Chapter 13: The Winter Foundation
Winter arrived with an early blizzard that buried the coast of Maine in three feet of pristine, powdery snow.
The estate became an island of warmth amidst the white wilderness. Julian spent his days in his study, walking short distances without his crutches now, leaning only on a carved blackthorn cane that had belonged to his grandfather.
On Christmas Eve, the great hall was filled with light.
A fifteen-foot balsam fir stood beside the fireplace, decorated with dried oranges, cranberries, and hundreds of handcrafted ornaments Toby had made at the village school. Mrs. Gable sat in a corner armchair, sipping spiced rum and laughing with Clara’s aunt, who had moved into a renovated guest cottage on the estate grounds.
Toby fell asleep on the rug at nine o'clock, his arms wrapped around a brand-new leather baseball glove Julian had imported from Louisville.
Late in the evening, when the house had grown quiet and the embers burned low in the stone hearth, Julian and Clara sat together on the deep leather sofa.
Clara had kicked off her shoes, her feet tucked beneath a wool throw, her head resting comfortably on Julian’s shoulder. His arm was wrapped around her waist, his fingers idly tracing the soft fabric of her sweater.
"I have something for you," Julian said softly.
Clara smiled into his neck. "Julian, you already gave Toby an entire batting cage and bought my aunt a greenhouse. You're not supposed to give me anything else."
"This isn't from the foundation," he replied.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, unadorned wooden box carved from seasoned Maine cedar. He placed it in her lap.
Clara opened the brass latch. Resting on a bed of dark velvet was a delicate silver key attached to an engraved brass tag: Hawthorne Marine Slip No. 4.
She looked up, confused. "A boat slip?"
"Come look," Julian whispered.
He stood up, using his blackthorn cane, and offered his hand. She took it, and together they walked to the French doors overlooking the snowy harbor below.
Julian flicked the exterior floodlights on.
Down at the private stone pier, resting securely in the protected water, was a thirty-six-foot wooden cutter, its hull painted dark navy with white trim. Painted across the stern in neat gold lettering was a single word: The Grace.
"You built an icebreaker?" Clara gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
May you like
"I restored an old wooden fishing schooner," Julian said, his eyes crinkling with warmth. "Together with the apprentices at the yard. We finished the hull last week. In the spring, we’re taking her up the coast to Nova Scotia. Just you, me, and Toby."
Clara looked at the boat, then up into the face of the man who had traded his gilded cage for the open sea. She stepped into his arms, kissing his lips with a sweetness that banished the winter chill forever.
