“Trust me, Carmen sneaks these into all her loved ones’ car trunks,” June told him, rolling her eyes. “There are even a few in my house and Willa’s. Those are called storm or blackout emergency kits.”
“I need Carmen to come help me do that at the Sandpiper Inn,” Margo said, glancing over Rad’s shoulder. “I think it would come in rather handy.”
June closed the trunk, and they made their way to the front of Teacups.
“Stay close,” Rad warned. “Try stepping carefully if floorboards seem even slightly warped.”
Margo nodded. “Got it.”
“I’ll be careful,” June promised.
The front door opened with a strange, resistant drag, as if the building itself had stiffened in pain. When Margo stepped inside, the beam from her flashlight moved over familiar tables, the front counter, the display case, the chalkboard menu, and the shelves of carefully chosen ornaments and decorations she had spent years collecting.
Her breath caught with relief when she saw that most of them were still there and intact.
Some of the framed signs were crooked. A few decorative pieces had been boxed up or moved aside. There was a smell of smoke everywhere, and the air felt wrong, but the main front room had survived better than Margo had dared hope.
For a moment, she was rooted to the spot, shining the flashlight slowly over the front room she had built with her own hands and heart. The pale blue walls still stood. The little table by the window where regulars liked to sit was still there. The china display over the service hutch was dusty and dull from smoke, but intact. One of the hanging dried-flower wreathslooked singed around the edge, though even that had not been completely lost.
Then Margo looked up sharply, and her eyes widened in worry. “What about the apartments above?”
June was beside her at once. “They’re all right,” she said. “Your tenants were at work at the time.”
Relief rushed through Margo so hard it almost made her sway.
“And where are they staying?” Margo looked at June. “Surely they’re not staying up there?”
“No, sweetheart,” June gave her an understanding smile. “Your mother arranged rooms for them at the Sandpiper Inn.”
Margo let out a shaky breath. “That’s what I would’ve done.”
“I know,” June said softly.
Margo swallowed against the thickness in her throat and moved farther in, the beam of her flashlight shaking just slightly as she crossed the front room. The deeper they went into the building, the more obvious the damage became. Smoke had crept farther than she wanted to think about. Water had left streaks and stains. The cheerful order of the front had given way to the bruised, damp reality of what the fire had reached.
They approached the hallway, where the damage became more severe. The walls were blackened in places. Paint had bubbled and peeled. The floor looked swollen from water. The smell intensified, and Margo’s stomach tightened.
She moved first toward the storeroom door.
The door itself showed smoke and water damage, and when she opened it, she saw immediately that the room had beendamaged, though not as badly as the rest. Boxes on the lower shelves were soggy and warped. Some of the flour and dry stock would be ruined. The packaging had split in places. Linens in one of the storage bins had soaked through. A good portion would need replacing.
Margo stood there, taking it in, her heart aching so deeply it felt hard to breathe.
“There’s more salvageable than I expected,” she said at last, though her voice sounded thin to her own ears.
June lingered just behind her, sweeping her flashlight carefully around the room. “Do you mind if I look around in here?” she asked. “I wasn’t able to get into the storeroom before.”
Margo stepped back. “Go ahead.”
“Be careful,” Rad said, his attention dividing between June and Margo as he stood in the hallway.
Then he and Margo moved toward the bathrooms.
The farther down the hall they walked, the louder Margo’s heartbeat became. Her flashlight beam found the scorch marks along the walls where flames had licked downward. The blackened streaks looked ugly and greedy in the harsh white light. The bathroom area was worse than the front, though still not as catastrophic as the kitchen.
Then Margo saw the window. It was still cracked open, and her feet came to a stop.
In an instant, the memory slammed back into her with such force that she could barely draw breath. Heat. Smoke. Fear clawing up her throat. The child in her arms. The desperate certainty that there was no time and no other choice. Her ownhands pushing the little girl through the opening. Her lungs burned, and her heart pounded so wildly that Margo thought it might burst before the flames reached her.
