Chapter 8 - THE ASHES AT THE CLIFF
Z
The wind swept violently across the jagged granite cliffs of Point Renfrew, whipping my heavy black coat against my legs. Below us, the grey, churned waters of the Pacific Ocean crashed brutally against the dark rocks, sending plumes of white sea spray high into the freezing cold air.
It was six o’clock on a Friday morning. Two days had passed since the board meeting.
There were no flowers. There were no mourners, no corporate sycophants, no fake speeches praising a man who had lived a life of elaborate control. Standing on the edge of the cliff with me were only Hanna, Steven, and the cold ocean wind.
Steven carried the mahogany urn. He stepped up to the edge, his face solemn, looking out at the endless horizon where the stormy sky met the dark water.
"Are you sure about this, Mom?" Hanna asked softly, wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck. "We could have put him in the family plot next to his parents."
"He didn't want a family plot, Hanna," I said, looking at the grey clouds heavy with rain. "He wanted an exit. He wanted to vanish before the consequences caught up with him. This is the only fitting place left for him."
Steven unclasped the silver latches on the top of the wooden box. He removed the heavy lid, revealing the thick, dark plastic bag inside containing the grey, coarse powder of Robert Vance.
He looked at me, waiting for my permission.
For thirty-nine years, I had built my life around Robert. I had cooked his meals, ironed his shirts, managed his home, and forgiven his distant, preoccupied coldness because I believed in the sanctimonious promise of 'until death do us part.' I had bled my own identity dry so that his could shine brighter. And in return, he had tried to leave me ruined, isolated, and broken in the dark while he fled into the arms of a stranger and an early grave.
I walked over to Steven and took the bag from the urn myself.
I opened the top. The bitter, metallic scent of ash blew into my face with the wind.
"You spent your whole life deciding what I could survive, Robert," I said into the roaring gale, my voice carried away by the ocean air. "You thought you were protecting me. But you were just afraid of me. You were afraid that if I ever knew the truth, I wouldn't need you."
I tilted the bag over the edge of the precipice.
The grey dust caught the violent sea wind. It blew out in a long, dark cloud, swirling wildly against the white foam of the crashing waves below. The wind tore the ashes apart, scattering them across hundreds of feet of churning, freezing ocean water until there was nothing left to see. No mark, no gravestone, no monument to his control.
Just the wind and the sea.
I let the empty plastic bag fall into the wooden box Steven held, and I turned my back on the ocean.
Hanna reached out, taking my hand. This time, I didn't pull away. I squeezed her fingers tightly, feeling the warm, living blood running through her skin. Steven stepped beside us, putting his arm around my shoulder, leaning his forehead against mine for a brief, heavy second.
"I'm sorry, Mom," Steven whispered, his voice choking with tears that were finally real, finally shed for the right reasons. "For ever doubting you. For leaving you alone."
"I was never alone, Steven," I said, looking into my son's eyes. "I was just waiting for the truth to wake you up."
We walked back toward my car parked on the gravel road above the cliffs. The cold rain began to fall again, light and misty, washing the dust off our shoes.
As I opened the driver's side door, my phone chimed in my pocket. It was a text message from Marcus Cole.
Claire's bail was denied. Trial date set for November. The board has fully executed the transfer of the commercial portfolio under your name. Vance Enterprises is yours, Chairwoman.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, the cool glow reflecting in the dark glass of the windshield.
"Mom?" Hanna called from the passenger seat, looking at me with quiet concern. "Are you coming?"
"Yes," I said, sliding into the leather driver's seat and closing the door, shutting out the howling wind of the ocean.
I put the keys into the ignition and turned the engine on. The warm air rushed through the vents, and the hum of the car filled the quiet space.
May you like
Robert was gone. The lies were dead. The war was over.
And for the first time in thirty-nine years, I backed the car out onto the open road, stepping firmly on the gas, driving toward a future that belonged entirely to me.
