Chapter 4 - The Castle at Last
It was seven o'clock on Friday evening when I pulled my black pickup truck into the driveway of our house.
The autumn air was crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and damp earth. Through the living room window, I could see the warm, golden glow of a desk lamp and the familiar silhouette of June bent over her sketchpad, working on a new painting.
I killed the engine, sat in the cab for a moment, and let out a long, shuddering breath.
The boardroom battle was over. The debt restructuring papers would be filed on Monday morning, the corporate restructure would strip Blake of his title by the end of the month, and Vance Capital would be quietly rebranded under the Apex umbrella. My father would try to call, of course—my mother would probably show up at my front door with a checkbook and a tearful apology when she realized her luxurious lifestyle depended on whether I decided to keep paying her country club dues.
None of it mattered. Not the stocks, not the real estate, not the old man’s legacy of stone and iron.
I grabbed my briefcase from the passenger seat, stepped out of the truck, and walked up the front steps.
As I pushed open the front door, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla hit me like a wave.
“Dad?” June’s voice called out from the kitchen.
“I’m home, bug!” I called back, kicking off my shoes and tossing my suit jacket over the coat rack.
June came bounding down the hallway, wearing her favorite oversized hoodie and a smudge of charcoal pencil across her nose. She threw her arms around my waist, burying her face in my shirt.
“You’re home late! Did you win the big contract?” she asked, looking up at me with those bright, intelligent hazel eyes.
I smiled, kneeling down to wipe the smudge of charcoal off her nose with my thumb.
“We won big, June,” I said softly. “We won everything.”
“Does that mean we can get ice cream before dinner?”
“It means we can buy the entire ice cream store if we want to.”
She cheered, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the kitchen.
And there, sitting in the center of the kitchen island under the bright overhead lights, was a brand-new white cardboard box.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart skipping a beat.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing a finger at the box.
June grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief and pride. “I tried to make it myself. I watched a video online. It took me two days.”
She reached out and lifted the cardboard lid.
Inside sat a castle.
It was lopsided. The left turret was leaning at least thirty degrees toward the fruit bowl, the frosting was smeared unevenly across the cardboard base, and the amber-sugar windows looked like lumpy, hardened puddles of golden syrup.
It was, without a doubt, the most magnificent thing I had ever seen in my life.
“You made this?” I whispered, a sudden, hot lump forming in my throat.
“For your birthday next week,” June said proudly, slipping her small hand into mine. “Every castle needs lights, Dad. Even yours.”
May you like
I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly against my chest, feeling the steady, healthy rhythm of her heart beating against mine. The past, with its cold stone estates, its broken sugar glass, and its cheap family inheritance, drifted away like smoke on the wind.
We had our castle. And this time, nobody was ever going to break it down.
