Chapter 8 - The Clearing of the Air
Two weeks after the sentencing, the Spanish Oaks mansion was completely empty.
Not because we were moving into a smaller house, but because Madison and I had decided that not a single piece of furniture touched by that five-month nightmare would remain inside our walls.
Every sofa, every rug, every bed, and every curtain had been donated to a local women’s shelter in East Austin, along with a two-hundred-thousand-dollar matching endowment from Madison’s trust to fund emergency transitional housing for victims of domestic abuse.
I stood in the center of the vast, echoing master bedroom on the second floor. The morning sun streamed through the bare windows, lighting up the honey-colored oak hardwood floors that had been sanded, stripped, and refinished to erase every scratch from Chloe’s stilettos.
The door swung open, and Madison walked in carrying two cardboard cups of iced coffee from our favorite neighborhood roaster down on South Congress.
She was wearing denim overalls, paint splatters across the knees, and her hair tied back in a messy knot with a wooden pencil tucked behind her ear. She looked younger, lighter, and more radiant than she had in five years.
"The painter just finished the primer downstairs in the library," she said, handing me a cup. "He wants to know if you still want the walls sage green or if you want to go with warm linen."
I took a sip of the coffee, looking around the empty, sunlit room.
"Whatever color makes you feel like you can breathe, Maddy," I said. "This is your house. It always has been."
She smiled, walking over to the wide bay window that overlooked the hills. I walked up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, resting my chin against the curve of her shoulder.
"I bought something yesterday," I murmured into her ear.
She tilted her head back against my chest. "What did you buy, Julian? You promised no more surprise sports cars."
"Not a car," I said.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, flat brass key attached to a leather lanyard. I held it out in front of her.
"What is that?" she asked, touching the cold metal.
"The key to the commercial studio space on Sixth Street," I said. "The historic brick building with the skylights that you used to stare at every time we walked to dinner. The lease was acquired by the Sterling Heritage Trust yesterday afternoon."
Madison went completely still. She turned around in my arms, her eyes wide, searching my face. "Julian... that building has been off the market for ten years."
"Arthur found the owner in Santa Barbara," I smiled. "He made an offer they couldn't refuse. Starting next month, Madison Vance Botanical Architecture and Design has a permanent home. No more teaching middle school art because you felt you had to stay quiet. No more hiding your talent behind my schedule."
Tears welled in her eyes, but this time they were tears of pure, unadulterated relief.
"You really resigned from the road?" she whispered.
May you like
"David Martinez signed his contract yesterday morning," I said softly, running my hand through her soft hair. "My office is forty-five seconds down the hall in the east wing. I will be here every morning to make you coffee, and I will be here every evening to make you dinner. No more corporate galas where you have to stand beside me like an accessory. From now on, I’m the one standing beside you."
Madison wrapped her arms around my neck, burying her face against my collarbone, and for the first time in nine years, I felt the last invisible wall between us crumble into dust.
