Chapter 9 - THE HEALING AT THE COAST
Three months later, the early summer breeze carried the familiar scent of marsh grass and salt air across the waters of Charleston Harbor. The Atlantic rolled in gentle, rhythmic swells against the Battery seawall, its turquoise surface glittering under a flawless morning sky.
I leaned against the weathered wooden railing of the marina, watching Poppy run along the wooden planks of the pier. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her brown hair pulled back with two red ribbons, laughing as she chased a group of squawking seagulls. There was no shortness of breath, no bluish tint to her lips, no exhaustion. Her small sneakers beat a steady, lively cadence against the cedar planks—the sound of a completely healthy, unbroken heart.
“Don’t run too close to the edge, Poppy-seed!” Liora called out from the bench behind us.
Poppy stopped, turned around with her hands on her hips, and gave that stubborn, adorable pout that belonged entirely to her mother. “I’m not near the edge, Mama! Daddy said I have sea legs now!”
Liora laughed—a sound that still sent warmth rushing through every corner of my chest. She looked radiant. The hollow exhaustion that had haunted her cheeks for eight years had vanished, replaced by a healthy, sun-kissed glow. She wore a simple white linen blouse, and on her left ring finger, the sea-green tourmaline caught the morning light.
I walked over and sat beside her on the bench, slipping my arm around her shoulders. She leaned into my side with an ease that felt as natural as breathing.
“Hard to believe it’s the same pier,” I murmured, looking out at the spot where the old café used to stand before Hurricane Joaquin destroyed the pilings.
“It isn’t the same,” Liora said softly, resting her hand on my knee. “That pier belonged to two kids who had no idea how cruel the world could be. This one belongs to a family that survived it.”
After the trials in Richmond, we had stepped away from the spotlight. Crosswood Manor was undergoing a complete architectural transformation under Liora’s direction—the cold, imposing ballrooms were being redesigned into bright, open spaces for the Bennett-Cross Foundation for Pediatric Cardiology, which we had endowed with twenty-five million dollars to ensure that no parent would ever have to choose between their pride and their child’s life-saving surgery.
Cambria Wren had accepted a plea agreement: eight years in federal prison for conspiracy and grand larceny, stripped of her board seats and social standing. Victoria Wren was currently awaiting trial at the Metropolitan Detention Center in Brooklyn, her empire crumbling under a mountain of SEC foreclosures.
And Bramwell... Bramwell remained at the state medical facility in Virginia, paralyzed on his right side from the stroke he suffered after Harrison’s assault. Two weeks ago, I had received a letter from him—three lines written in shaky, barely legible ink, asking if he could see Poppy one last time before his sentencing.
I hadn't answered it. Forgiveness was a noble concept, but some wounds were meant to serve as boundaries. My duty was to protect the family I had been given back.
“Evan?” Poppy’s voice broke through my thoughts.
She was standing in front of us, holding out two flat, smooth slate stones she had found near the seawall. Her gray-green eyes sparkled with mischievous challenge.
“You promised,” she said, tilting her head. “You said when my heart was fixed and we came to Charleston, you’d teach me how to skip stones like you taught Mama.”
I smiled, standing up and taking one of the smooth stones from her small palm. “A Cross never breaks a promise to a Bennett. Watch closely, kiddo.”
I crouched beside her, adjusting her small fingers along the edge of the stone, showing her the proper angle against the water. “Low to the surface, Poppy. Flick your wrist, not your whole arm. Let the stone do the dancing.”
She pulled her arm back, concentrated with absolute seriousness, and let the stone fly.
It hit the glassy water once, twice, three times, sending small rings of white foam across the surface before sinking into the blue depths.
“Three skips!” Poppy shrieked, jumping up and down on the pier, throwing her arms around my neck as I lifted her high into the summer air. “Mama, did you see that? Three skips!”
“I saw it, baby!” Liora cheered, clapping her hands.
As I held Poppy against my chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of her healed heart against my own, I looked down at Liora, who was looking up at us with tears of profound, serene joy.
The eight years of darkness, the lies, the cold water on the marble floor of Crosswood Manor—all of it had been burned away by the simple, enduring truth of the family we were building together.
“Daddy?” Poppy whispered, wrapping her small arms tightly around my neck.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Can we stay here forever?”
May you like
I looked at Liora, whose smile answered the question before I could even speak.
“We don't have to stay on this pier forever, Poppy,” I said softly, kissing her cheek. “Because wherever we are together... that’s where forever begins.”
