Chapter 8
GWEN
Himalayan blackberry vines do not surrender easily.
They colonize the earth, sending thick, spiked runners snaking along the ground and plunging stubborn root systems deep into the soil.
You cannot simply trim the branches and expect the plant to die.
To eradicate the rot, you have to follow the agonizing, thorny vine down into the dirt and rip the root ball out entirely.
Otherwise, the tangle grows right back, stronger and more entrenched than before.
Grueling, mind-numbing physical labor was exactly what I needed.
Sunlight beat down on the coastal bluff. I was locked in a brutal war of attrition near the stone retaining wall.
My initial, frantic assault on the overgrown yard had begun as soon as the sky lightened.
Dropping to my knees in the dirt, I had started ripping the vegetation out with my bare hands, driven by a desperate need to physically manifest the agony tearing through my chest. Flesh is no match for nature.
Eventually, the deep, bleeding gashes across my palms made it impossible to grip anything at all.
Retreating into the mudroom of the lighthouse, I washed the soil and blood from my cuts under the freezing tap of the utility sink.
After wrapping my hands tightly in white medical tape from an old first-aid kit, I pulled a stiff canvas chore jacket from a rusted hook by the back door.
I found a pair of worn leather work gloves, shoved my taped hands inside them, and marched right back out to the cliff edge to resume the fight.
Driving the toe of my rubber boot into the blade of a rusted garden spade, I forced the metal deep into the packed earth near the base of the retaining wall.
I threw my body weight backward, using the wooden handle as a lever to pry a stubborn root ball from the ground.
Soil surrendered with a harsh tearing sound, sending a spray of dry dirt across the front of my canvas jacket.
Sweat trickled down my spine, pasting my cotton shirt to my skin beneath the stiff outerwear.
Every muscle in my back, my shoulders, and my forearms burned with a fierce, exhausting lactic acid.
I actively welcomed the pain. Burning muscles and the sharp, frequent tug of thorns catching against my sleeves provided a singular focal point.
As long as I kept moving, I didn't have to think.
I didn't have to visualize the Seattle penthouse.
I didn't have to picture the flawless teardrop diamond sitting abandoned on the quartz counter directly next to my wedding ring.
I didn't have to replay Victoria Albright’s smooth, painted lips casually informing me that she was glad she could take the burden of an apology off my husband's plate.
Most importantly, I didn't have to process the terrifying reality of my own future.
Reaching down, I grabbed a thick cluster of severed, spiked vines with both gloved hands, dragging them toward a growing pile of debris near the edge of the property.
Just a few yards away, resting flat on a wide, lichen-spotted rock, my cell phone vibrated.
Mechanical buzzing scraped violently against the natural noise of crashing waves and wind rustling through the towering Douglas firs.
I froze. My hands remained gripped tightly around the thorny branches.
When I went inside to bandage my bleeding palms earlier, I retrieved the device from the nightstand drawer.
I hadn't turned it back on with any intention of calling anyone in the city.
I simply needed a clock. Absolute isolation at the lighthouse was deeply disorienting, and I needed something to anchor me to the passage of time so I didn't lose my mind in the silence.
I powered it up, immediately muted the ringer, and carried it outside, setting it on the rock like an unexploded bomb.
Now, black glass glowed brightly in the morning sun. The device vibrated a steady, relentless rhythm against the rough stone.
I didn't have to walk over and look at the caller ID to know exactly who was trying to reach me.
My heart rate spiked, a hot, panicked adrenaline flooding my veins, entirely overriding the physical exhaustion of the yard work.
Staring at the vibrating piece of technology, my absolute first instinct was to ignore it.
I wanted to grab the spade, turn my back on the rock, and go back to hacking at the brambles until the battery died and the screen went permanently black.
I had been married to Reid Mitchell for years and I had known him for even longer. I knew exactly how he operated.
Ignoring a man who viewed every obstacle as a personal challenge to be conquered would only make him escalate his tactics.
If I didn't answer, he wouldn't respect my boundary and back down.
