Chapter 8 - The House on the Cliff
Six months later.
The estate on Ridge Road looked different under the clear, golden light of an October afternoon.
The heavy iron gates were still there, and the slate walls remained as high as ever, but the dark pine woods had been thinned out, opening up a breathtaking view of the sea three hundred feet below. A long stone terrace had been built along the south side of the house, furnished with teak chairs and warm wool blankets.
On the terrace, a large wooden table was set for eight people.
Miles Carter stood near the outdoor grill, wearing a chef's apron that looked absurdly small over his broad shoulders, arguing good-naturedly with young Agent Vance from the FBI over the proper way to smoke a salmon fillet.
Inside the glass-walled kitchen, Claire stood by the marble island, wearing a simple cream sweater and jeans, her dark hair tied back with a silk ribbon. She was laughing as she chopped fresh herbs for a salad.
A pair of large, warm arms wrapped around her waist from behind.
Dominic leaned down, resting his chin on her shoulder, his face smooth, relaxed, and years younger than it had looked during those desperate nights on Fourth Street.
"Miles is going to burn the fish," Dominic murmured into her ear, his lips brushing against the soft skin behind her lobe.
"Miles is doing fine," Claire smiled, leaning back against his broad chest and resting her hands over his. "You're just nervous because your brother is coming up from Philadelphia."
"I am not nervous about my brother," Dominic said, though his arms tightened slightly around her waist. "I am nervous because he’s bringing three children who don't understand that my antique maps aren't coloring books."
"I locked the study," Claire said, turning around in his arms to face him, her hands coming up to rest against his white linen shirt. "And I put away the 18th-century atlas."
Dominic looked down at her face, his eyes softening into that quiet, deep warmth that was reserved entirely for her. He reached up, his hand gently smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You think of everything," he said softly.
"That's what you pay me for," she teased.
"I don't pay you anymore," he reminded her, his hands slipping down to rest on her hips. "You own forty percent of the company now. In fact, according to the morning report, you made more money on the Rotterdam contract than I did."
"That's because I actually read the tariff fine print," she said, leaning up on her toes to press a brief, sweet kiss to his lips.
A sudden, sharp horn honked from the driveway below the terrace.
Dominic turned to look through the floor-to-ceiling glass. A silver station wagon had pulled through the iron gates, three small faces pressed against the rear windows, waving wildly at the house.
Dominic let out a long sigh, but his mouth was smiling.
"They're here," he said.
"Go help them with the bags," Claire said, giving him a gentle push toward the door. "I'll finish the salad."
Dominic paused in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame. He looked back at her—at the bright, sunlit kitchen, at the warm wood of his home, at the woman who had transformed his life from an armed fortress into a place of peace.
"Claire?"
"Yes, Dominic?"
"Thank you for calling me that night," he said quietly.
Claire looked at him, her dark eyes shining with an absolute, unshakable love.
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"I didn't have anyone else to call, Dominic," she said softly. "You were always my home."
Dominic nodded once, his heart full, and stepped out onto the terrace to welcome his family into the light.
