Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wade
Morning light warmed the estate as I carried Marie toward the garage, her body warm and pliant in my arms. She'd woken up anxious, buzzing with a nervous energy that had her unable to sit still long enough to eat.
I'd finally given up trying to make her sit at the table—sometimes my darling needed to be held more than she needed to eat.
Thomas walked ahead of us, the thermos of oxtail soup Marie had specifically requested held carefully in one hand. She'd been asking for it constantly, the rich, familiar taste comforting for her.
I'd had the chef prepare a large batch, and we were bringing some with us. If my girl wanted oxtail soup at her childhood home, she'd have it.
"I can walk," Marie said against my neck for the third time this morning, though her arms were wrapped tightly around me and showed no signs of letting go.
"I know you can, darling." I adjusted my hold so she was more comfortable. "But your feet are still healing, and I like carrying you. Let me have this."
She'd been like this all morning, alternating between nervous chatter and going small and quiet. She was processing what today meant, what she was about to face.
I'd told her first thing where we were going, and her face went pale, then flushed, and settled into hope. After all these years, she was finally going home.
"What if she doesn't remember me?" Marie's voice was small, but hopeful. "Honey was three when I left. She'll be eight now—that's long for a golden retriever. What if she doesn't know who I am?"
"Dogs don't forget," I replied. "Especially not their people. She'll remember you, darling.”
"And my dad—" Her fingers messed with the button of my shirt. "What if he's not okay? What if worrying about me made him sick?"
"He's healthy." I'd had Thomas pull records and confirm that Nigel Rivers was in good health. "Your father is strong and well. He's been waiting for you. Not giving up, not getting sick, just waiting."
"Five years is a long time to wait." She rested her chin on my shoulder.
"It is." I wouldn't lie to her, wouldn't minimize what both of them had endured. "But he never stopped believing you'd come home, and now you are."
Thomas opened the car door, and I settled into the backseat with Marie still in my lap. Today, she needed to be held, needed the anchoring of my arms around her, my body solid beneath hers.
The thermos of soup sat in the cupholder in front of us, and Marie kept glancing at it with little smiles.
"Do you want some now?"
She shook her head. "I want to eat it at home in my kitchen. With my dad." Her eyes sparkled. "I want to see the bay from the porch where I grew up, and I want to sit at the table and tell him everything is okay."
She was practically vibrating against me. This was personal, deeper than guilt or responsibility. This was family. Everything she'd lost and was terrified might not be the same.
"It's okay to be scared," I soothed against her hair, stroking her back in slow circles. "It's okay to feel everything you're feeling right now. You're allowed to be overwhelmed, darling."
"I just—" She pressed closer, her face buried against my neck. "What if it doesn't feel like home anymore? What if I've changed too much? What if I walk in there and realize I don't belong in my own life?"
The fear was valid, understandable. Trauma changed people and made them into different versions of themselves, but I'd seen Marie’s light up when she talked about her childhood, when she mentioned her father, Honey, or the island she'd grown up on.
"Then we'll figure it out together," I answered simply.
"If it doesn't feel like home right away, we'll give it time. If you need space to adjust, you'll have it. If you need to leave and return to the estate, we’ll accommodate that. But Marie,” I tilted her face up, making her look at me.
"You deserve to try. You deserve to see if home is still waiting for you. "
She bit her lip, then grinned. "Okay. Okay, I'll try."
"Good girl." I kissed her nose. “When was the last time you used the bathroom?"
She blinked, clearly thrown by the subject change. I quite enjoyed throwing her off with this question. "What? Why this again?”
"The bathroom, darling. When did you last go?" I kept my voice matter-of-fact, though I was amused by her confusion. This was part of taking care of her, making sure her basic needs were met even when she was too distracted to think about them.
"I—" She thought about it, confusion all over her face. "This morning? Before dressing?”
"That was hours ago." I glanced at my watch. "And you've had tea and water since then. When we get to your father's house, you're going to use the bathroom, okay?”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she nodded. “Fine.”
"I'm not trying to embarrass you." I stroked her face. "But you've spent five years not taking care of yourself properly, putting everyone else first. I'm teaching you how to care for yourself again, starting with the basics."
