of towels and loungers. Lunch appeared—club sandwiches cut neatly in halves, salads bright with citrus, fries that disappeared faster than any of us wanted to admit. The pool shimmered. The air hummed with cicadas and quiet conversation. Charleston did downtime well.
“So,” Beth said around a bite of sandwich, “any updates from your fan club?”
I groaned. “Please, don’t call it that.”
Natasha smirked. “Too late. You’re Charleston Harbor Hero now.”
“I told you to stop,” I said, but I was smiling.
My phone buzzed again, face down on the table. I didn’t look at it. Not yet. I wanted to stay here for another minute—in this pocket of calm, with my friends, with the city breathing around us like a lullaby.
Eventually, reality nudged.
The mayor’s office was expecting me early afternoon.
I showered, dressed, and tried not to overthink it as I smoothed my skirt and checked my reflection one last time. I didn’t look like a hero. I looked like a woman trying to remember how to breathe normally while doing something wildly outside her comfort zone.
“Text us if you need backup,” Natasha said as I walked out.
Beth nodded. “Or if you accidentally get adopted by Charleston.”
“I’m not getting adopted,” I said, though part of me wondered if the city had already started the paperwork.
The mayor’s office was everything you’d expect—historic building, polished floors, soft echo of footsteps, light streaming in through tall windows that made even the waiting area feel dignified. I checked in, sat down, and tried not to fidget.
When Natalie Kennedy stepped out to greet me, I understood immediately why people gravitated toward her.
She was stunning in a way that didn’t feel calculated—blonde hair cut just short enough to look intentional, eyes sharp and warm at the same time, posture relaxed but commanding. She looked like someone who could walk into a room and change the temperature without raising her voice.
“Sophie,” she said, smiling as she extended her hand. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Thank you for having me,” I replied, hoping my voice didn’t betray how surreal this felt.
Her office was bright and airy, framed photos and awards balanced with personal touches—books stacked neatly, a vase of fresh flowers on a side table, sunlight spilling across a desk that looked used, not staged.
“Please,” she said, gesturing to a chair. “Sit. And let me just say—what you did on that boat matters.”
I swallowed. “I just … reacted.”
“That’s usually how courage shows up,” she said easily. “Uninvited. Inconvenient. Necessary.”
She thanked me—not with grand flourishes, but with sincerity that made my chest ache in a good way. She talked about Charleston. About community. About how moments like that reminded people they weren’t as disconnected as they sometimes felt.
“I also owe you a small apology,” she added, smiling. “The nameplate outside still says Natalie Kennedy. I was married recently, and apparently bureaucracy moves slower than romance.”
“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She laughed softly. “I’m Natalie Dane now. It’ll be updated eventually.”
The word registered—Dane—just long enough for my brain to blink.
“That’s funny,” I said lightly. “I know someone with that last name.”
She tilted her head. “It’s a good name.”
