Chapter 8 - The Morning on the Cape Fear
The morning sun broke over the Cape Fear River in an explosion of liquid amber, deep rose-gold, and blinding sapphire blue that set the pine canopy ablaze with light.
It was Sunday morning.
The temperature was sixty-eight degrees, the air smelling of clean river water, sweetgum leaves, and the rich, dark coffee brewing in an enamel pot on the outdoor stone hearth behind Dalton Automotive.
The garage bay doors were thrown wide open.
Inside Bay Two, the hydraulic lift held a vintage nineteen-sixty-nine Chevy pickup truck that Miles was rebuilding for a local disabled veteran from the Eighty-Second Airborne.
On the gravel apron outside the shop, a long wooden picnic table was covered in platters of scrambled eggs, country ham, buttermilk biscuits, and fresh peach preserves that Uncle Wesley had brought down from his farm on the creek.
Sitting around the table, laughing loudly as they clattered their heavy mugs together, were eight members of my squad:
Captain Whitaker, his uniform replaced by faded jeans and an unbuttoned flannel shirt.
Lieutenant Langford, wearing his running shorts and combat boots.
Specialist Miller, throwing scraps of bacon to a three-month-old golden retriever puppy that Miles had surprised me with on Friday evening.
Sitting at the head of the table, wearing an unbuttoned denim chore jacket over a white henley, looking relaxed, sovereign, and magnificent beneath the Carolina sun, was Wesley Archer.
He was seventy-two now, but his posture was straight as an iron girder, his hazel eyes clear and bright as he watched the young paratroopers argue about college football over their coffee.
Footsteps moved softly across the gravel behind me.
I turned around.
Miles walked out from the bay, wiping his calloused, grease-stained hands on a red shop rag, wearing his dark gray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
He stopped beside where I stood leaning against the wooden railing of the office porch, wrapped his large, warm arm around my waist, and pulled me flush against his side, his chin resting gently on the crown of my head.
"The certified dispatch from Washington arrived twenty minutes ago, baby," Miles murmured softly against my ear, his deep, resonant baritone rich with genuine affection:
"Reid Archer’s resignation from the United States Senate cleared the floor at midnight. The private estate in Chevy Chase has been listed for public auction by the federal bankruptcy trustee to satisfy the back taxes on the Maryland trust."
I smiled, taking a slow sip of my coffee, feeling the warm spring breeze rustle through my hair.
"And Helena?" I asked quietly.
"Helena moved into a two-bedroom rental apartment in Silver Spring yesterday," Miles replied, his voice flat and neutral:
"She took a job as an administrative receptionist at a regional dental clinic. She rides the metro to work every morning."
I looked out across the sun-drenched gravel yard.
The paratroopers were laughing; the puppy was barking with pure, bell-like joy as it chased a butterfly through the clover; and the American flag flying from the steel pole above the garage snapped cleanly in the river wind.
There was no hatred left in my chest.
There was no bitterness.
The fire that had threatened to consume my soul in that cold chapel eight days ago had completely burned away, leaving behind only the clean, hard, unassailable granite of my true life.
"My father used to say that a family only survives if it’s built on who you know, Miles," I whispered softly.
Miles tightened his arm around my waist, his large, warm hand gently sliding over mine where my fingers rested on the wooden rail:
May you like
"Your father was an idiot, Morrison," Miles smiled—a slow, magnificent, and eternal paratrooper smile that lit up his handsome face with pure, unadulterated devotion:
"A family only survives if the people standing beside you are willing to jump out of the bird with you in the dark."
