“Uh-oh,” Huck says. He emerges from Maia’s room with the portrait of Milly. The glass has one long crack down the front. “I think the actual photograph is okay, though.”

Irene takes the frame from him. Yes, it looks like the picture is okay. What this picture has survived in the past year. “Why…the kitchen?” Irene says.

“I didn’t shutter the windows,” Huck says. “I was about to when you called and then I got on the phone with Rupert and I had to track down Sadie and then I thought I’d come back and do it later.” He turns to Irene with tears in his eyes. “I got so caught up in the baby coming that I completely forgot about those three windows. I forgot until just this moment.”

“It’s nothing we can’t clean up,” Irene says. The rat has disappeared, though no doubt he’s lurking around here somewhere. “I kind of wanted to remodel the kitchen anyway.”

They remove the shutters from the slider and Huck checks to make sure the deck boards are secure before they step outside. All the railings are broken; one whole side has disappeared. Irene is sure Huck is craving a cigarette but he busies himself with stacking the broken pieces of the railing in a pile. The whole thing will have to be torn down and rebuilt.

Irene remembers when she used to wake up believing that Russ was still alive. One nightmare in particular returns to her now: Russ staggering down the beach, his shirt soaking wet, his pants ragged. He wanted to tell her something. The storm is coming. It will be a bad storm. Destructive.

When Huck turns around, his breathing is shallow. Irene takes his left hand, the one with only half a pinkie, and presses it between both of hers.

“Look at this place,” he says, pointing down the hill at the wreckage, which extends all the way to the water. “St. John is destroyed.”

“Damaged,” Irene says. “Not destroyed.” Like me, she thinks.

This island—and this man—have taught Irene some things about resilience, about patience, and, most of all, about hope. Bad things can happen, terrible things. You can lose the people you love the most; you can lose homes, cars, antiques, hand-knotted silk rugs that cost five figures; you can discover that the very life you’re living is a terrific lie. And despite this, despite all this, the sun will continue to rise. Tomorrow morning, over the bruised and broken body of St. John USVI, the sun will rise again.

Irene Steele knows this better than anyone.

Epilogue

Millicent Maia Steele

September 6, 2019

6 pounds, 14 ounces, 21 inches

I can’t believe you named her after me,” Maia says.

“We did,” Ayers says. “Because, you know what, Nut? I want Milly to grow up and be smart and strong and fun, just like you.”

“And precocious?” Maia says.

Ayers laughs. “And precocious.”