Chapter 4 - The House on the Cove
The coastal town of Rockport, Maine, smelled of salt water, damp spruce needles, and diesel fuel from the lobster boats anchored in the harbor.
It was four in the afternoon when Graham’s hired black town car crawled down a narrow, unpaved lane bordered by rusted iron mailboxes and overgrown wild blueberry bushes.
The house sat at the end of the point, overlooking a gray expanse of water where white-capped waves slammed against dark granite rocks. It was a modest two-story saltbox house with weathered gray shingles, a wrap-around porch with peeling white paint, and three colorful plastic tricycles lined up near the front steps like little sentinels.
Graham stepped out of the car.
He had changed out of his suit coat, wearing only his white dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sharp Atlantic wind bit through the thin cotton, but he welcomed the cold. It kept his mind focused.
As he walked up the gravel driveway, the front screen door creaked open.
Mark stepped out onto the porch. He held an axe in one hand and a freshly split log of birch in the other. He didn't set the axe down.
"You've got a lot of nerve coming up this driveway, Whitaker," Mark said, leaning against one of the wooden porch posts.
"I came to see Emily," Graham said, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps.
"She doesn't want to see you. And frankly, neither do I. You're trespassing on private property."
"Mark, please," Graham said, his tone lacking any of the corporate arrogance he usually wore like armor. "I know what you think of me. You think I'm a cowardly bastard who abandoned his family. And you're right. I was."
Mark snorted, setting the log down on the woodpile with a heavy thud. "You weren't just a bastard, man. You were a ghost. Do you have any idea what it took to raise three infant babies simultaneously? My wife—Emily’s sister—had to take a leave of absence from her teaching job just to help feed them every three hours. Emily worked two remote editing jobs at night while nursing triplets with mastitis and a fever of a hundred and two."
Graham’s chest tightened painfully. Every word Mark spoke felt like a hot needle sinking into his conscience.
"I didn't know," Graham whispered.
"Because you didn't ask!" Mark barked, taking a step down the stairs, his finger pointing straight at Graham’s chest. "You wrote her off like a bad tax write-off! Now you show up in your twelve-hundred-dollar shoes expecting what? A warm embrace? A framed picture for your office desk?"
"No," Graham said firmly, meeting Mark’s harsh gaze without flinching. "I expect nothing. But I am their father, Mark. I have a legal and moral responsibility to those children, and I am not leaving Maine until Emily speaks to me."
The screen door creaked open again.
Emily stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a thick knit sweater, faded gray sweatpants, and wool socks. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and she looked so exhausted that her skin seemed almost translucent under the pale northern sun.
"Mark, go inside and check on Leo," Emily said softly. "He's waking up from his nap."
Mark looked at Graham, then back at his sister-in-law. "Em, you don't have to talk to him. I can call the county sheriff right now."
"It's fine, Mark," Emily said gently. "He drove all the way from Boston. The least I can do is let him say what he came to say."
Mark spat onto the gravel near Graham’s shoes, gave him one last warning glare, and walked inside, slamming the wooden door behind him.
May you like
Emily walked down the steps, her hands tucked deep into her sweater pockets, stopping three feet away from Graham.
"You have five minutes, Graham," she said, her voice devoid of anger, which scared him far more than Mark’s rage had. "Say what you came to say."
