Chapter 8 - The First Sunrise
The sun rose slowly over the Long Island Sound on Christmas morning, turning the fresh blanket of white snow into a blinding sheet of diamonds.
Inside the grand dining room, the fire was roaring again.
The table was laden with plates of hot pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, fresh fruit, and a steaming pot of coffee.
Clara sat at the center of the table, not on the edge, not trembling, but relaxed, laughing softly as Ellie tried to feed a piece of banana to her one-eyed stuffed bear.
I sat at the head of the table, holding a cup of black coffee, watching them.
My phone sat on the table beside my plate. It had buzzed once an hour ago—a secure text message from Frankie telling me that Marcus Vance’s legal team had mysteriously dropped all custody motions in the Manhattan family court, citing “insufficient jurisdictional grounds.”
Dante was three hundred miles upstate, learning how to shovel snow on a quiet farm where nobody knew his name.
The past was behind us. The ghosts were finally letting us go.
Ellie climbed down from her chair, waddled across the Persian rug, and stopped right beside my knee. She held up her tiny hand, pressing a small, sticky gold coin against my palm.
“Mr. Vince,” she said, looking up at me with those huge, luminous eyes.
“What is your third wish, Ellie?” I asked, kneeling down so we were eye to eye.
She didn't hesitate for a second.
“I wish for pancakes at midnight every night,” she announced solemnly. “And I wish you’ll smile when you eat them.”
May you like
I looked over her head at Clara, who was watching us with a soft, tearful smile of absolute peace. Then I looked back down at the little girl, closed my hand around the gold coin, and for the first time in seven years, I smiled.
“Wish granted,” I said.
