“I finally understand,” I whispered.
A gentle wind moved through the apple trees.
Somewhere in the meadow, children laughed as their parents helped prepare dinner in one of the project cottages.
Life was continuing.
Not perfectly.
Not without pain.
But beautifully.
I sat in my rocking chair and pulled Thomas’s old brown jacket around my shoulders.
The sky darkened above the ridge.
Behind me, my home glowed warmly against the evening.
In Miami, the penthouse with its magnificent ocean view had eventually been sold to satisfy Jared’s financial obligations.
Its gleaming marble floors, private terrace, and prestigious address belonged to strangers now.
At Hawthorne Ridge, the original stone fireplace still burned every winter.
The apple trees Thomas planted were bearing fruit.
The bookshelves were full.
And the little cottages were becoming places where people could begin again.
My son had inherited a view of the ocean.
I had inherited the place where my husband wanted me to be free.
