Chapter 8: The Shadow of the Past
Two weeks after the wedding collapse, Clara settled into her childhood home in Woodstock, Vermont. The house was a warm timber-framed farmhouse nestled against the rolling green foothills of the Green Mountains. There were no marble fountains or crystal chandeliers—only floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a crackling hearth, and the smell of cedar wood and drying chamomile.
Marcus had taken an indefinite leave of absence from his board duties. Every morning, he cooked Clara steel-cut oats with fresh maple syrup and sat with her on the wrap-around porch, watching the morning mist rise over the valley.
"You're quiet today, little bird," Marcus said, placing a warm mug of ginger tea beside her.
Clara looked out over the wildflower meadows. "I was wondering if I provoked it, Dad. If I had simply told Julian from day one who you were, would they have treated me with respect?"
Marcus pulled up a wooden rocking chair and sat beside her. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Respect that is bought by fear or fortune is counterfeit, Clara," Marcus said gently. "If Julian had respected you because my name was on the letterhead, he still wouldn't have loved you. He would have loved my balance sheet. What happened on that terrace was painful, but it saved you forty years of living with a ghost."
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Clara leaned her head against her father's broad shoulder. "It hurts because I really believed in him."
"Pain is the proof that your heart isn't made of stone like theirs," Marcus replied, smoothing her auburn hair. "Keep it soft. Just build stronger walls around the gate."
