Chapter 35 - The Evening Flame
As twilight deepened, painting the sky in breathtaking strokes of violet, indigo, and fiery orange, we moved indoors to the expansive stone hearth in the master living room.
Fay knelt before the fireplace, lighting a bundle of dry birch kindling with a long match. The flames caught quickly, crackling to life and casting a warm, flickering dance of light across the soaring timber beams and the rows of leather-bound books lining the built-in shelves.
I sank into the deep leather armchair beside the hearth, watching the play of shadows across her face. Even now, years after she had walked into Harbor House as a stressed waitress drowning in debt, there was an aura of absolute command about her—not the cold, intimidating command of a mafia boss, but the quiet, unshakable authority of a woman who had mastered her own destiny.
“Caleb called while you were down at the boathouse,” Fay said, glancing up from the fire as she dusted her hands and settled onto the matching sofa across from me.
“How are his marine engineering projects coming along?” I asked, pouring two glasses of amber whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side table.
“Brilliantly,” Fay smiled, accepting the glass I handed her. “He’s designing a new class of eco-friendly hull structures for the Coast Guard’s mid-Atlantic fleet. He mentioned something about visiting next weekend for dinner. He wants to show you some digital schematics for a custom sailboat he’s sketching.”
“A sailboat,” I chuckled, taking a slow sip of the whiskey. “The boy is determined to turn our family into a seafaring dynasty.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Fay challenged playfully, her dark eyes sparkling in the firelight. “You spent decades ruling the ports of New York and Baltimore. Is it really so strange that the next generation actually gets to enjoy the water instead of smuggling contraband across it?”
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“Not strange at all,” I admitted, leaning back and resting my head against the leather cushion. “In fact, it’s the best possible victory we could have ever claimed.”
We sat in comfortable silence for a long time, listening to the crackle of the fireplace and the distant, muffled sigh of the wind rustling through the pines outside. The ghosts of our past—the shootouts in rain-slicked alleys, the ticking bombs under restaurant tables, the betrayal of corrupt politicians—felt like stories read from a history book written by someone else.
