Chapter 25 - The Unbroken Line
Spring returned to Vermont with a sudden, roaring rush of melting snow and swollen brooks, washing away the remnants of winter and waking the high mountain forests from their deep sleep. The mud dried into packed earth, the wild ferns pushed through the dark loam along the ridge, and the apple trees behind the ranch house burst into a magnificent canopy of pink and white blossoms.
On a bright Saturday afternoon in late May, the gravel drive was quiet except for the cheerful chirping of robins darting through the low pine branches.
Brett stood on the front porch, leaning against the sturdy cedar railing Harlo had anchored deep into the granite bedrock. He wore a simple canvas work shirt and worn jeans, his eyes fixed on the magnificent expanse of the Green Mountains stretching out across the horizon. The valley far below was green and vibrant, completely free of the ghosts that had haunted it for so long.
Inside the house, the wood stove had been allowed to go cold for the season, replaced by the soft, fresh breeze drifting through the wide, accessible windows. Paulette was humming quietly in the kitchen, her hands moving effortlessly across the low butcher block as she prepared dinner, while Vernon sat in his brown corduroy recliner by the front bay window, listening to the muffled broadcast of a Red Sox game on his radio.
The debt was paid. The ledger was closed. And for the first time in his life, when the spring wind swept down off the high peaks, the house didn't even shiver.
A pair of headlights swept across the lower curve of the driveway, slowing momentarily as a silver pickup truck turned around at the gate before heading back down toward the valley. Brett watched the taillights fade into the dark timberline, wondering briefly if it was Caitlyn, or just a lost traveler looking for a way back to the main highway.
It didn't matter. Whoever they were, they were on their own road now.
May you like
Brett turned back toward the warm, brightly lit doorway, his hand sliding easily into his pocket, where the brass keys to a life built on solid ground rested quietly against his palm.
He stepped inside, pulled the heavy cedar door shut behind him, and threw the deadbolt with a solid, resounding *clack*.
