Chapter 7 - The Winter Solstice
By late December, a heavy blanket of fresh white snow covered the rolling lawns of Halloway House, turning the grey stone estate into a quiet, frozen fortress above the roaring sea.
Inside, the great hall was warm, lit by massive wood fires in the stone hearths. A fourteen-foot pine tree stood near the grand staircase, decorated with simple white lights and antique silver ornaments that had belonged to August’s mother.
Meredith sat on the plush sofa near the hearth, her feet tucked beneath a wool throw blanket. She was eight and a half months pregnant now, her belly round and heavy, her movements slow and deliberate.
Across the low coffee table, Thaddeus sat in his wheelchair, wearing a fresh red wool cardigan. In his left hand, he held a wooden carving knife, meticulously smoothing the edge of a small piece of pine he was shaping into a toy sailboat—a physical therapy exercise Meredith had designed to improve his motor control.
Clack. Clack.
Thaddeus struck the armrest, holding up the carved boat for Meredith’s inspection.
"It's beautiful, Mr. Halloway," Meredith said, her voice warm and genuine. "The hull is much smoother than the one you carved last week. Your left hand control is up thirty percent."
Thaddeus offered a small, crooked smile—a genuine warmth reaching his dark eyes.
The heavy front doors opened, and August walked into the hall, blowing snow from his shoulders. He removed his dark coat, handed it to Mrs. Doyle, and walked directly toward the hearth, warming his broad hands near the flames.
"The snow is coming down fast on the ocean road," August said, looking over at Meredith. "The weather service says we're locked in until tomorrow afternoon."
"Everything is stocked," Meredith replied softly. "Your father's oxygen reserves are full, and the backup generator was tested this morning."
August sat down in the leather armchair opposite her. He looked at her—really looked at her—in the warm, flickering firelight.
Over the past two months, her presence had transformed Halloway House. The cold, austere mansion that had once felt like an empty monument to duty and corporate power was now filled with life, quiet laughter, and an overwhelming sense of sanctuary.
"How are you feeling?" August asked, his voice softening in a way he reserved only for this room.
"He’s active tonight," Meredith said, resting a hand over her stomach as the baby kicked firmly against her palm. "I think he likes the sound of the fire."
August watched her hand, a subtle shift occurring in his gray eyes.
"May I?" he asked quietly.
Meredith looked up, surprised by the request, then offered a gentle nod. "Of course."
August stood up, knelt on the Persian rug beside the sofa, and carefully placed his large, warm palm against the curve of her belly. He held his breath, waiting.
A second later, a strong, decisive kick pressed directly against his palm.
A rare, brilliant smile broke across August’s hard features—a smile so sudden and transformative that Meredith felt her own heart skip a quiet beat.
"He's strong," August murmured, keeping his hand in place, feeling the quiet rhythm of the new life within her.
"He gets that from this house, I think," Meredith said softly, her dark eyes locked onto August’s face in the golden firelight.
At the window, Thaddeus set his carving knife down on the table, watched the two of them for a long, quiet moment, and struck the bed rail twice with his left hand.
May you like
Clack. Clack.
Yes.
