Chapter 6 - A Trail Through Maine
The Atlantic wind off the coast of Maine carried the sharp, biting chill of early autumn. White-capped waves crashed against the jagged granite rocks of Isleboro, spraying cold saltwater into the air as the chartered ferry bumped against the private wooden dock.
Nathaniel stood at the bow, his heavy wool coat buttoned to his throat, his face raw from the salt wind. He had refused to charter a luxury helicopter; he felt an instinctive, desperate need to endure the cold, to feel the physical discomfort that Clare had suffered while he had been sheltered in luxury.
A dark Range Rover was waiting at the end of the pier.
As Nathaniel stepped onto the wet timber of the dock, the driver’s side door opened. A tall man in a navy Barbour jacket and thick leather boots stepped out.
Julian Mercer.
Julian was forty-four, his dark hair touched with silver at the temples, his posture straight, his blue eyes sharp and assessing. He didn't look angry; he looked unimpressed.
Nathaniel walked toward him, stopping six feet away. The two men stood on the lonely dock, the gray ocean churning behind them.
“Julian,” Nathaniel said hoarsely.
“Callahan,” Julian replied. He didn't offer his hand. “I’m surprised it took you four days. I thought a man with your resources would have bought the flight records within twelve hours. You must have been busy consoling your consultants.”
Nathaniel flinched, but he didn't raise his fists. He had no right to pride here.
“Where is she?” Nathaniel asked, his voice shaking. “Is she healing? Is she in pain?”
“She is alive,” Julian said coldly. “No thanks to you. If Dr. Sloan hadn't reopened her abdomen herself and stayed in that OR until 4:00 a.m., Clare would be buried in Queen of Peace Cemetery right now.”
The words struck Nathaniel like physical blows. He lowered his head, the wind whipping his dark hair across his forehead. “I know what I did.”
“You don't know anything,” Julian countered, stepping closer. “You think this is about a missed phone call. You think this is an unfortunate timing issue that you can fix with an apology and a new house. Clare didn't leave because you missed three calls, Nathaniel. She left because those three calls showed her the man you have become.”
Julian gestured toward the long, winding road leading up into the pine forests toward the cliffside estate.
“Twelve years ago, she chose you,” Julian continued, his voice quiet, carrying the weight of a decade of restrained emotion. “I offered her the world. I offered her estates in France, security, anything she wanted. And she told me, ‘Julian, you have a beautiful life, but Nathaniel needs me. He’s building something good, and he has a heart that feels every blow.’ She chose you because she thought you were real.”
Nathaniel’s throat tightened so violently he could barely breathe. “I was real. I lost my way.”
“You didn't lose your way. You sold it,” Julian snapped. “You traded the only thing that gave you soul for the approval of people who wouldn't cross the street to spit on you if you were on fire.”
“Let me see her,” Nathaniel begged. The proud billionaire, the titan of Callahan Atlantic, sank slightly, his shoulders hunched, his eyes wet with tears. “Just five minutes, Julian. If she tells me to leave, I’ll get back on that boat and I will never contact her again. But she has to say it to my face. Please.”
Julian studied him for a long, silent minute. He looked at the exhaustion etched into Nathaniel’s face, the trembling in his hands, the utter absence of the arrogant swagger that usually defined him.
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“She’s in the garden pavilion,” Julian said finally. “If you upset her, my security will throw you into the Atlantic. And Nathaniel? Don't expect a miracle. Some things, once broken, don't go back together.”
Julian turned and walked toward the estate. Nathaniel followed, his heart pounding like a war drum in the cold, quiet woods.
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