Until the storm breaks, p.1
Until the Storm Breaks, page 1
UNTIL THE STORM BREAKS
NATE WILDER
RIVER AND ASH PUBLISHING
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
A Note From Nate
Nate Wilder Books In Order
About Nate Wilder
CHAPTER 1
MAREN
Three things I know for certain on a summer Friday night at the Black Lantern bar in Dark River: Dolly Parton’s Jolene is stuck on repeat, my old boots are slowly torturing my feet to death, and my best friend Lark is about to declare her independence from the entire male species. Again.
“I’m serious this time,” she announces, sliding an empty pint glass across the bar with the authority of someone who’s made this declaration at least once a month since her divorce. “Men are officially canceled. I’m going to get three more cats and name them all after different cheeses.”
“You’re allergic to cats.” I pull the tap for table six’s IPA, muscle memory taking over while my mind wanders to the notebook hidden under the register. Twenty pages of crossed-out first lines and exactly zero second ones. “And lactose intolerant.”
“Details.” Lark grabs a scoop and attacks the ice bin. “The point is, I’m done. Finished. The vagina is clooooosed for business.”
A customer at the end of the bar snorts into his whiskey. I catch his eye and give him my best conspiratorial grin. “She’s just upset because the last guy she dated thought explaining his fantasy football lineup counted as foreplay.”
The customer—Bill, here every Friday since his wife passed last year—chuckles into his drink. “My Helen used to complain that I thought talking about fishing was pillow talk.”
“That sounds like her,” I say, sliding the bowl of pretzels his way. “But I have a suspicion she loved your fishing stories anyway. Just like she loved those terrible jokes you used to tell at karaoke.”
“Oh God,” he says, grabbing a pretzel. “You remember those?”
“Hard to forget. You’d grab that microphone after a few beers and turn Tuesday karaoke nights into your personal comedy hour.” I grin at the memory. “‘Why don’t fish play basketball? They’re afraid of the net.’ That one was my personal favorite.”
He laughs. “Helen always groaned at that one. Said if she had to hear it one more time, she’d hide the microphone.”
“But she never did.” I give him a quick wink before turning to help the couple just approaching the bar.
Seven years at the Black Lantern and I’ve learned that remembering the small things matters more than perfect pours. It’s a gift Susan Midnight taught me, back when I was twenty-one and desperate, using my parents’ life insurance money to buy this place from her. “Every person who walks through that door,” she used to say, “is carrying something heavy. We get to make it lighter, even if it’s just for one drink.”
Now, The Black Lantern is the kind of place families come for nachos and burgers at five, kids sprawled on the floor with our board games while their parents steal a moment to actually finish a conversation. It’s also the kind of place where everyone wants to be on a summer Friday night. A place where everyone’s welcome.
Tonight, we’re packed with locals seeking comfort, weekenders up from Seattle looking for small-town charm, and me trying to be exactly what each of them needs.
“Order up!” Jayson calls from the kitchen.
“Kitchen closed thirty minutes ago,” I remind him, not looking up from the gin and tonic I’m building.
“Corner booth special!”
I turn and spot Eleanor in her usual corner. She must have slipped in when I was in the storage room. She was one of my first regulars when I bought this place seven years ago and she still comes in most Fridays, always with a romance novel. Tonight she’s deep in a paperback with a shirtless Viking on the cover, completely absorbed.
I finish the G&T I’m making and deliver it to the waiting customer, then pour Eleanor’s chardonnay and grab the bowl from the pass, smiling at the extra oyster crackers Jayson piled on the side. We all have a soft spot for Eleanor.
I make my way through the bar, under the exposed beams twinkling with miniature bulb lights I hung myself. The walls hold curated local art alongside Susan’s photos of Dark River through the decades, photos she collected over twenty years while the bar was hers.
“Special delivery,” I say, setting the bowl and wine down in front of Eleanor. “Chowder to go with your wine.”
She looks up from her book, delighted. “That sweet boy. Though I did just come for a drink tonight.”
“Sure you did.” I grin as she reaches for the crackers. I’ve always loved Eleanor’s weekly book reports. “Vikings this week?”
“Vikings who time travel,” she says, showing me the cover. “Lots of, um... sword fighting lessons.”
“Of course there are,” I say.
“Chapter twelve was quite educational,” she says with a perfectly straight face, making me laugh.
“Eleanor, you’re terrible.”
“I’m seventy-three, honey. I’m allowed.” She winks. “Now go on, dear. Don’t waste your Friday night on me.”
I smile, leaving her to her Vikings.
Back at the bar, Lark slides past. “What’s Eleanor reading tonight?”
“Vikings. Chapter twelve is apparently quite something.”
“That woman is my hero,” Lark says. She grabs fresh glasses while I wipe down a sticky spot near the tap. “Seventy-three and still reading smut in public.”
I laugh, pulling a new beer. “Last week she told me about a book where a pirate spent eight chapters ‘interrogating’ his captive duchess. Very thorough questioning, apparently.”
