Chapter 13
The evening news occasionally still mentioned the upcoming federal trial of Julian Sterling, though the public appetite for the scandal had long since faded into the background noise of ordinary political drama. Julian was currently awaiting trial in a federal detention facility, stripped of his fortune, his tuxedo, and his illusions of aristocratic invincibility. Without his money, the fair-weather friends who had laughed at Clara in the St. Jude courtyard had all vanished, leaving him entirely alone in his concrete cell.
Clara and Harrison walked together down the quiet, tree-lined sidewalks of Georgetown as dusk settled over the historic district. The autumn air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from neighborhood chimneys and falling leaves.
“Do you ever think about that night at the fountain?” Harrison asked softly, his hand resting comfortably in hers as they walked.
“Sometimes,” Clara admitted, looking down at the simple silver band shining faintly in the streetlamp light. “When I hear running water, or when I see someone trying too hard to look powerful.”
“It feels like a lifetime ago,” Harrison said.
“It was a lifetime ago,” Clara corrected. “The old Clara died in that water fountain. What came out of it was someone who finally realized she didn’t need their approval to exist.”
They stopped by a low stone wall overlooking the Potomac River, watching the distant city lights reflect off the dark, steady current. The water moved smoothly, powerful and unhurried, carrying everything in its path toward the vast, open sea. It didn’t rage against the banks; it simply flowed with quiet, unstoppable certainty.
“You know,” Harrison smiled, wrapping his arm around her shoulders to keep out the evening chill, “we never did go back to a wedding reception.”
May you like
“And we never will,” Clara laughed softly. “Unless it’s ours, and it’s held in a backyard with homemade pie and absolutely no marble fountains.”
“Deal,” Harrison said, kissing her cheek.
