Chapter 7 - The Healing Process
Two weeks later, the ocean at Cannon Beach was quiet.
The grand seaside home that my father had built forty years ago was filled with the soft, warm light of a late autumn afternoon. The smell of cedar wood smoke drifted from the fireplace, mixing with the scent of fresh cinnamon and roasted apples coming from the kitchen.
Vivienne sat on the sun porch overlooking the Pacific.
The swelling on her face had diminished, leaving only a faint yellowing bruise near her jawline that was fading day by day. Her damaged wedding gown had been secured in an evidence locker by Detective Miller, but in its place, she wore a thick white cashmere sweater that Gabriel had bought for her during a trip into the city.
She was holding a warm mug of tea in both hands, watching the gulls dive into the grey surf.
Gabriel stepped out onto the porch, carrying two wooden folding chairs. He set them down beside her, sitting down quietly without saying a word. I followed a moment later, setting a basket of fresh blankets on the table between them.
For ten minutes, none of us spoke. We simply listened to the rhythmic, eternal crash of the waves against the shore.
“I burned the wedding album yesterday,” Vivienne said suddenly, her voice quiet, clean, and entirely free of tears.
Gabriel looked at her gently. “Did it help?”
Vivienne turned her head to look at us. Her eyes, once clouded with absolute terror, were clear again—sharp, bright, and resilient.
“A little,” she admitted. “I realized something while I was watching the pages turn to ash. I wasn't grieving Mason. I was grieving the idea of who I thought he was. I was mourning a stranger.”
“That stranger,” Gabriel said softly, reaching out to cover her small hand with his large, calloused palm, “was a mask worn by a coward. You don't owe that mask a single tear, Viv.”
“I know,” she whispered. She squeezed his hand tightly. “Dad?”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Thank you.”
Gabriel shook his head slightly. “You don't have to thank me for doing what any father should do.”
“No,” Vivienne corrected, looking between Gabriel and me. “I do. Because for years, I thought you two were broken beyond repair. I thought that when things fell apart, people just moved into separate corners and stopped fighting for each other.”
She paused, swallowing hard over her emotions.
“When I ran up your porch stairs two weeks ago,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly, “I was terrified that calling Dad would bring back all the old arguments. I thought you would fight about who was responsible. But you didn't. You stood together. You became a wall.”
I sat down on the empty chair beside her, taking her other hand into mine.
“We were never broken, Viv,” I told her softly, glancing over at Gabriel. “We were just lost in our own battles for a while. But when it comes to you? There has never been a wall in this world that could stand between your father and me.”
Gabriel looked across at me over our daughter’s head. The old distance, the years of quiet resentment and cold silence that had sat between us since our divorce, seemed to evaporate in the golden afternoon sun.
“We’re not going anywhere, Vivienne,” Gabriel promised her, his voice heavy with a deep, permanent truth. “I’ve restructured my firm. Marcus is taking over the primary international cases. I’m moving my head office back to Portland permanently.”
May you like
Vivienne looked shocked. “You’re coming back?”
“I’m coming home,” Gabriel said quietly, meeting my eyes with an intensity that made my heart leap in my chest. “I spent twenty years fixing problems for strangers. It’s time I took care of the home I left behind.”
