“Agreed,” I say.
Gran places egg sandwiches in front of us. She sits at the head of the table with her own plate and takes a bite, watching us like a wildlife documentary.
Dyson eats without looking up, and I focus on the tablecloth. The coffee is good.
“All right.” Gran sets her sandwich down. “What is going on with you two?”
“Nothing at all,” I say.
“Don’tnothing at allme.” She looks at Dyson, then at me. “Did you have sex and it ruined everything?”
The eggs catch in my throat. I cough so hard that my eyes water. Dyson doesn’t react.
“Gran, we didn’t?—”
“Those things happen. There was this one time I hooked up with?—”
“I am begging you to stop talking.”
“I’m just saying. It’snormal.”
“Great,” I say.
Gran takes another bite of her sandwich and looks at Dyson. “It’s okay, honey. You two will get through this.”
“No comment,” he says.
“Smart man.” When all of our plates are cleaned, Gran collects them. “I’m going to the bungalow. I feel a migraine coming on. Stress does that to me.”
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” Dyson tells her.
“You’re a doll.” She leaves through the front door, and then we’re alone again.
Dyson washes the three plates, then sets them in the rack.
“We should start working on removing the boards from the window before it gets hot,” I tell him.
“Agree.”
We work through the first floor without talking. He runs the drill, and I hold each sheet of plywood as he backs the screws out. Daylight floods the rooms one at a time, and the building feels airy again. But it also puts a spotlight on everything. When we make it to the Captain’s Room, I notice new water stains on the ceiling. I let out a deep breath, knowing that means we need a roof patch, maybe even a replacement at this point. The last quote I got was fifty grand.
I stand in his room longer than I should, staring out at the water. It’s rough and gray-green and littered with debris.
We check every room on the second floor. It doesn’t seem like there is any damage, but that means nothing when a roof has a leak.
I open the windows, letting the cross breeze move through the building. It instantly cools down by at least ten degrees. Salt and sea mix with a smell that only exists after a storm. I stand with my eyes closed and let the wind hit my face.
“Think I want to see the island,” I tell him. “To know what we’re dealing with. The B&B will survive.”
“Whatever you’d like to do.”
Gran meets us at the gate of her bungalow, and the three of us take the beach path. Dyson clears branches as we go, dragging the bigger ones to the side. The humidity after the storm is brutal.
The boardwalk took a beating from the rising water. Planks are buckled and splintered. Near the pier, a whole section is missing. Cocktails & Chaos has a ripped awning, and a few of the foldable tables are upside down in the sand. Many of the farmers markets stalls collapsed on themselves.
Some areas of Coconut Beach look like nothing happened.
I glance over at Dyson to say something when I notice the woman outside the bakery watching us. She leans toward the man beside her and says something behind her hand. He glances over, and then they both look away when I say hi.