Her expression softened and went vulnerable. "You're very good at this."
"At what, darling?"
"Taking care of people." She played with the collar of my shirt, not quite meeting my eyes. "Making them feel safe enough to be taken care of."
"I've had practice." I thought about my sons, about the years of teaching them how to be men while still letting them be vulnerable. "And I happen to care very much about taking care of you."
"Why?" The question was quiet, almost childlike. "Why do you care so much?"
Because she was mine. Because she ran into my arms and trusted me, letting me see parts of her that she kept hidden from everyone else.
"Because you deserve to be cared for, Marie, and I happen to be very good at it."
She studied my face for a long moment, then nodded slowly, settling back against my chest, her fingers playing with my shirt in that soothing pattern she'd developed. We drove in comfortable silence for a while, the island passing by outside the tinted windows.
"We're getting close," Thomas called from the front, and Marie tensed immediately.
"Breathe." I stroked her back, keeping her grounded. "Nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
She obeyed, her breathing evening out even as her fingers tightened on my shirt. I could feel her heart racing against my chest, could sense the anxiety rolling off her in waves.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I know." I kissed her forehead, soft and reassuring. "But I'm right here. Every step of the way. You're not doing this alone."
“Really?”
“Really, brave girl. I'm not going anywhere."
The Rolls turned down a narrow road, and through the windows I could see we were getting closer to the coast. The ocean appeared between houses and trees, that Caribbean blue Marie had been dreaming about for years.
Marie's breath hitched. "I can smell home."
"Almost there." I held her tighter, felt her bouncing slightly in my lap. "Just a little bit longer."
Thomas slowed the car, and I saw the house. It was small, right on the bay, with a porch overlooking greenery. Fishing nets hung on one side, a small boat visible in the yard. It was modest, well-maintained, and clearly loved.
On the porch stood an older man with tears already on his cheeks.
Nigel Rivers, Marie's father, waiting for his daughter to come home.
Thomas opened the door, and I helped Marie out of the car and carried her toward the home she'd been dreaming about for five years. Toward the father who'd never stopped believing, toward the life she thought she'd lost forever.
Nigel Rivers took one step off the porch, then stopped, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing, like moving forward might shatter the dream he'd been living in for the past twelve hours.
His hands were shaking, his face wet with tears, and I could see Marie in the shape of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.
Marie made a desperate, happy sound, full of five years of longing. Her hands reached out toward him even as she stayed in my arms, and I felt her whole body trembling against mine.
"Papa," she whispered, and the word was so soft, so achingly young.
That broke him. Nigel Rivers crossed the yard in quick strides, his hands reaching for his daughter. And I, despite every possessive instinct screaming at me to keep her, to hold her, to not let go, carefully set Marie on her feet.
She swayed slightly, her feet still healing, and I kept one hand on her waist to steady her. But then her father was there, pulling her into his arms, and I had to let go. I watched as she fell into her father's embrace with a sob that seemed to come from her soul.
"Marie." Nigel held her like she might disappear, like she was made of smoke and dreams. "My baby girl. My Marie. You're really here. You're really home."
"I'm sorry." Marie's voice was muffled against his chest, thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I tried to come back sooner, I tried—"
"Shh, no." He pulled back just enough to cup her face, his thumbs wiping away tears even as his own fell freely. "No apologies. You're here now. You came back to me. That's all that matters."
I stood a few feet away, giving them space but staying close enough to catch Marie if her legs gave out. I'd done this before—watched my sons with people they loved, stepped back to let them have their moments.
I knew how to be present without intruding, how to provide support without demanding attention. It was a skill I'd learned over decades of being a father, of understanding that sometimes love meant giving space even when you wanted to hold on.
But this felt different.
Watching Marie in her father's arms, seeing her break open in a way she hadn't even with the girls, feeling the distance between us even though it was only a few feet—it made something in my chest ache.
It made me want to pull her back against me, keep her close, and remind her that I was here too. That I'd been the one to bring her home, to keep her safe, to carry her when she couldn't walk.