The blue-and-cream one with little flowers. The one Daphne said reminded her of Scotland, for some reason.
He reached for it gently, fingers brushing mud from the porcelain.
The shelf had gone down. Dozens of teapots ruined. But this one had wedged against the wall. Whole.
He tucked it under his arm and sloshed toward the front door, just as some lights beamed from outside.
Out in the street, two small boats drifted by in the murky current—Pastor Nate in one, Jack in the other.
“Finn!” Jack called, paddling toward him. “They made it. I got them to the inn hours ago.”
Finn gripped the doorframe, torn between the instinct to run to them and the deeper pull of everything that still needed to be done.
“You sure?” he called back.
Jack nodded. “They’re helping those in need.”
Finn exhaled, chest aching with something too big for breath alone.
“And what are you doing?” he rasped out the question.
“Searching for anyone who still needs help,” Jack called back, and gestured toward the side of town where the river had taken over.
If Daphne and Lucy were safe, that’s all he needed to know. “Then let’s go.”
“Thought you might say that.” Jack’s grin was grim but approving; he offered a hand and pulled Finn up into the boat.
The boat turned away from the higher ground and toward the deeper floodwaters, toward those still waiting for a lifeline. And as Finn paddled into the current, one thought stayed close, offering a hint of warmth against the internal chill of the devastation around him.
Daphne and Lucy are safe.
And Daphne had signed the note,Love, D.
Chapter 23
Daphne and Lucy had barely entered Wisteria Inn before Daphne was pulled straight into action. There wasn’t time to do anything else—not with the entire building humming with need, service, confusion, and fear.
Just on the drive from Main Street to the inn, she’d seen some of the devastation. Downed trees, submerged houses, rivers overtaking fields and barns. And people, all sorts, walking through sludge to find a dry place of shelter as night grew closer with each minute.
Harry and Margaret Coleman, generous beyond a doubt, had flung open the doors of the forty-five-room estate to anyone needing refuge.
And the people had come.
Even with the town hall, a half dozen churches, and the middle school gym offering shelter, the inn was packed—families huddled on cots, elderly folks wrapped in blankets, toddlers clinging to soaked teddy bears. Daphne hadn’t expected this many. No one had. But Margaret, on the brink of panic, had found her and handed her the reins with a breathless, “Please—help me organize this.”
Daphne had barely nodded before diving in. Organizing was what she did. It helped her make sense of her world, gave her some semblanceof order. And it kept her mind off the fact that she was very much out of control and had no idea where Finn was.
Or Granny D.
Or about two dozen other people from town.
And without any means of communication to find out, everyone... waited.
And prayed.
Because even if she didn’t know, she trusted God did.
And He was taking care of them.
