Chapter 10 - WHERE WE BELONG
One year later.
The misty morning rain fell softly over the rolling green hills of Bainbridge Island, just across the water from Seattle. The air smelled of sweet cedar, damp earth, and the salty breeze from Puget Sound.
Sitting on a five-acre lot overlooking the water was a beautiful, renovated wood-and-stone farmhouse.
A large red barn stood near the driveway, its wide doors open. Inside the barn, a brand-new brass plaque hung above the pristine concrete workspace: Vance Family Marine & Fleet Restoration.
Inside the garage, two classic pickup trucks sat on hydraulic lifts, surrounded by organized tool racks and high-end diagnostics equipment. Sam Artino, wearing his trademark dark jumpsuit and puffing on a cigar, was showing eight-year-old Clara how to use a torque wrench on a truck wheel.
“No, no, sweetie,” Sam’s rough voice boomed with gentle patience. “Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty. Turn it from the elbow, not the wrist.”
Clara giggled, applying her weight to the wrench until a satisfying CLICK sounded. “Like that, Uncle Sam?!”
“Perfection,” Sam chuckled, patting her head. “You’re already ten times better than your old man was at your age.”
Out on the wide wooden porch of the main house, sitting on a swinging bench, sat Savannah.
She wore a soft cream sweater, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. Her face was full, healthy, and radiant, stripped forever of the cold, exhausted tension that had trapped her in Manhattan. On her lap lay an open sketchbook filled with vibrant watercolors of the island’s coastline.
Beside the porch, Sienna and Maeve were running through the green grass with a golden retriever puppy, their joyful laughter echoing across the quiet property.
I stepped out from the barn, wiping my hands on a clean shop towel, wearing a simple flannel shirt and jeans. I walked up the porch steps, sitting down beside Savannah on the swing.
She set her sketchbook aside, leaning her head comfortably against my shoulder—the same shoulder where our story had quietly restarted two years ago.
I wrapped my arm around her, kissing the top of her head.
“Julian’s sentencing was finalized this morning,” Savannah murmured softly, her fingers interlocking with mine. “Twenty years in federal prison without parole. My father’s legal team surrendered his remaining voting shares in the company to pay the federal restitution fines.”
I looked out at the water, watching a ferryboat glide smoothly through the misty bay toward Seattle.
“They can keep the money and the shares,” I said softly. “They’ll never have what matters.”
Savannah looked up at me, her gray eyes clear, bright, and filled with a peace that reached all the way to her soul. She reached up, touching the star tattoo on her left shoulder blade, which peeked out from the collar of her sweater, then touched the broken compass on my wrist.
“We aren’t lost anymore, Leo,” she whispered softly.
May you like
I pulled her closer, watching our three daughters playing in the grass under the soft Pacific rain, their laughter filling the morning air like the sweetest music in the world.
“No,” I smiled, looking into her eyes. “We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
