Chapter 9 - The Long Winter Walk
Daniel moved into the small, drafty Harbor View Inn three blocks from the bookstore.
The man who had commanded boardrooms with a single word spent his mornings chopping firewood for the innkeeper to pay for his lodging, refusing to use his corporate black cards. He bought a pair of sturdy waterproof boots, a heavy waxed canvas jacket, and spent his days walking the windswept beaches of Newport.
He did not crowd Amy.
Every morning at eight, he would walk past the bookstore, leave a crate of fresh organic produce and dairy from the local valley farms on the bottom landing of her stairs, and walk away without knocking.
When the severe coastal blizzard of February knocked out the power across Lincoln County, Daniel spent four hours in freezing gale-force winds hauling seasoned oak logs up the exterior staircase, stacking them neatly by her door so the cast-iron stove would never run cold.
Frank watched him from the porch of the bookstore, leaning on his broom.
"You're a stubborn son of a gun, Harrison," Frank grunted one afternoon as Daniel hauled a fifty-pound sack of flour for the bakery next door.
"I spent seven years being lazy where it counted, Frank," Daniel replied, wiping sweat from his brow despite the forty-degree chill. "A little manual labor is the least I owe this town."
By March, Amy’s pregnancy had entered its thirty-fourth week. Her belly was heavy, her steps slow and deliberate.
One crisp, clear afternoon, as the sun broke through the coastal clouds in brilliant shafts of gold, Amy walked down to the harbor pier.
Daniel was sitting on a wooden bench at the far end, sketching in a leather notebook.
Amy walked slowly toward him, her sneakers quiet on the damp timber. She stopped beside the bench.
"What are you drawing?" she asked.
Daniel looked up, startled, and quickly closed the notebook before hesitating and opening it again.
On the heavy paper was a detailed architectural sketch of a modest two-story cedar home perched on the bluff overlooking the bay, with a wide wraparound porch, a sunlit painting studio facing the ocean, and a small nursery room with bay windows.
"I bought the four-acre parcel on North Head yesterday," Daniel said quietly. "If you ever wanted a real home here. Not a penthouse. Just a place where Grace can run on the grass."
He looked up into her eyes, his heart on his sleeve. "It’s deeded entirely in your name, Amy. Whether I am in it or not."
Amy looked at the drawing, feeling a sudden, fluttery kick against her ribs. She placed her hand over the spot, wincing slightly.
Daniel moved instinctively, his hand hovering inches from her side, stopping himself from crossing the boundary. "Is she alright?"
Amy looked at his trembling hand, then looked into his eyes.
"Put your hand here, Daniel," Amy whispered.
Daniel swallowed hard, his eyes filling with wonder as he gently pressed his palm against the warm knit of her sweater.
Beneath his fingers, a strong, rhythmic kick pushed back.
May you like
Daniel’s breath broke into a quiet sob. He rested his forehead gently against her hands, feeling the miracle of his child’s life for the very first time.
"I'm here, Grace," Daniel whispered against the fabric. "Daddy is right here."
