On Sunday, they finally release me and Lucy from the hospital, and we accompany John to a ceremony for the veterans who died in the storm. His sister Elizabeth and her friend Sam come with us.

The closer we get to the park where the memorial service is to be held, the quieter John becomes, and I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his, trying to pass some of my strength on to him. It seems supremely unfair that these were the survivors of the Great War, the men who came home and should have lived out their remaining days lauded as heroes. Instead, they went from one tragedy to the next.

How much can people withstand until they break?

We don’t speak as we approach the crowd standing near the entrances to Bayfront Park. There are veterans lined up together, but John doesn’t move to join them. Instead, his grip on me tightens, as though he’s afraid I’ll let go, as if he doesn’t belong with them.

Sam and Elizabeth stand behind us, giving John his space, and when I turn around, I spy their fingers linked.

Military planes fly overhead, dropping hundreds of roses from the sky. There are speeches, and prayers, and the whole thing is terribly formal. With each moment that passes, John tenses more and more, tugging at his clothes, shifting from side to side, his body practically vibrating with barely contained energy, as though he would bolt at any moment if he could.

When it’s all over, he turns without a word to anyone else, striding quickly toward the park’s exit, past his sister and Sam. I follow behind him, Lucy tucked in my arms.

John stops before the street, his jaw clenched.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come today. I thought I could handle it, thought it was the right thing to do, but that spectacle—” A blistering curse falls from his lips. “They should have evacuated them earlier. Why didn’t they? They didn’t even give them a chance. What’s the point of honoring their death when you threw them away in life? You should have seen the condition those camps were in, the way we lived. This is all a big farce, and it doesn’t mean a damned thing.” He grimaces, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “I couldn’t breathe back there. I kept seeing the faces of all of those men, imagining what their final moments must have been like, how they were given hope, thinking help was coming, only to be disappointed once again.”

I shift Lucy to my side and step forward, wrapping my arm around John.

He stiffens for an instant, and then he relaxes into the hug, some of the tension leaving his body. We stay like that for a long time, the breeze blowing around us, the mourners come to pay their respects walking past us.

When Lucy begins to fuss, I pull back from the embrace.

John lets out a deep breath, and another, his cheeks pink. There’s a gleam in his eyes when he looks down at me, emotions swimming there, and once again I imagine I see the same emotions that I feel inside: confusion, fear, want.

It’s too soon. I am a married woman. There’s Lucy, and the whole world has been upended, and most importantly, I have already been disappointed by a man once. How can I survive another disappointment?

I take another step back, cradling Lucy against my chest.

John grimaces. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, I was the one who—” I take a deep breath. It’s ridiculous to be embarrassed in front of this man, considering how many intimacies we’ve shared over the past week, but I am embarrassed. What if he thinks I’m searching for a man to take care of me now that I have left Tom? Who would want to be saddled with another man’s wife? Another man’s child?

I swallow. “What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. There’s talk they’re going to ship the vets left at the camps on the Keys up here. Have them join the Civilian Conservation Corps. Send them to one of those camps now.”

My mouth goes dry, a tingle starting at the base of my spine, heat wafting over me. I knew, of course, that his presence was temporary.

“So you’ll go with them, then?”

“I hadn’t—No—No, I don’t want to join the CCC. I’m done with the government. With the military. I can’t stay after all of this.” He’s silent for a moment. “Where will you go?”

I try for a shaky smile. “There’s some insurance money from Aunt Alice. Matthew—the man who worked at the inn—told me about it. There’s the land around the inn, too. She owned that. He wants me to rebuild. The inn was her whole life. It seems like a way to honor her memory, but at the same time, I don’t know anything about running an inn. Probably smarter to take the money and get a fresh start somewhere.”

“You sell yourself too short. You’re good at welcoming people. Making them feel at home. You had that way about you at Ruby’s, always putting people at ease. You would be wonderful at it.”

I flush. “Thank you.”

“Are you worried about your husband finding you?” he asks. “Is that holding you back?”

“He’s still listed as missing,” I reply. “I talked to Ruby—no one’s seen him in Key West since Labor Day weekend. Maybe he’s safe somewhere; maybe he’s gone. I suppose all I can do is hope he’ll never turn up.

“If not the camps, where will you go?” I ask John.

“Home. New York.”

“Your family needs you.”

“I’ve been gone too long. Seeing Elizabeth reminded me of that. My father and brother left a mess behind when they died, and it isn’t fair that she should shoulder that burden alone.”

“Will you stay there permanently?”

“I don’t know,” he replies.

I take a deep, shaky breath, tears threatening.

“I suppose this is good-bye, then.”

He nods, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on some point over my shoulder. “Are you going to stay in a hotel tonight?”

“Yes. Tomorrow, I’ll visit Matthew at his sister’s house in Miami to see about rebuilding.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, you’ve done enough. It’s time Lucy and I took care of ourselves. Will you be all right?”

“I will,” he replies. “Thank you. This past week has been—”

His voice breaks off.

I cannot cry.

I extend my hand to him. “I will never be able to thank you enough for all you’ve done for us. The kindness you’ve shown us.”

He doesn’t take my hand, but instead leans forward, his lips brushing my cheek.

I still.

It’s his words, though, that unravel me.