Chapter 6 - The Sun in the Workshop
Six months later, the cold spring rain had given way to a brilliant, warm June sun that flooded the Narragansett Bay with a bright, diamond-like light.
In the center of my workshop, the walnut crib stood finished, its surface polished to a deep, mirror-like shine with organic beeswax and cedar oil. The side rails were carved with small, stylized waves and jumping fish—the same designs my grandfather had carved on his own boats forty years ago.
Claire sat in a rocking chair near the window, a small, two-month-old baby girl with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes sleeping peacefully against her chest.
The baby was wearing a simple, hand-knitted white sweater, her tiny fingers curled around the edge of a small wooden rattle I had turned on the lathe that morning.
"She has your chin, Daniel," Claire whispered, her eyes shining as she looked up at me. "And she definitely has your quietness."
"She’s a Vance," I said, leaning down to press a kiss against her forehead, the scent of lavender and baby powder grounding me against the memory of the storm we had left behind. "She’s going to grow up knowing exactly who her family is."
The workshop door opened quietly, and Dr. Marcus Aris stepped inside, carrying a small cardboard box filled with fresh strawberries from his garden.
"How’s the patient today, Claire?" Marcus smiled, setting the box down on the workbench next to my chisels.
"She’s perfect, Marcus," Claire said. "The pediatrician says she’s already in the ninetieth percentile for height."
"Must be the state investigator genes," Marcus chuckled. He turned to me, his expression turning serious but warm. "The state attorney’s office finalized the plea agreement this morning, Daniel. Vanessa’s husband is being suspended from the bar for twelve months, and Vanessa is serving two years at the women's facility in Cranston. No probation. No early release."
"And Lydia?" I asked.
"She’s selling the Newport house," Marcus said. "She’s moving to a smaller place in Florida. She sent a letter to Claire’s legal team last week. She’s releasing her share of the trust fund to the baby’s educational escrow. It’s her way of saying she’s sorry, I suppose."
"It's a start," Claire said softly, her hand moving to trace the baby’s small, warm cheek.
I walked over to the window, looking out at the bay where the boats were moving slowly through the blue water, their white sails catching the wind. The world was still full of shadows, full of people who thought they could buy their way out of the truth with a forged signature or a clean suit.
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But in this workshop, under the warm wood and the quiet sun, the foundation was secure. We had built our home on the truth, and the truth was the only thing that had survived the storm.
"Let’s go show her the water, Claire," I said, reaching out to take her hand. "The sun is up, and we have a long day ahead of us."
