Chapter 7 - The Final Cleansing
One year later.
The rain of the Pacific Northwest was falling softly outside the windows of our new home in Hood River, overlooking the Columbia River Gorge.
Ethan and I had sold our apartment in Portland, put the dark memories of the city behind us, and bought a four-acre property surrounded by pine trees, fruit orchards, and wide-open sky.
The afternoon sun was breaking through the gray clouds, casting a golden light across the wooden deck where our friends and new neighbors were gathered for a late-summer housewarming party.
Jenna was standing near the outdoor grill, laughing loudly with Ethan’s father, while Ethan was pulling a fresh batch of local Pinot Noir bottles from a wooden crate.
I stood near the edge of the garden, holding a cold glass of lemonade, looking down at the small scar on my left palm. The scar on my side was covered by my soft sweater, a faint white line that no longer hurt, even when the rain came in.
My father was currently serving an eight-year sentence at a federal minimum-security prison in California. My mother had moved into a tiny two-bedroom condo in Arizona, living off a modest pension, completely isolated from the high-society social circles she had sacrificed her soul to maintain. She sent me letters every month, pleading for forgiveness, asking to see photos of our life.
I never opened them. They went straight into the fireplace unopened, burning away like the toxic smoke of a past that could no longer touch me.
Ethan walked up behind me, wrapping his warm arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.
"What are you thinking about, Mrs. Monroe?" he whispered softly, his breath warm against my neck.
"I was thinking about our wedding day," I admitted quietly.
Ethan’s arms tightened around me slightly. "Does it still hurt?"
I turned around in his embrace, looking up into his beautiful, clear eyes—the eyes of a man who had stood beside me in a pool of blood, fought for me against my own family, and built a sanctuary where I could finally heal.
"No," I smiled, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Because that wasn't our real wedding. Our real wedding is every single day we wake up here, completely free."
He smiled, leaning down to press his lips against mine in a long, sweet kiss that smelled of rain and ripe cherries.
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"Happy anniversary, Claire," he whispered against my lips.
"Happy anniversary, Ethan," I replied, holding him tight as the sun broke through the Pacific Northwest clouds, flooding our home, our garden, and our future with pure, unyielding light.