“God,” Lark says, “I hope I’m her when I grow up.”
“Same.”
We work in tandem, the kind of synchronized dance that comes from five years of friendship forged in late nights and difficult customers.
“Mare,” she says, wiping down the bar, “when’s the last time you went on an actual date? And I don’t mean serving drinks to someone who thinks tipping twenty percent is flirting.”
“I thought men were officially canceled?” I tease.
“Eleanor’s Vikings are making me reconsider.” She grins, then turns serious. “But really, Mare. When?”
“I had coffee with that teacher,” I remind her. “Remember? Craig?”
“Six months ago. Didn’t he spend twenty minutes explaining why his ex-wife was ‘literally crazy’ for wanting him to remember their anniversary.”
I nod. “Red flag much?” I check the garnish station—we’re running low on lime wedges. “Anyway, dating isn’t really a priority right now. I’ve got the bar, Susan needs me more these days, and I’m happy enough.”
“Happy enough.” Lark repeats my phrase like it tastes bad. “Mare, you’re twenty-eight and gorgeous. You’re so busy taking care of everyone else, you forgot that you’re allowed to want things, too.”
“I want things,” I say, grabbing fresh limes and my cutting board.
“Like what? Besides trying to write in that notebook you think is well hidden beneath the register?”
“How dare you snoop,” I say, mock-scandalized, starting to slice.
She grabs a cherry from the garnish tray and pops it in her mouth. “Please, you’re not exactly subtle about it. You left it open earlier this week. All those crossed-out lines. What are you trying to write?”
I give her a look. “Maybe it’s poetry about how annoying my coworkers are.”
“Liar.” She steals another cherry. “You’re trying to write about a life and love you never let yourself have.”
I hate when she’s right. “That’s very presumptuous.”
She grins, unrepentant. “And very accurate.”
I roll my eyes as my phone buzzes against my hip. I ignore it at first—I’m mid-slice—but it buzzes again. Then again. I set down the knife, wipe my hands on my apron, and pull it out. The name on the screen stops me cold.
Patricia (Hospice): She’s asking for you
Patricia (Hospice): Vitals dropping
Patricia (Hospice): I don’t know how much time she has
The bar noise continues around me, but something inside goes still and quiet. I take a breath and let it out slowly.
“Mare?” Lark’s voice, concerned. “You okay?”
I’m already untying my apron, folding it neatly despite my shaking hands. “Susan needs me. I have to go.”
“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 old me?” 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 something good,” 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?”
“You saved me,” 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 Love by 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, really saw 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.
The moon tracks across the sky outside the window. And sometime in the middle of the night, somewhere between one breath and the next, Susan Midnight lets go.
But not before squeezing my hand one last time.
The morning light filters weakly through the small window above the kitchen sink. I’ve been sitting at the tiny table in the shared kitchen since dawn, unable to sleep after Patricia left. My second cup of coffee is starting to go cold in my hands, but I keep holding it anyway, staring out at the fog rolling off the Sound. My other hand rests on Laila’s head. The golden retriever sits pressed against my leg, leaning her whole weight into me like she’s trying to absorb my grief or share her own.
Patricia handled the calls to Susan’s sons last night. Dominic, Theo, and Alex had left two days earlier for their annual fishing trip because Susan had seemed stable. No one expected the sudden turn. Calvin was in Seattle. Jack was God knows where. None of them made it back in time.
I’m technically just the tenant, but Susan asked Patricia to call me first. “Family comes in all forms,” she’d said last week, still herself for a precious moment. I don’t mind most of Susan’s sons, but selfishly I’m glad I got to be with her alone at the end.
Susan’s door is just steps away through the shared hallway that connects my cabin to hers. I can’t bring myself to look at it, so I stare into my coffee instead, trying to figure out what comes next. Everything feels different now, like the walls know she’s gone. The kitchen feels too quiet without her classical music drifting through.
Right on time, I hear Theo’s Subaru pull up outside the cabins. Laila’s ears perk up from where she’s been pressed against my leg. I walk to my door and open it just as Theo, Susan’s middle son, gets his daughter out of her car seat. He’s tall like all the Midnight boys, but softer somehow, wearing jeans and a Harbor & Ash hoodie that’s seen better days.
Chloe, his five-year-old, immediately wriggles free and runs to Laila on the porch. “We’re here for Laila!” she announces, dropping to her knees to hug the golden retriever, who accepts the attention with patient grace.
Theo’s eyes are red-rimmed as he approaches. He watches his daughter with the dog for a moment before looking at me. There’s nothing to say about Susan that we don’t already know, so we just nod at each other. That specific understanding between people carrying the same loss.
“We came back from the lake the minute Patricia reached us. Drove all night.” He lets out a long breath. “Thanks again for this. For everything. Chloe’s been asking about Laila since I picked her up this morning. I think she needs to see that some things are still the same. Laila’s still here, even if grandma isn’t.”
