Chapter 5 - The Bar Harbor PromiseThe Bar Harbor hotel sat perched on a granite cliff overlooking the churning Atlantic. It was the same resort where Claire and I had spent our honeymoon eleven years ago, back when I was just a junior partner at a mid-sized firm and she was an art history graduate student who laughed at my terrible jokes.
I sat alone in the sprawling mahogany suite, a glass of scotch untouched on the coffee table, watching the waves crash against the rocks below.
My phone buzzed relentlessly. It was Marco.
"Dominic, the New York board is having a collective meltdown," Marco’s voice poured through the speaker. "Acquisitions in London are stalling because the syndicate needs your sign-off, and the SEC inquiry into the subsidiary merger is leaking to the Financial Times. If you don't fly back tonight, we're looking at a billion-dollar valuation drop."
"Let it drop," I said flatly.
"Excuse me?" Marco paused, stunned. "Dominic, you built this company from the ground up. You can't just abandon the helm because of a marital dispute—"
"I didn't abandon it, Marco. I delegated it," I interrupted, staring at the cold fireplace. "Handle the London syndicate. Postpone the SEC meeting. Put out the fires. I’m not coming back to Manhattan until I have an answer."
Before Marco could argue further, I hung up and threw the phone onto the sofa.
I walked out onto the balcony, the freezing wind whipping my hair across my forehead. Down on the rocky shore, the tide was retreating, leaving behind dark patches of seaweed and wet stone. That was when I remembered the photograph I had found on my phone three nights ago—the one from our honeymoon.
Claire standing barefoot on wet rocks, laughing into the wind. And the note beneath it with the date: May 18th.
Today was May 19th. One day past our anniversary. One day past the date she had left behind as a marker.
I grabbed my coat and headed downstairs. If Claire had left a trail of memories, I had missed the first major landmark by twenty-four hours. But there had to be more. People in small towns remember things. Especially a woman as striking and graceful as Claire Moretti—or Claire Whitman, as she was now calling herself.
I drove down to the rocky cove where we had taken that honeymoon photograph eleven years ago. The small parking area was empty except for a lone park ranger's truck.
I walked down the wooden steps leading to the jagged shoreline, the salt spray misting my face. The rocks were slick with green moss and cold ocean spray. I stood where she had stood in the photograph, looking out toward the endless gray horizon.
And that was when I saw it wedged into a cleft in the granite rock.
A small, weathered driftwood box tied with a piece of rough twine.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I scrambled across the wet boulders, my expensive Italian shoes slipping on the seaweed. I dropped to my knees, ignoring the cold water soaking through my trousers, and pulled the box free.
I untied the twine with trembling fingers and lifted the lid.
May you like
Inside was not a note of anger or a bitter legal brief. Inside was a single, folded piece of thick cream-colored parchment paper, smelling faintly of lavender and sea salt. And resting right beside it was the silver wedding band I had slipped onto her finger eleven years ago in a small chapel in Boston.
I unfolded the letter, my hands shaking so badly I could barely read the familiar handwriting.
