Chapter 4 - The Midnight Extraction
The heavy glass double doors of the Hermitage Grand Hotel parted, letting in the freezing November wind blowing off the Cumberland River.
I didn't wait for the valet.
I held Mason’s hand tightly in mine, our coats buttoned against the frost, walking down the wide granite steps toward the street. Behind us, the ballroom had devolved into an absolute, unmitigated riot of high-society ruin: Brittany’s mother was screaming at the wedding coordinator to cancel the catering invoices; Richard Collins was loudly instructing his corporate attorneys over his cell phone to freeze his daughter’s joint accounts; and my mother was sitting on the bottom step of the stage, weeping into her ruined silk sleeves as the catering staff began clearing the untouched dessert plates around her.
"Mom?" Mason looked up at me as our sneakers hit the wet asphalt of 6th Avenue.
His face was pale in the amber glare of the streetlights, his small breath puffing into white clouds of mist, but his eyes were completely clear, bright with that deep, unshakeable peace that only arrives when a child realizes he has protected the person he loves.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Are we going back to Grandma’s house?"
I stopped beneath the glowing marquee of the historic Ryman Auditorium across the street. I knelt on the cold pavement, wrapping both arms around my son’s shoulders, pulling his small frame against my chest until his heart was beating directly against mine.
"No, Mason," I whispered into his hair, kissing his cold temple. "We are never going back to that house again. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
A long, black Lincoln town car pulled smoothly to the curb beside us, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt.
The rear door clicked open.
Harrison Vance stepped out onto the pavement, his silver-tipped cane clicking rhythmically against the concrete, his dark wool overcoat draped securely over his shoulders.
"Get in the car, Sarah," Harrison said gently, his gravelly voice rich with an ancient, paternal warmth that took the chill out of the night air. "My firm's private guest suite at the Hermitage Residences is prepared. Hot soup, clean beds, and two armed private security marshals posted at the elevator bank."
"Mr. Vance, you don't have to do this," I said, rising to my feet, holding Mason against my hip.
Harrison looked down at me over his silver-rimmed glasses, a sad, knowing smile softening his weathered features.
"Your father saved my life on a hill outside Da Nang fifty years ago, Sarah," Harrison murmured softly. "When my supply convoy was ambushed, Arthur Mitchell dragged me three miles through an elephant grass swamp with two shrapnel wounds in his thigh.
I promised him on his deathbed that I would watch over his daughter.
I let Linda and Jake deceive me for eighteen months because I assumed a mother wouldn't rob her own blood.
That was my failure, Sarah.
Not yours.
Now get in the car... and let us balance your father's ledger."
We climbed into the leather-scented warmth of the town car. The heavy doors clicked shut with a concussive, soundproof thud that severed us completely from the chaos of the wedding ballroom.
As the car accelerated smoothly down Broadway toward the river, Mason leaned his head against my shoulder, his small fingers curling around my thumb, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion.
"Mom?" he murmured softly, his voice drifting into sleep.
"I’m right here, baby."
"Did Uncle Jake ever dance with me?"
Tears, hot and clean, welled along my lashes, slipping down my cheeks in the dark of the car.
"No, Mason," I whispered, resting my chin against his hair.
May you like
"Uncle Jake didn't dance.
He fell."
