Chapter 7 - A Storm Over The Bay
Vincent kept his word.
He didn't knock on her door. He didn't send lawyers. He didn't try to force his way into her life. Instead, he rented a modest room at the Camden Harbor Inn at the bottom of the hill. Every morning at seven, a delivery of fresh, organic produce from the local farm stand would be left anonymously on Claire's front porch, alongside a gallon of fresh milk and a bundle of firewood.
Claire knew it was from him, of course. She never acknowledged it, but as her belly grew heavier and the seventh month of her pregnancy arrived, the firewood became a blessing during the cold Maine spring.
Sometimes, while walking near the harbor, she would see him sitting on a public bench in the distance, working on a laptop, keeping a respectful two-hundred-yard barrier between them. Whenever she looked in his direction, he would simply nod gently and look back down at his screen. He was watching over her like a silent guardian, asking for nothing in return.
Then, in mid-May, the worst nor'easter of the season struck the coast.
Gale-force winds whipped off the Atlantic, driving sheets of freezing rain against the coast. By nightfall, the power grid across Camden collapsed. Inside her cottage, Claire huddled near the small wood-burning stove, wrapped in blankets as the wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes like loose teeth.
Suddenly, a loud crack echoed through the yard. A massive branch from an ancient oak tree snapped under the weight of the storm, crashing through the corner of her back kitchen window with a deafening shatter of glass.
Freezing rain and howling wind poured into the house.
Claire gasped, stumbling back into the hallway, clutching her belly as a sharp, sudden cramp ripped through her lower abdomen. She cried out in pain, sinking onto the floorboards. "No, no, not now," she begged, rubbing her stomach as a wave of intense pressure gripped her. She was only thirty-four weeks along.
She reached for her cell phone on the side table, but the screen was dead—the storm had knocked out the local cellular tower.
Panic seized her. The cold air rushed through the hallway, dropping the temperature inside the house rapidly. Claire tried to stand, but another violent contraction dropped her back to her knees. She was alone, in the dark, freezing, and her baby was coming six weeks early.
Suddenly, the front door rattled violently.
"Claire!" Vincent's voice roared through the thunder. "Claire, open the door! I saw the tree fall!"
He didn't wait. With a powerful slam of his shoulder, Vincent broke through the deadbolt, bursting into the foyer soaked to the skin, holding a heavy-duty emergency flashlight.
The beam of light cut through the shadows, landing on Claire curled on the floor, clutching her stomach and sobbing in pain.
Vincent dropped the flashlight, falling to his knees beside her in a fraction of a second. "Claire! Claire, look at me! What's happening?"
"The baby..." she choked out, her teeth chattering violently from shock and cold. "Vincent, the contractions... they're two minutes apart. The power is out... the phones aren't working..."
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Vincent’s CEO composure, the tactical mind that navigated multi-billion-dollar crises, kicked into survival mode. He didn't panic. He stripped off his dry, heavy wool coat and wrapped it tightly around her trembling shoulders, lifting her into his arms with an effortless strength she had forgotten he possessed.
"I have my SUV parked outside with full four-wheel drive," Vincent said, his voice a steady, unbreakable anchor amidst the raging storm. "The local clinic is closed, but Rockport Memorial Hospital is eight miles south. I am going to get you there, Claire. I swear on my life, you and our baby are going to be safe."
