Chapter 6 - The Reception on the Point
Six months later.
The early spring heat of April had transformed the waterfront of Fort Havenfield, Virginia, into an expansive, glittering horizon of liquid sapphire, running water, and blooming wild white dogwood along the river bluffs.
The officers' pavilion at Point Lookout—the high granite ridge overlooking the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay—was an ocean of light, fresh air, and billowing white linen awnings that snapped cleanly in the Atlantic wind.
There were no plastic society hostesses whispering about family pedigree.
There were no unverified packages sitting on auxiliary gift tables.
Under the wide cedar pergola overlooking the water, eighty people were gathered around long wooden banquet tables draped in yellow linen: our logistics squad, the master machinists from the depot, Colonel Arthur Bennett, Special Agent Marcus Croft, and lifelong brothers-in-arms who had walked with me through the valley of the shadow of death and returned to my table without fear.
Laughter drifted across the rolling green lawn; the sweet, smoky aroma of wood-fired barbecue, fresh sourdough bread, and roasted sweet corn filled the crisp ocean air; and near the flower beds, children were playing tag in the clover with two rescue golden retriever puppies that Spencer had given to me for our six-month anniversary.
Standing on the elevated stone balustrade overlooking the bay, holding a glass of sparkling cider with fresh mint, was me.
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, my posture imperial, unarmored, and completely sovereign beneath the afternoon light.
Around my left fourth finger... sat the unadorned, hand-forged platinum band that Spencer had placed there beneath the Virginia pines—a ring that had never carried a condition, never carried a lie, and never asked for an apology.
Around my neck hung my original combat dog tags, resting warm and solid against my breastbone.
Footsteps moved softly across the sandstone flagstones behind me.
I turned around.
Spencer walked up, wearing an unbuttoned navy linen blazer over an open-collared white shirt and dark trousers, his dark hair catching the afternoon sun, looking relaxed, sovereign, and magnificent in the coastal light.
In his hands, he held a freshly printed, heavy-stock administrative folio—the complete, audited financial discharge of the Sullivan estate liquidation, bound in deep green Moroccan leather.
He stopped beside me at the balustrade, set the book on the stone wall, wrapped his strong, warm arm around my waist, pulling me gently against his broad chest, his chin resting comfortably beside my temple as we looked out over the vast, glittering expanse of the bay where the river met the blue sky.
"The federal court in Alexandria finalized the criminal sentencing thirty minutes ago, Maeve," Spencer murmured softly against my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin below my jaw, sending a sweet, familiar warmth straight through my marrow.
I leaned my head back against his shoulder, listening to the laughter of our soldiers drifting from the tables, feeling the warm summer sun on my skin and the solid granite beneath our boots.
"What did Judge Campbell hand down, Spencer?" I asked quietly.
"Julian Mercer was sentenced to twenty-four years at the federal maximum-security penitentiary in Florence, Colorado," Spencer replied, his voice flat as an iron skillet:
"Zero possibility of parole. Complete dishonorable dismissal from the naval service, with full forfeiture of all pensions and benefits."
He paused, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an unshakeable, sacred devotion:
"And Freya?"
"Freya was sentenced to eight years at the federal correctional camp in Alderson, West Virginia," Spencer said softly:
"Mandatory full restitution of the one hundred and forty thousand dollars, to be satisfied through institutional labor allocations. She reported to the facility at zero-eight-hundred hours this morning."
I smiled, taking a slow sip of my cider, feeling the clean ocean breeze rustle through the emerald linen of my dress.
"My mother used to say that a family only survives if one daughter is sacrificed so the other can shine, Spencer," I murmured softly.
Spencer tightened his arm around my waist, his large, warm hand gently, familiarly sliding over mine where my fingers rested on the warm stone:
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"Your mother was an idiot, Maeve," Spencer 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 hold the line when the wolves come out of the woods."
