Chapter 17 - The Quiet Spring
The dogwood trees along the banks of the Chesapeake Bay were bursting into a delicate snow of white blossoms, their sweet, earthy perfume drifting through the open windows of the kitchen.
Mateo was squatting on the back lawn, a small yellow plastic trowel in his right hand, furiously digging a trench for a row of tomato seedlings he had insisted on planting himself. His dark curls bounced with every energetic jab into the rich, dark soil, and his cheeks were flushed with the warm gold of an April afternoon.
"Mommy! Look! I found a worm!" he yelled, holding up a wriggling pink crawler with absolute scientific triumph.
Mariana leaned against the porch railing, laughing as she wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron. "That’s a very good worm, Mateo! Make sure you put him back in the dirt so he can help the tomatoes grow!"
Daniel walked up behind her, carrying a crate of fresh lumber for the new chicken coop he was building near the orchard. He paused, setting the wood down with a dull thud, and wrapped his arms around Mariana from behind, resting his chin comfortably on her shoulder.
"You’ve got dirt on your nose," Daniel murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
"It’s flour, not dirt," she corrected, smiling as she leaned back against his solid chest, feeling the familiar, steady beat of his heart. "And you have sawdust in your hair."
"It's a look. Very rugged. Very suburban dad."
They stood together in silence for a moment, watching Mateo chatter away to a bumblebee that had landed on his trowel. Life had settled into a rhythm so profoundly ordinary, so beautifully mundane, that Mariana sometimes had to pinch herself to make sure it wasn't a dream. There were no press releases, no charity galas, no multi-million-dollar trust funds, and no cold-eyed women in Chanel suits dictating the value of a human life.
Julian Vance had called the previous evening to report that the probate court had finally closed the Greenwich estate liquidation. The remaining funds—after paying off the back taxes and environmental cleanup fines for the demolition site—had been placed into a restricted public scholarship fund for pediatric nursing, named in honor of little Mateo.
Victoria and Fernanda were living in a modest two-bedroom assisted-living facility in Poughkeepsie. Victoria was confined to a wheelchair, her days spent staring out a double-paned window at a municipal parking lot, while Fernanda worked part-time as a cashier at a local pharmacy, her social circle reduced to a few elderly residents who played Bingo on Thursday nights. They had sent one letter six weeks ago—a short, jagged scrawl on cheap lined paper asking for financial assistance for physical therapy. Mariana hadn't replied. She had simply burned the letter in the wood stove, watching the ink curl and blacken until nothing was left but gray ash.
You cannot rescue people who still believe they are drowning everyone else.
"Are you thinking about them?" Daniel asked softly, his thumb tracing the line of her collarbone.
Mariana shook her head, turning around in his arms to bury her face against his chest, inhaling the clean scent of cedar, sweat, and sun.
"No," she whispered, her voice muffled against his shirt. "I was just thinking about dinner. Do you think Mateo will actually eat the spinach he picked, or is he going to try to feed it to the dog again?"
May you like
Daniel laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the crisp spring air. "Knowing our son? He’ll feed it to the dog, and the dog will probably run away."
***
