Chapter 7 - The Restoration of the River
Six months later.
The early spring thaw had transformed the banks of the Rock River near Oregon, Illinois, into an expansive, glittering horizon of liquid sapphire, running water, and fresh green buds on the weeping willows along the limestone bluffs.
The twenty-acre timber property that Ryan had purchased following his divorce was an ocean of light, fresh air, and blooming wild white dogwood.
The historic stone-and-cedar cabin sat perched on a granite ridge overlooking the river, completely restored over four months of disciplined, joyful labor: the heavy white-oak roof trusses had been hand-planed and sealed with natural tung oil; the stone hearth had been rebuilt with native river rock; and from the wide cedar deck overlooking the water, the sound of the rapids hummed with clean, triumphant energy.
In the center of the gravel turnaround, standing beside his Ford F-250 pickup truck, was Ryan Reed.
He was unrecognizable from the exhausted, defeated husband who had sat in the conservatory six months earlier.
He wore faded work denim, heavy leather boots, and an unbuttoned red flannel shirt over a clean gray thermal, his broad shoulders squared, his face tan, healthy, and laughing with that rich, booming baritone that had returned to his chest the day his divorce decree was finalized by the Cook County court.
Beside him, holding a golden retriever puppy by its collar, was Sarah—who had divorced Greg three months ago after discovering that his pool-house encounter with Megan was only one of four separate indiscretions.
Sarah looked radiant in an oversized sweater and jeans, her face glowing with that serene, unshakeable peace that belongs only to a woman who has walked through the fire and claimed her freedom with her own hands.
The sound of car tires crunched on the gravel driveway.
My dark navy Audi Q7 pulled smoothly onto the turnaround, stopping beside Ryan’s truck.
The driver’s door opened.
I stepped out into the crisp spring air.
I wore an off-the-shoulder gown of emerald-green linen that flowed gracefully around my ankles, my dark hair falling in soft, natural waves across my shoulders, holding an architectural roll of blueprints under my arm.
My skin was radiant, rested, completely unburdened by the ten years of invisible emotional labor that had once bowed my back.
Around my left fourth finger... sat nothing at all.
The skin was smooth, clean, and permanently free of foreign rings.
"Look who finally made it out of the Loop!" Ryan shouted, laughing as he walked across the gravel with long, easy strides, wrapping his large, warm arms around my shoulders in a fierce, brotherly bear hug that lifted my heels two inches off the stones.
"Good to see you, Ryan," I laughed, kissing his rough, bearded cheek as he set me down.
Sarah walked over, wrapping her arm around my waist, pressing her cheek against mine with deep, sisterly affection:
"The permits cleared the county zoning board an hour ago, Claire," Sarah smiled, pointing toward the high granite bluff above the cabin where our new collaborative design pavilion was scheduled to break ground on Monday morning.
"The Rock River Ecological Architectural Center is officially under construction. Zero debt covenants. Complete municipal backing."
I smiled, taking a deep, clean breath of the river air, feeling the warm spring breeze rustle through my hair.
"My grandfather used to say that a building only stands if the foundation is laid by people who aren't afraid of the truth, Ryan," I murmured softly.
Ryan turned to face me, his arm resting gently against the hood of his truck, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an unshakeable, sacred devotion that needed no legal contracts and no public performances:
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"The foundation is laid by people who aren't afraid of the truth, Claire," Ryan said softly, his voice rich with quiet, unyielding peace.
"The stone goes all the way down to the granite. It’s not going anywhere. In this life, or the next."
