Chapter 13 - The Sea Glass Kiln
Camden Harbor smelled of low tide, diesel fuel from lobster boats, and woodsmoke curling from stone chimneys. It was a world entirely divorced from the sterile, fluorescent corridors of Manhattan, and for seven months, it had been Claire Bennett’s sanctuary.
Inside the drafty cedar-shake barn near the public landing, the afternoon sun slanted through multi-paned windows, illuminating swirling clouds of dry clay dust. Claire stood by the heavy wooden workbench, wearing a faded denim work apron over an oversized wool sweater, wiping wet slip from her forearms with an old linen towel.
Her life here was simple, grueling, and honest. She woke at dawn, hauled sacks of Vermont stoneware, wedged clay until her shoulders ached, and fired her electric kiln until midnight. Her body had healed; the physical scars on her abdomen from the emergency surgery were now thin, pale lines, and the deep, hollow ache in her heart had transformed into art. Every vase, every platter, every sculptural urn she created carried the weight of her grief, transmuting the loss of her child into something enduring and strong.
"Heads up, Claire!" shouted Silas, the eighty-year-old retired boatbuilder who rented her the ground floor. He walked into the shop carrying two cardboard boxes of specialized glazing minerals. "A courier just dropped these off from the ferry terminal. Said they were express from Portland."
"Thanks, Silas," Claire smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You didn't have to carry both boxes at once."
"At my age, if I stop carrying heavy boxes, my joints will rust solid," Silas chuckled, setting the delivery on a cedar bench. He paused, looking out the barn doors toward the harbor road. "Say, looks like you’ve got some big-city company. That town car didn't come off the local ferry."
Claire froze. A cold prickle of intuition swept down her spine.
Through the salt-streaked glass of the barn doors, she saw a sleek, black town car glide to a stop on the gravel turnaround. The driver didn't step out. Instead, the rear door opened, and a tall man in a dark cashmere coat stepped onto the crushed granite path.
Even from fifty feet away, even with his shoulders hunched against the Atlantic wind, Claire recognized the silhouette immediately.
Vincent.
Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. For a brief second, the room tilted, and the phantom smell of hospital disinfectant and burning brake pads filled her nostrils. She remembered the blinding rain on FDR Drive, the crushing weight of the steering wheel, and the cold, dismissive voice on the phone telling her she wasn't allowed to interrupt his day.
She didn't run. She didn't hide. Claire picked up a steel rib tool from her workbench, set it down with steady, deliberate control, and stood straight, wiping her hands on her apron as the barn door creaked open.
Vincent stood on the threshold.
May you like
The coastal wind blew through his dark hair, exposing the silver at his temples. He looked thinner, his cheekbones sharp, his gray eyes hollowed out by grief. When his gaze locked onto hers, he stopped dead in his tracks, his breath hitching audibly in the quiet barn.
"Claire," he whispered. The word sounded like a prayer from a dying man.
