Chapter 7 - Salt Air and Wooden Floors
Their new house was an unpretentious 1940s craftsman with squeaky pine floors and a front porch wrapped in wisteria. It had taken three coats of paint to cover the faded wallpaper, but when the afternoon sun poured through the kitchen windows, the whole room smelled of cedar and beeswax.
In the small town of Cape Haven, nobody knew the Sterling name, and nobody cared about seasonal galas.
Amy found herself waking up without the sudden drop in her stomach that used to accompany the morning chimes of her phone. At the old house, mornings were governed by Victoria’s daily "suggestions"—what caterer to use, what preschool waiting list to register Leo for, how Amy should wear her hair for the charity luncheon.
Here, Amy spent mornings in worn denim, walking Leo down to the harbor in a secondhand stroller. The local baker learned his name by the second week, slipping a piece of warm sourdough crust into the toddler's chubby hands while Amy ordered coffee.
Mark walked home from the credit union every evening at five-fifteen, his tie already loosened, carrying no briefcase.
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"How was your day?" Amy asked one evening as he walked through the screen door.
Mark stopped, listened to the rhythmic sound of the ocean breeze rattling the porch chimes, and pulled her into his arms. "Quiet," he whispered. "It was absolutely quiet."
