Chapter 10 - The Unbound Water
The Atlantic at Palm Beach was different from the New Jersey sea. It was warm, the color of jade near the sand, the waves rolling in with a long, slow rhythm that sounded like someone breathing through a screen door.
Luca was running along the white sand, his silver trains forgotten in the grass of the main lawn, his small bare feet leaving shallow, water-filled prints that vanished every time the foam came in. He was wearing a small yellow shirt that looked like a lemon against the blue of the horizon, his laughter coming back to us over the sound of the surf like a small bell.
Clara sat in her wicker chair at the edge of the boardwalk, her yellow blanket over her knees, her short brown curls blowing in the trade wind as she watched the boy run. She had a glass of fresh grapefruit juice in her hand, and for the first time in four years, she wasn't coughing when the salt air hit her throat.
I stood by the edge of the water, my white linen dress damp at the hem from the spray, my bare feet sunk three inches into the wet sand. The sun was going down behind the white stucco house, throwing long, purple shadows across the jade water that looked like the lines of a vineyard crest.
Anthony walked out from the trees. He had taken off his boots; his large, dark feet were bare against the sand, his white linen shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, revealing the full complexity of the ink on his skin.
He didn't stop three feet away this time. He walked directly into the water until the foam was curling over his ankles, his broad shadow falling over my face like a screen.
He didn't touch my wrist. He reached down and took both of my hands between his own, his large fingers opening my palms until the silver pen marks from the library were visible under the red sunset light.
"The federal prosecutor dropped the variance at four o'clock," he said, his gray eyes fixing on my pupils with a stillness that didn't have any winter left in it. It looked like the water near the shore—warm, deep, and clear all the way to the bottom. "The terminal is secure, Elena. Luca’s fund is out of the state court's reach."
"Are you safe now, Anthony?" I asked, my voice small against the sound of the Atlantic.
"Nobody is safe in my world, Elena," he said, his grip on my hands tightening until I could feel the gold medal of St. Jude pressing against his chest behind his shirt. "But the fence is down. Marco took the cameras out of the nursery corridor this morning. The room is just a room now."
He pulled me close—not hard like he had by the pool, not careful like he had in the laundry corridor, but possessive in a way that felt like the walls of the cage had turned into something that didn't have iron bars. He looked me in the eyes, his face so close I could see the tiny silver reflection of the sunset in his pupils, and he said the same five words he had said four months ago.
"You're never leaving."
"I know," I whispered against his mouth, my hands coming up to lock behind his neck, my fingers tracing the line of the stylized vineyard crest on his skin as the jade water rolled over our feet, turning the sand beneath us into something that didn't move when the tide came in.
Behind us, on the boardwalk, Clara set her glass down and began to clap her hands, her small voice rising clear and sweet over the long, slow breathing of the southern sea.
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"Look, Elena!" Luca screamed from the point, his small hand pointing toward the pink clouds over the horizon. "The big fish are going home! They're taking their shoes off!"
Anthony didn't look at the clouds. He kissed me under the southern sun, his heart beating against my ribs with a deep, regular rhythm that told me the worst part of the day was finally over, and the house we were going to build didn't need a master key to stay open.
