Chapter 34 - Roots in the Salt Air
The first month on San Juan Island felt like learning how to breathe underwater for the first time. The absence of constant vigilance was intoxicating, yet terrifyingly unfamiliar.
Every time a car slowed down on the gravel road outside our property line, my hand instinctively twitched toward where my holster used to rest. Every time a helicopter passed overhead, Adrian’s eyes would track its trajectory until it vanished behind the ridge.
But as the weeks melted into summer, the phantom alarms began to fade.
We enrolled Oliver and Emma in a small, progressive community school located just fifteen minutes away in Friday Harbor. On their first day, I stood on the front porch watching them climb into the bright yellow school bus, their small backpacks bouncing against their jackets, chatting excitedly with the other neighborhood kids.
Adrian stood beside me, wrapping his arm around my waist, his thumb tracing circles against my hip.
“They look normal,” Adrian said, a soft, wondrous smile touching his lips.
“They are normal, Adrian,” I corrected gently, resting my head against his shoulder. “For the first time in their lives, they’re just kids going to school. Not targets, not hostages. Just kids.”
Adrian pulled me closer, his breath warm against my hair. “And you? Are you adjusting to being a normal island doctor?”
“The local clinic is wonderful,” I smiled, thinking of my new part-time job at the island’s family medical practice. “No gunshot wounds, no poisoned informants. Just ear infections, sprained ankles from hiking, and elderly fishermen complaining about arthritis. It’s wonderfully, boringly peaceful.”
“Good,” Adrian murmured. “Because I bought a boat.”
I pulled back, staring up at him in mock disbelief. “You bought a boat? You, the man who spent thirty years surrounded by tactical fleets and armored motorcades?”
May you like
“It’s a twenty-two-foot wooden whaler,” Adrian defended himself with a lopsided grin. “I named her The Sophia. And I plan to take our children out on the strait this Saturday to catch salmon. Legally. With a fishing rod.”
I laughed—a bright, uninhibited sound that seemed to chase away the last lingering ghosts of our past. “God help the salmon.”
