Chapter 10 - The Garden on the Hill
One year later.
In the rolling green hills of Ojai, ninety minutes north of Los Angeles, the morning sun washed over a charming stone farmhouse surrounded by olive trees, lavender gardens, and orange groves.
There were no seventy-story glass roofs here. There were no marble floors, electronic keypads, or security cameras.
On the front porch, Martha sat in a comfortable rocking chair, podding fresh green peas into a wooden bowl, a soft radio station playing low in the background. Her broken ribs had healed completely, and her cheeks had recovered a healthy, rosy flush.
In the garden, Julian—wearing a simple flannel shirt and dirty work boots—was kneeling in the soil, helping his three-year-old nephew plant a small lemon tree. Julian had surrendered his corporate executive titles, taking over the management of a non-profit land trust that converted abandoned industrial sites into community parks.
The front screen door creaked open.
Chloe walked out onto the porch, wearing a sun dress, holding a healthy, chubby ten-month-old boy with dark curls and bright blue eyes.
"Is he awake?" Julian asked, wiping his muddy hands on his jeans as he walked up the porch steps.
"He’s been awake for an hour," Chloe smiled, handing the baby to his father. "He tried to eat my paintbrush while I was working on the nursery mural."
Julian lifted his son high into the air, the baby letting out a delighted, ringing laugh that echoed through the quiet olive grove.
"What did you name him again, Julian?" Martha teased from her rocking chair, looking over her reading glasses with a smirk.
"Marcus Daniel Vance," Julian said, kissing the baby’s soft cheek. "A boy who is going to grow up knowing how to build things with his hands instead of breaking them."
A mail truck pulled up to the gate at the end of the driveway, dropping a small stack of letters into the box before driving off.
Julian walked down to the gate, holding his son on his hip, and retrieved the mail. Among the utility bills and local farm magazines was a single official letter stamped with the emblem of the California State Department of Corrections.
It was a notice regarding Victoria Vance’s first parole hearing at the CIW facility in Corona. She had served twelve months of her twenty-year sentence for attempted murder and corporate fraud. Attached was a note from the warden: Inmate Vance continues to refuse visitors and has declined all rehabilitation programs.
Julian looked at the letter for a long moment. He didn't feel bitterness, nor did he feel the phantom terror that used to grip him whenever his mother’s name was spoken.
He folded the letter in half, walked over to the stone fire pit near the edge of the garden, and tossed it onto the glowing embers of last night’s firewood.
The paper curled, caught fire, and turned to soft gray ash in seconds, carried away by the gentle mountain breeze.
Julian walked back to the porch, stepping up onto the wood, and placed his arm around Chloe’s waist. She leaned her head against his shoulder, watching the sun climb higher into the blue California sky.
"What are you thinking about?" Chloe asked softly, resting her hand over his.
May you like
Julian looked at his wife, at his healthy son playing with Martha’s wooden bowl, and at the endless green hills stretching out before them.
"I’m thinking," Julian said, his voice filled with an absolute, unshakeable peace, "that the view from the ground is so much better than the view from the roof."