He would interpret my silence as a hostile negotiation tactic.
He would likely charter a private seaplane, land it in the island harbor, and march up the dirt road to demand a resolution in person before the afternoon was over.
He was not going to be deterred by an unanswered phone call.
Releasing my grip on the dead vines, I let them drop to the ground with a dry rustle.
Reaching up, I pulled the oversized leather work gloves off my hands, tossing them onto the debris pile. I rubbed my taped palms against the stiff canvas of my jacket, wiping away the worst of the grit, and walked slowly toward the rock.
Picking up the device, I saw his name displayed in crisp white letters across the screen.
I swiped my thumb across the glass to accept the call and lifted the phone to my ear.
I took a few steps away from the retaining wall, moving closer to the very edge of the coastal bluff where the cell reception bouncing across the open water was notoriously spotty, but necessary to maintain a connection.
"Gwen?"
His voice came through the small speaker, laced with a harsh, crackling static.
"I'm here," I said. My voice sounded small, raspy, and completely unfamiliar, scraped raw from hours of crying alone in the dark bedroom.
"Thank God," Reid exhaled.
It was the sharp, impatient exhalation of a man who had finally tracked down a missing piece of a puzzle.
"I have been trying to reach you all night," Reid said, the words clipping along at a frantic, driven pace.
"I drove straight to the Anacortes terminal the second I realized you were gone, but they had already locked the gates.
Why was your phone turned off? Where are you right now? Are you at the lighthouse?"
"Yes," I replied, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the choppy, dark blue water of the strait, refusing to let the panicked edge in his voice pull me back into his orbit. "I'm at the lighthouse."
"Okay. Okay, good," Reid said, his mind clearly racing, rapidly organizing the logistics of the situation now that he had confirmed my physical location.
"Listen to me, Gwen. I know you are upset.
I know I handled the situation in the kitchen poorly.
I was exhausted, the adrenaline from the acquisition was completely hijacking my logic, and I failed to communicate effectively. "
I closed my eyes. Coastal breezes whipped around my shoulders, tugging at the stiff collar of my canvas jacket.
He wasn't speaking to his wife. He was executing a crisis management protocol.
"Reid—" I started, needing to stop the flow of words before they could take root in my chest, but he was already rolling right over my voice, launching directly into a rapid-fire, flawlessly structured apology.
"I am sorry about the necklace," he continued, the static popping and hissing beneath his urgent tone.
"I genuinely thought I was doing something kind, but I understand why Victoria handling the purchase upset you.
I am sorry I missed our weekend on the island.
The timing of the contract negotiations was catastrophic, and I failed to properly manage your expectations regarding my availability. "
Manage your expectations. Failed to communicate effectively.
Those words felt like physical thorns scraping against my eardrums. He was dissecting the devastating collapse of our marriage using the exact same vocabulary he used to analyze a supply chain disruption. He was treating my departure like an operational error that simply needed a quick patch.
"I have already taken steps this morning to resolve this," Reid stated, his tone firm, confident, and utterly blind to the reality of the damage.
"I sat down with Victoria the second she arrived at the office.
I established much firmer, explicit boundaries regarding my personal schedule and her role as a consultant.
She will not be managing any personal matters moving forward.
Furthermore, I have instructed my team to clear my entire calendar for Friday afternoon.
I am moving my meetings. I will catch the two o'clock ferry, I will come out to the island, and we will sit down and talk this through until it is resolved. "
Standing perfectly still on the edge of the bluff, I stared out at the vast, empty expanse of the water.
He truly, genuinely believed he was fixing the problem.
In his hyper-logical, algorithmic brain, my departure wasn't a bleeding wound; it was just a localized failure that required a quick fix.
He had identified the primary symptom—my anger over Victoria delivering the jewelry—and he had immediately applied a superficial medication to make it go away.
He had verbally reprimanded the consultant, and he had carved out a three-hour window in his pristine schedule to negotiate my return to Seattle.
He still didn't understand the actual disease.