Page 11 of Finding Home at Hearts Hotel

"Well, you don't have to worry anymore," Linda whispered, a bright, tearful lilt lifting her voice. "Not only are we all coming home for good."

George blinked, his gaze shifting slowly between his niece and nephew as if trying to process the words through the lingering haze of his medication. "What is it?"

"The hotel is saved,” Michael told him. “Everything is clear now, Uncle George.”

A faint, disbelieving spark lit up the old man's glassy eyes. He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching against Linda's palm. "Are you serious?"

Linda leaned forward, her heart pounding against her ribs as she watched the raw realization dawn on her uncle's face. They would only give him the full breakdown when he was better, but he needed to know that he didn’t have to worry about the hotel any longer.

“Yes.” Michael looked up, and his eyes caught Linda’s. “The new man in Linda’s life played a big part in getting it back for us.”

“Linda’s got a man in her life?” George turned his sleepy eyes to his niece. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad for you.” He looked at Michael. “For all of you.”

The silence in the hospital room grew thick, the only sound being the steady, rhythmic ticking of the cardiac monitor. George didn't speak. He lay still against the white pillows, but his chin began to tremble, and a single, heavy tear leaked from the corner of his eye, tracking slowly down his wrinkled temple.

For decades, he had lived under the crushing assumption that his stubborn sacrifice was in vain, that the younger generation had moved on to bigger cities, leaving him to guard a decaying fortress alone. Hearing that his struggle had actually brought his family back to the coast, that his nieces, nephews, and their children and grandchildren were all returning to live and work under the Sweet Blossom Bay sky, was the ultimate medicine. And the cherry on top was that the hotel was saved. Their legacy would live on.

"You crazy kids," George finally whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, emotional vulnerability that made Linda's own eyes spill over. He squeezed her hand back with surprising strength, his knuckles white against hers. "You really did it."

"We did," Linda murmured, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against his forehead. "So you have to stay strong. You have to focus on your recovery, because we're going to need our senior consultant to keep us all in line."

"Darn right," George mumbled, a tiny, weak shadow of his usual stubborn grin touching his lips as the heavy pain medication finally began to pull him back under. Michael let out a delighted chuckle. "This is the best news ever."

George's eyes drifted closed, his breathing slowing into a deep, peaceful rhythm as he slid back into a restorative sleep. The monitor's steady count sounded lighter now, carrying a hopeful beat in the sterile room.

DARIUS

The morning sun was already baking the grassy banks behind Pete’s Diner, turning the glassy surface of the lake into a sheet of glittering silver. It was barely nine o'clock, but the shoreline was already packed with spectators, the rich, savory aroma of frying bacon and fresh coffee from the diner’s kitchen drifting over the water. Down by the marina slip, the annual Summer Lake Games was shifting into high gear, the air thick with the sound of laughter, clattering oars, and the occasional blast of a megaphone.

Darius adjusted the tight strap of his orange life vest, his sneakers slipping slightly on the damp, algae-slicked wooden planks of the dock. He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the tight muscles in his back. He had spent the last eight hours buried in corporate legal dockets and had hardly slept, but today, his focus was strictly anchored to the water.

Maggie stood at the very edge of the dock, her clipboard clutched to her chest and her whistle dangling from a red lanyard. "I want clean, synchronized strokes!" Maggie barked, her voice easily carrying over the lakeside noise. "The Sanibel team hasbeen rowing together in a club since college, but we have raw horsepower. Do not let them get ahead at the turn!"

Darius looked down at the boat bobbing against the rubber tires lining the dock. It was a heavy, classic wooden rowing gig from the local marina, painted a weathered off-white with the name Salty’s Pride stenciled in faded blue letters near the bow. Built for stability and rough coastal chop, the craft carried a solid weight that felt massive compared to the sleek, needle-thin carbon-fiber shell the Sanibel team was currently launching in the adjacent lane.

"We’re going to have to pull twice as hard just to move this log," Martin grumbled, stepping carefully into the bow seat and adjusting his black seat cushion. He was wearing his loud tropical shirt under his life vest, the bright fabric peeking out like a neon beacon. "My lower back is already protesting, and we haven't even cleared the dock."

"Just focus on your breathing," Owen advised, sliding into the second seat and testing the pivot of his heavy wooden oar. He adjusted his glasses, his knuckles white against the dark grain of the wood. "We have the weight advantage on the straightaway. Once we get this beast moving, the momentum will carry us."

Michael climbed in next, taking the third position with an intense focus. He gripped his oar, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his navy blue team shirt. He didn't say a word, but the fierce, competitive line of his jaw told Darius everything he needed to know. The attorney wanted to win, and he wanted to win badly.

Darius stepped into the stroke seat at the stern, his fingers wrapping around the thick, worn handle of his oar. The wood felt cool and solid in his palms, a grounding reality that helpedsteady the rapid beat of his pulse. He took his seat, bracing his sneakers against the wooden footrests, his gaze shifting toward the shoreline.

Linda stood near the canopy tent, in the shade of the old oaks, her navy baseball cap pulled low, watching him. She caught his eye and offered a small, private nod of encouragement. It was a simple, silent gesture, but it sent a sudden rush of determination straight through his chest. He was going to pull this boat across the lake if it was the last thing he did.

"Alright, boys, eyes on me," Baxter announced, sliding into the small coxswain's seat at the very stern of the gig, his hands firmly gripping the black rudder lines. He looked remarkably pleased with his assignment, a wide, confident grin on his face as he looked over his rowing crew. "I am the captain of this ship now, which means you pull when I tell you to pull."

"Just steer us straight, cousin," Darius muttered, adjusting his grip. "And keep your instructions short."

"In, out, slide, pull," Baxter chanted, testing the swing of the wooden rudder. "It's a simple rhythm. Just match the stroke pace, and we'll leave those Sanibel club racers in our wake."

In the adjacent lane, the Eagle View team from Sanibel sat in their needle-thin carbon-fiber boat, looking like a professional collegiate crew in their matching neon green athletic shirts. Their coxswain was wearing a high-tech headset, her voice low and clinical as she spoke into a small microphone. They looked polished, synchronized, and highly confident.

Pete stood on the floating starter's raft near the middle of the cove, a bright orange starter's pistol raised toward the clear blue sky.

"Rowing gig division, heat one!" Pete's voice boomed over the PA system, building the suspense across the shoreline. "Back up to the starting rope!"

Baxter pulled the rudder lines, guiding Salty’s Pride backward until the stern touched the floating yellow marker. The four rowers held their oars flat against the water, stabilizing the heavy wooden craft as the gentle ripples of the lake lapped against the hull.