Chapter 10 - The Horizon
On an evening in late August, two years after the morning the nursery stood empty, I sat on the granite rocks at the tip of Pemaquid Point.
The Atlantic was rolling in beneath a violet twilight, the swells crashing against the black stone with a deep, subterranean rumble that vibrated through the rock beneath my boots. High above us on the bluff, the historic white tower of the Pemaquid Point Light flashed its steady, silver-white beam every six seconds across the dark water, guiding the fishing boats home through the gathering fog.
Noah was nearly three now.
He sat between my knees on the warm stone, wearing red rubber boots and a yellow oilskin jacket, his small hands carefully arranging six smooth, gray river stones in an exact straight line along a granite crevice.
"Look, Dada," he said, pointing his finger with serious, architectural concentration. "The stones are making a wall for the crabs."
"A very strong wall, Noah," I said, resting my chin gently against the crown of his dark hair. "Good structural balance."
"Mommy says we don't build walls to keep things out," Noah declared solemnly, looking back over his shoulder with his mother's clear, searching gray eyes. "We build walls so the boats have a harbor."
My chest tightened with an emotion so vast, so clean, and so profound that I could barely find the breath to answer him.
"Your mommy is right, buddy," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his little chest, holding him against the Atlantic wind. "She is always right about the harbor."
Behind us, fifty yards up the grassy slope of the bluff, the front door of the cottage clicked open.
Grace stepped out onto the porch, carrying a lantern that cast a warm, golden circle of light across the flagstones. She didn't shout down to the rocks; she simply raised her arm, waving once toward the water to let us know that the soup was hot and the bread was on the table.
Noah scrambled to his feet, his red boots squeaking against the wet stone. "Dada! Soup time! Let’s run!"
He took off up the grassy path, his little legs pumping furiously, laughing that breathless, beautiful laugh that had once vanished from our lives, his yellow jacket a bright beacon moving toward the open door.
I stood up from the granite ledge, brushed the salt spray from my trousers, and took a slow, deep breath of the freezing ocean air.
In Manhattan, the towers of Whitmore Capital still rose fifty stories above the concrete, managing their billions, shuffling their proxies, and filing their quarterly statements. My mother still sat at the head of her dining table, surrounded by her crystal, her silver, and the terrifying, deafening silence of an empty house.
I looked up the hill.
May you like
Noah had reached the porch steps, throwing his arms around his mother’s knees as Grace leaned down, laughing, scooping him up into her arms and holding the door wide so the light spilled all the way down the path to meet me.
I pulled my jacket tight against the evening chill, turned my back on the dark ocean, and walked toward the light.
