We will likely never be the same.

Nature has destroyed the railroad that Man spent decades building, the lifeline that was going to bring more tourists, increase opportunities for residents. Nature has destroyed that which so many men sacrificed for.

Ironically, it is those once forgotten men—the heroes who were sent down here so Washington wouldn’t have to deal with them—that have brought the most attention to our plight. Their deaths have led the charge for someone to be responsible for what was lost.

There are those who point fingers at the Weather Bureau for the insufficient warnings, for mistakes that were made. There are some who blame the men running the camps. Others, the government itself for once again letting its people down. And there are those who shake their fists at the Almighty, as if it was his hand that scooped up the sand and sea and shook it around, turning our world upside down. There have been investigations, and congressional hearings, and men fired, and to some perhaps that is its own form of justice. There is anger and there will be more; there is grief and there will be more.

They say it is the strongest storm to ever hit the United States, and for those of us who have lived through it, that fact is indisputable. People talk about wind speed, and hurricane categories, and I remember the bodies strewn upon the ground, and see the wreckage of the lives so many attempted to build here. This was an act of God, and despite the missteps the papers speak of, the mistakes that caused an even greater loss of life than expected, there is an inevitability to all of this. There is nothing we could have done to save ourselves in the face of the storm that battered our shores.

We are a blank slate now, as though the storm came in and reordered everything.

The inn isn’t ready for guests yet, but Lucy and I share the property with Matthew, who lives in a caretaker’s cottage set away from the main building. It’s nothing fancy, and there is still much work to be done, but it’s clean enough, and most importantly, it is ours.

In the evenings, Lucy and I sit on the porch and gaze out at the water, as I tell her stories of my day, as she coos in response. Each day I marvel at the changes in her, the rapid rate at which she grows. She is a sturdy, healthy child, and while there are moments when I recognize myself in her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her features are her own.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I have a semblance of peace.

In the months that have passed since the storm, the nightmares have lessened, the fear that Tom will find us a low-level hum in the back of my mind as I go about my days building a life for us near Islamorada. It’s always with me, and I don’t know that I’ll ever forget what I lived through with him, only that each day I’m working on myself, too, growing stronger, forging a new future.

Tom’s name is still listed among the missing.

I often wonder if he came up to Islamorada searching for me and was caught in the hurricane’s path, or if it was simply an ill-timed fishing trip, his belief that the storm would miss us entirely his downfall, or if he is alive and well, down in Cuba somewhere drinking his life away.

One evening, as I’ve finished clearing the plates from our dinner, there’s a knock at the door.

I cradle Lucy in my arms and walk to the front of the inn, shifting her to the side as I open the door.

A man in a gray suit stands on the porch, his hat in hand, a gold wedding band on his ring finger. And behind him—

My knees buckle in surprise, and I grab the doorframe to steady myself with my free hand.

“John.”

He steps forward, standing next to the man in the gray suit.

John is dressed in a suit himself, his skin paler than I remembered, his body less imposing than when he worked on the highway. He looks like a different man, his appearance better suited to the city than life down here, and I run a hand through my hair, belatedly realizing there is a spot of paint on the hem of my dress, the fabric not particularly fine, the flowers faded.

“Helen.”

He doesn’t say my name as much as breathe it, and the emotion in his eyes—

He is the man I remember.

“You are well?” he asks.

“I am.”

He searches my face, and I flush under his perusal.

“I wasn’t prepared for guests. We’ve been painting the inn all day, trying to get it ready to open.”

“You’re lovely,” he replies. “Just as I remembered.”

The man in the gray suit beside John—the man I realize I met at the memorial service when John and I said good-bye—Sam—coughs, a smile on his face.

John’s gaze drops from me to Lucy.

“She’s gotten so big,” he says, his voice filled with wonder.

“She has.” I fight to keep the tremor from mine, to meet his gaze. “Would you like to hold her?”

He swallows. “I would.”

I step back, allowing John and the other man to cross the threshold.

Lucy squirms as I set her in John’s arms, the lump in my throat growing at the sight of them together.

“Ma’am—”

I turn toward Sam.

“Is there somewhere we could sit and talk?” he asks. He flashes an official-looking badge proclaiming him to be a federal agent. “Since John’s my brother-in-law, and he wanted to come with me today, I said it was fine for him to accompany me, but I’m here on official business.”

“Of course.”

“It’ll be all right, Helen,” John murmurs to me, Lucy’s little fist wrapped around his finger.

Something tightens around my heart.

I shut the front door behind them, leading them to the main seating area where we will one day welcome guests. There are only two couches in the room now, and I take one, John sitting down beside me, Lucy in his arms.

“You’ve done a good job with the inn. It’s amazing,” John says.

I smile. “Thank you. Matthew has been a great help, and we’ve hired some locals who needed work. Everyone’s trying to get their life back after the storm.”

Sam takes the opposite couch, his gaze intent on me.

“Would you prefer to have this conversation in private?” Sam asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“No, of course not. John can stay.”

“I thought it might help to have him here. I’m sorry to tell you, but we found your husband, Tom.”

There’s a rushing noise in my ears, my heart pounding.

“It looks like there was a dispute of some kind,” Sam adds. “We don’t know when it happened or who was involved. He was shot. We found this in his pocket.”