Chapter 9 - The Beacon Hill Return
Three days later, I merged my car back onto the Massachusetts Turnpike, accelerating into the fast lane as the Milbrook exit disappeared in my rearview mirror.
The rain had stopped, replaced by a brilliant, hard autumn sunlight that turned the changing foliage along the highway into jagged splashes of gold and crimson.
My phone sat in the dash mount, quiet for the first time in a week.
Dad was stable. The home-health nurse we hired—an actual professional this time—was managing his medication schedule. Mom had spent two hours on the phone with me the night before, crying quietly, admitting that she had made mistakes, and asking if she could come visit me in Boston for a weekend once the snow cleared.
I hadn’t said yes. But I hadn’t said no either. It was a crack in the dam, and for now, that was enough.
As I crossed the Charles River and navigated the familiar, winding streets of Beacon Hill, the weight of the past week began to lift from my shoulders, replaced by the comforting, grounded reality of my own life.
I parked my car in my usual underground spot, grabbed my tote bag, and walked up the brownstone steps to my office.
The brass doorbell chimed softly as I pushed open the glass door.
My lead contractor, Marcus, looked up from a stack of marble samples spread across the conference table. He wiped a hand over his forehead, looking stressed.
“Cassie! Thank god,” he said, jogging over. “We’ve got a massive issue with the custom cabinetry installation for the Beacon Hill project. The supplier sent the wrong shaker panels, and—”
I held up a hand, smiling faintly as I dropped my bag onto my desk and unzipped my coat.
“Relax, Marcus,” I said, stepping into the design studio where the smell of fresh paint and sawdust felt like oxygen. “Show me the specs. I’ve dealt with worse supply chain disasters this week than a few shaker panels.”
Marcus blinked, looking relieved. “Rough week down in Maine?”
“You have no idea,” I said, pulling my laptop out of the bag and sliding it onto the desk.
May you like
I sat down in my ergonomic leather chair, spun it toward the window overlooking the quiet Boston street, and took a deep, uninterrupted breath.
My EpiPen rested securely in my coat pocket. My phone was finally silent. And for the first time in thirty-six years, I didn't have to look over my shoulder to see who was waiting to poison the well.
