Chapter 9 - The Trial in the Rain
Spring came to coastal Maine like a slow, graceful resurrection. The bitter ice receded from the granite cliffs, replaced by vibrant carpets of yellow dandelions, wild blueberries, and fragrant sea roses blooming along the dirt paths.
In late April, on what would have been the weekend of our ninth wedding anniversary, I invited Meline to take a walk along the cliffside trail.
She walked beside me without a cane, moving with the graceful, fluid strength I had fallen in love with nearly a decade ago. The ocean below was no longer violent and gray; it glittered under a sapphire sky, calm and endless.
"I received an official letter from the board of Vance Medical yesterday," Meline said, her scarf fluttering in the gentle breeze.
"They want you back," I guessed.
"They offered me the position of Chief Research Officer and Chairwoman of the Board," she replied, looking at me sideways. "They said you liquidated seventy percent of your personal assets to fund an independent maternal-fetal trauma research center in Boston."
"The Leo Vance Memorial Institute," I said softly. "We broke ground three weeks ago. It will provide free, state-of-the-art prenatal monitoring and emergency trauma care to underprivileged mothers across the Northeast. No mother will ever be turned away because her insurance card failed. No father will ever be allowed to abandon his duty without an advocate stepping in."
Meline stopped walking. She turned to face me on the crest of the cliff, the vast Atlantic sparkling behind her.
"You named it after him."
"He was my son, Meline. Even if I was too blind to meet him while his heart was beating, his name will save thousands of children who will grow up to breathe, laugh, and run in the sunshine."
Meline reached out. Her warm, soft hand gently cupped my cheek. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wave of profound emotion washing over me so intensely that I had to fight to keep my balance.
"You're not the man who walked out of our dining room that night, Damen," she whispered, her thumb brushing over the rough stubble of my jaw.
"I killed that man," I said with fierce conviction. "I buried him in the snow three months ago."
"Then who are you now?"
"A man who loves you," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "A man who knows that love isn't a feeling you talk about at dinner parties. It's a choice you make every second of every day. It's staying when the storm hits. It's carrying the burden when your partner can't stand."
Suddenly, the sky darkened, and a warm spring shower began to patter down upon the pine trees and rocks around us. In Maine, spring showers were sudden, sweet, and filled with the promise of summer.
I pulled off my jacket and held it over Meline's head to shield her from the rain, an instinctual, protective reflex that required no thought.
Meline looked up at the jacket, then into my eyes. She didn't hurry toward the shelter of the trees. Instead, she stepped closer, pressing her chest against mine. Her arms slipped around my waist, resting beneath my shirt, holding me tight against her heart.
"Damen," she whispered against my collarbone.
May you like
"Yes, my love?"
"Let's bring Leo home."
