Chapter 9 - The Terrace on the Lake
Three months later.
The early autumn sun rose over the rocky promontory of Lake Forest, Illinois, in a breathtaking, cinematic explosion of burning violet, deep copper, and brilliant, honey-colored gold that turned the waters of Lake Michigan into fields of liquid fire.
The air on the high stone terrace of the Hale ancestral estate was crisp, vast, and smelling of sweet cedar woodsmoke, clean lake ice, and the rich, invigorating chill of the approaching winter.
The historic limestone manor had undergone a total, magnificent resurrection.
The high wrought-iron security gates had been permanently removed, replaced by low fieldstone walls and open fields of wild sweet clover; the sixty rooms were filled with natural morning light, classical photography displays, and the crackle of dry birch logs in four massive limestone fireplaces; and down on the deep-water boathouse below the bluffs sat the Serena H.—an eighty-foot wooden schooner that I had commissioned from the historic shipyards of Maine.
Sitting on a wide teak bench on the terrace, reading the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune, was David Sloan.
He wore an unbuttoned wool chore coat over an open-collared flannel shirt, his posture completely relaxed, his face transformed by a deep, untouchable serenity that had never existed during his forty years in the corporate courtrooms of Manhattan.
"The European container consortium signed the thirty-year terminal lease extensions twenty minutes ago, Preston," Sloan said, looking up from his paper with a proud, brilliant smile. "Our zero-emission port model has officially been certified by the United Nations Maritime Organization. We cleared sixty million dollars in net operating revenue for the third quarter."
I stood at the granite balustrade of the terrace, holding a steaming ceramic mug of dark roast coffee with both hands, leaning my elbows against the warm stone.
I wore an oversized cream cable-knit fisherman’s sweater over dark denim trousers, my dark hair falling softly around my shoulders, my forty-two-year-old frame feeling lighter, stronger, and more whole than it had in my entire life.
Beside my boots, resting his massive golden head against my knee, was Barnaby—an eight-month-old golden retriever puppy that we had adopted from the municipal shelter in Evanston three weeks ago, whose tail thumped a steady, rhythmic cadence against the flagstones as he watched the gulls soaring above the cliffs.
"And the foundation clinics, David?" I asked, turning my head to look down at him.
"The clinic broke ground on the South Side campus yesterday afternoon, Preston," Sloan smiled, folding his newspaper. "Four hundred families are already enrolled in the autumn wellness registry. Full healthcare coverage funded directly from the foundation’s endowment."
A soft, clean tear broke over my lower lash, hot and bright, tracing down my cheek into the morning wind.
I remembered the cold, silent rooms of this house four years ago; I remembered the locked door of the nursery; I remembered the terrible, crushing weight of a son who had lost his voice to grief.
Now, his name was carved into five hundred feet of reinforced maritime granite, where two thousand free men and women owned the ground beneath their boots.
A soft, familiar step sounded on the flagstones behind me.
Emma walked up the terrace steps, wearing an unbuttoned black wool coat over a gray cashmere sweater, carrying two fresh-baked blueberry scones on a silver plate that Chef Roberto had prepared on the woodstove.
She set the plate on the stone table, walked over to the balustrade, and wrapped her broad arms around my waist from behind, resting her chin comfortably on my shoulder, pulling me back against his—her chest.
"Morning, Chief Executive," Emma murmured, her voice carrying over the sound of the lake swells.
I smiled—a wide, unreserved, magnificent expression that illuminated my entire face—and reached up, my warm fingers sliding over her wrists, feeling the familiar, powerful thrum of her heartbeat beneath the heavy wool.
"Morning, Emma," I whispered softly against her jawline.
They stood together in silence for a long moment, watching the white sails of a pilot boat cut across the outer whitecaps, the crisp salt wind carrying the clean scent of the open water.
The silent room was an empty memory.
The hospital was dust in the wind.
The wolves who had tried to destroy us were rotting in the dark cages they had built with their own greed.
And as the bells of the distant lakeside chapel chimed their nine-o'clock chorus across the bay, Preston Hale took a deep, uninhibited breath of the cold Midwestern air and smiled.
He was not a feared mob boss waiting for an indictment.
He was the master of his own life, the owner of his own mind, and the sovereign father of an unbroken family that belonged, wholly and forever, to the light.
Emma leaned down, pressing her lips against my temple, her arms tightening around my waist with gentle, unyielding permanence.
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"Look at that water, Preston," she whispered into the sweet autumn wind, pointing toward the vast, sparkling blue water stretching toward the horizon under an unclouded American sky.
"That's our water. And it runs clean forever."
