Chapter 9 - The Terrace in Short North
Three months later.
The early spring sun rose over the historic brick buildings of the Short North arts district in Columbus in a breathtaking, cinematic explosion of pale rose, honey gold, and clear cornflower blue.
The air on the high brick balcony of our newly leased two-bedroom loft was crisp, vast, and smelling of fresh espresso, blooming dogwood blossoms, and the rich, invigorating promise of a new season.
The loft was magnificent: exposed 1910 red brick walls, soaring twelve-foot timber ceilings, and massive arched industrial windows that flooded the open-concept living room with brilliant natural light.
Mom’s antique Samsonite suitcase was gone, replaced by a beautiful cherrywood wardrobe in her sunny corner bedroom, where her collection of vintage botanical prints hung neatly above a reading desk. Her arthritis was being managed by a specialist at the Ohio State Medical Center, her pain reduced by sixty percent, her days spent volunteering three mornings a week at the Columbus Metropolitan Library's rare book archive.
Down in the living room, Barnaby—the four-month-old golden retriever puppy I had adopted from the municipal shelter three weeks earlier—was rolling on a thick wool rug, batting happily at a plush squeaky bone.
On the wide dining table, fresh bagels from the local bakery sat beside a bowl of fresh strawberries and a pot of dark roast coffee.
I stood at the balcony railing, wearing an oversized cream cable-knit fisherman’s sweater over dark denim trousers, holding an antique stoneware mug with both hands, leaning my elbows against the warm brick.
At twenty-three years old, I took a deep, uninhibited breath of the morning air, letting the clean breeze fill my lungs to the very brim.
My promotion to Senior Forensic Compliance Analyst at Vance, Holbrook & Sterling had been confirmed on Friday. My first independent case—an eighty-million-dollar municipal bond audit—had resulted in a full recovery for two thousand public school teachers, earning our division a formal commendation from the State Attorney General.
Beside me on the balcony stood Mom, wrapped in a soft cashmere shawl, smiling as she watched Barnaby leap across the living room rug.
"Your sister called yesterday, Claire," Mom said softly.
I took a slow, leisurely sip of my coffee. "How are they doing in the apartment?"
"They signed a two-year lease on a three-bedroom garden flat near Dublin," Mom replied. "Aaron took on an extra commercial shift on Saturdays. He told me he’s paying off the remainder of their credit card debt by June."
"And Rebecca?"
Mom smiled faintly—a wise, patient smile that had seen thirty years of human folly.
"Rebecca is working twenty hours a week at a preschool down the street from their flat. She gets free tuition for Caleb, and she walks Sophie to school every morning. She told me... that she never realized how heavy twenty-four thousand dollars felt until she had to earn every dollar herself."
"Did she ask for money?" I asked.
"No," Mom said softly, turning to look at me, her eyes shining with fierce, unreserved maternal pride.
"She asked if you and I would come over for Sunday dinner next month.
She said she’s learning how to make Dad’s pot roast...
without the bitterness."
I looked out over the skyline of Columbus, where the morning traffic was beginning to hum along High Street like a river of silver and glass.
"Tell her we'll bring the dessert, Mom," I said with a quiet smile.
May you like
"As long as she doesn't expect anyone...
to earn their keep."
