When We Are Enough (Valiant Hearts #1)

33. Emmy

Chapter 33

Emmy

P atrick took the boards off the windows early this morning before he left for work, but the sandbags remain, stopping the house from flooding like Ruby’s next door every time a door is opened.

Morning light comes through the dirty kitchen windows, and when I glance outside, the backyard is a pond, dirty floodwaters lapping at felled trees and fences, clumps of fall leaves floating beside an assortment of garbage.

The house is still without electricity, and Patrick told Nora he thinks it could be up to a week before they get in and fix everything, but we’re adjusting to this new life, all of us crammed into Granny Sloane’s house.

The water on the camping stove finally boils, demanding my attention, and I make two cups of tea before returning to Granny Sloane and Stormy at the small kitchen table. Stormy sits at Granny Sloane’s feet, eagerly accepting the little scraps she drops from her plate. His eyes are wide and trusting, his tail wagging with each bite, and he looks up at Granny Sloane adoringly.

Granny Sloane finishes her meal and spends some time stroking Stormy and telling him he’s just the best boy in the whole world, and it’s impossible not to feel good when I’m with the two of them. Once she’s done, she reaches for her crossword book. I know she’s missing the daily paper almost as much as hot water for a shower.

After a few moments of silence, she pauses, looking at me across the table. “Come help me with this crossword,” she says. “You may as well make yourself useful.”

It’s a first, and I can’t help but smile.

“Of course.” My chair slides in close, next to hers.

We huddle together over the crossword, and she reads out the first clue. “Five letters, a long and arduous search .”

I think for a moment. “Quest?”

She grunts, writing it down. “Makes sense. Alright, next one. Six letters, a sudden sharp pain .”

“Could be twinge,’” I suggest.

Granny Sloane scribbles it in, then frowns. “The down clue needs a T in the fourth position. Six letters, a friendly exchange .”

“Chat?”

“Needs to be six letters. Banter?”

She doesn’t wait for my confirmation either way, writing it in with her blue ballpoint pen, nodding with satisfaction. The next clue has us debating for a while, things getting a little heated, her raising an eyebrow at each of my suggestions, Stormy watching us with his head resting on his paws, like he can’t make heads or tails of the strangeness of humans.

The good-natured bickering, working together at the crossword—all of it brings a golden, warm feeling to the center of my chest. As we finish up the crossword, Granny Sloane closes the book and asks, “Is there any news about the hurricane?”

I pull out my cell, glad we’ve finally got reception back, and show her some pictures of the devastation. The images are heartbreaking—houses submerged around Cape May and the barrier islands, roofs torn off buildings where the wind gusts were strongest, streets turned into rivers, debris scattered everywhere. Even though the floodwaters haven’t receded here, it’s clear how lucky we’ve been.

Granny Sloane looks at the pictures and nods solemnly. “I always knew this house would survive. My husband built it with his brother, and made sure it could withstand just about anything.”

“He must have been very skilled.”

She smiles softly, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. “He was. He built this house and so many other things, and he poured his heart into every detail.”

We lapse into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels natural and easy. I glance at her. “What was your husband like?”

Her expression softens, and she looks down at her hands, the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes deepening with the joy of remembering. “He was a good man. Strong, kind, and fiercely protective of his family. We started dating after he asked me to the prom when we were high school seniors. He’d have done anything for us. He died from a heart attack a year after our Paddy passed on. I think he died of a broken heart.”

“Paddy was your son?” I ask gently, already knowing the answer but curious to hear more, if she’s willing to talk about it. “Patrick’s dad?”

Granny Sloane nods, her eyes distant. “Yes, Paddy was my boy. Patrick takes after Ruby in the color of his hair and eyes, but his face was just like Paddy’s, and their voices are almost the same. Sometimes when I’m tired and Patrick calls out that he’s home, my heart almost stops because I think Paddy has finally come back to me, that maybe I’ve died and we’re in heaven.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “It must be so hard missing your son like that. How did Paddy die?”

She sighs, a mix of sadness and pride in her voice. “Paddy was a real daredevil, always on some adventure. That’s where he and Patrick are like chalk and cheese. Paddy loved the water, couldn’t get enough of it. One day he went freediving and had a kind of blackout that sometimes affects free divers, where they lose consciousness. He stayed down too long and drowned in the harbor. Riley had just been born. It was a terrible shock for all of us. Paddy always seemed like he was invincible.”

A lump in my throat, imagining the pain she must have gone through, what Ruby and the kids went through. “That must have been incredibly hard.”

She nods, her gaze unfocused as she relives the memories. “It was. Losing a child... it’s not something you ever get over. But you learn to live with it. Patrick was just a boy then, but he stepped up, took on so much responsibility. He had to, with how much Ruby had to work to keep the bank from taking the house. He’s always been so strong. Wise beyond his years.”

“He’s always looking out for everyone,” I reply.

Granny Sloane nods, pauses for a beat. “It’s actually Paddy’s birthday in about a week. We’ll have a special dinner in his honor. You’ll be there, of course.”

I reach out and squeeze her hand, and we sit like that for a while, the weight of her story settling over me. I imagine a young Patrick suddenly thrust into a position of responsibility for his siblings, not having his own dad around to rely on. I want to ask more, but then the insistent ring of my cell reaches us.

“Sorry,” I say. “Just give me a minute.”

“Take your time,” Granny Sloane replies, her eyes misty as she glances at the framed photographs on the wall.

My parents’ home number flashes on the screen. I brace myself and answer as I walk to my room.

“Hello?”