"Mr. Rowan?"
Andrew turned. Behind him were four young men, teenagers, all taller than him, all broader in the shoulders, all clean-cut and nervous looking. "Gentlemen?"
"We were wondering," the blond in front said, "that is, the team … um. We used to play some football over there." He pointed to the vacant field on the far side of the road. "You know, just pick-up games, weekends and whatever."
He'd already known about the playing field; Cox had told him a week ago. He and Lily had decided at once to let the boys continue to use it. For one there, thing was probably no stopping them, short of sitting on the porch with a big stick day and night. For another, they wanted to befriend the local population, not antagonize them. The house was remote enough to be a prime target for disgruntled teens, but it was unlikely they'd vandalize a place where they were welcome to hang out. Third, it wouldn't be too many years before their daughter – and presumably other Rowan children – would be teens themselves; it would be both convenient and comforting to have them loitering right across the road.
And last, but perhaps most important, Andrew and Lily both knew that in any community the teens were the best source of information. Anyone who came to town looking for information about the Rowans, maybe showing pictures around, was sure to attract the attention of the younger residents. If they were friends, welcome at the Octagon House, they were likely to pass the news on. "Hey, Mr. Rowan, there's this guy here at the diner asking questions, I think maybe your ex-wife sent him …" It was a long shot, but it was a little extra insurance that was cheap enough to buy.
He shook his head sadly. "Sorry, boys, but my knees are shot. I'm afraid my football-playing days are long over."
They laughed uneasily. "No, what we meant is …"
A slightly shorter red-head spoke up. "We were wondering if it would still be okay for us to play there. I mean, nobody cared when nobody lived here, but now, we thought we should ask."
"I see." Andrew put his hands on his hips and considered the area. "Well, I don't see why not," he finally said. "But no drugs or drinking, nothing like that."
"No, sir," they agreed quickly.
"I'll put a trash barrel over there by the road. No leaving junk all over the place."
They nodded again.
He considered each of them.
"No girls past second base."
This brought blushes and nervous laughter, but they agreed.
"I want your parents to know where you are," Andrew continued, "and I want you out of there by, oh, nine on school nights, ten during the breaks."
"That would be fine, sir." The blond had found his voice again.
He nodded. "All right, then. Wish I'd known before, I would have had them mow it down while they were here last week."
One of the boys from the back of the group spoke up. "I can bring my dad's tractor out and mow it tomorrow, if it's okay."
"I suppose that would be okay. After that we'll keep it cleaned up. Just make sure it's okay with your dad."
"I will."
Andrew nodded in satisfaction. "Sounds like we have a deal, gentlemen."
By two in the afternoon, the carpet was gone as well. The first delivery van arrived, bringing furniture from two of the many antique stores Lily and Penny had shopped at. They rounded up football players to unload them, and Lily stood at the front door, directing distribution. When they were done, they unloaded the truck she and Andrew had brought. Before that was finished, another truck arrived, this one with their new bedding set. And another with antique furniture.
With so many people helping, the unloading took very little time. Lily was aware that they had finished painting the upstairs and had started on the downstairs rooms. Cox came and asked if he should have someone assemble the cribs. There was hammering and drilling and a persistent whirring sound that puzzled her. When the last truck had been unloaded, she wandered through the atrium to the living room.
Half of her kitchen crew, and a dozen other women, were working on the bare, clean floor, cutting the acres of lace she'd special-ordered and hemming it into curtains. They had half a dozen girls acting as runners, carrying the finished pieces away, and Lily realized that the hammering was someone hanging curtain rods in every room. "Oh," she said softly.
"The upstairs is nearly done," one of the women said cheerily.
"I didn't expect you to do all this," Lily said. "I just thought … the windows and the carpet …"
"Oh, sweetie, we'll get you as settled as we can," Denise – or maybe Diane, Lily couldn't remember – said, sweeping past her with another curtain panel.
"You'll have enough to do," Joan assured her. "I'm going to see about the chicken."
"The … chicken?"
"We thought we'd fry chicken for supper. It only takes about half an hour."
"Oh."
Lily wandered out of the room and up the stairs. She walked to the nursery. The nursery, she thought, and window was open, and the fresh white curtain blew softly on the ocean air. The walls were stark white, gleaming with the cover coat of fresh paint. They'd put a coat of soft green on it in a week or so. The crib, neatly assembled, stood a careful distance from the wall. Various boxes from the baby store were stacked neatly nearby, also away from the walls. The new changing table had also been assembled, and sat next to an antique dresser and a beautiful old rocking chair.
Lily paused, considering the chair. She had not bought a rocking chair, and had not seen it come into the house.
She walked over to it and sank down slowly, bracing her round frame on its sturdy arms. Even without cushions, it was very comfortable. She sat back and closed her eyes, rocking slowly. Around her, the house still bustled.
"They made the bed," Andrew said quietly. "You could go lie down for a while."
Lily shook her head. "I'm okay. Just sitting for a moment, thinking about how much I love my husband."
Something crashed on the first floor. "Hold that thought," Andrew urged as he dashed out.
The bonfire roared as the sun set. For a moment, just for a moment: Andrew stood back and watched.
Marshmallows appeared on pointed sticks; they browned golden, they burned eager gooey fingers that should have been old enough to know better, and a few fell blackened into the fire. People mingled on the seaward side of the fire, out of the smoke, groups growing and contracting in talk and laughter. Other cars had arrived, bearing smaller children, older folk, more side dishes.
The fire was practical, but it was also symbolic. The days of the abandoned Octagon House were gone, irretrievably. There was no more wood to re-cover the windows. From here on the house would have to be filled with life, filled with children, filled with love. The community had gathered and made fire in celebration of it. There was no going back.
And in the midst of this new community – this welcoming, unexpected, undeserved community – in their embrace, in the firelight, stood his Lily.
Firelight, gold and red on her hair.
A lifetime ago, half a world away, he had fallen in love with her with firelight in her hair. It had been a very different world then. He had been a very different man. And Lily – Lily had been a girl still, smart and young and unafraid. Her fearlessness, more than anything else, had drawn him irresistibly to the flame of her being.
Time had changed her. Loving him had changed her. She had suffered torture and grief beyond reason. She had relinquished her fearlessness and regained her ability to live. And then she had risked everything she had for him. For their family. She stood now again in firelight, in the circle of warmth their new home had spun around her, older, more scarred, great with child, and happier than she had ever been in her life.
For a moment, just for a moment, Andrew stood back and watched. And fell in love all over again. With Lily, certainly, but it was more than that. With the woman she had become. With their child and the family she would make them. With the renewed old house and the ruin of the lighthouse, with the sea wind and the whisper of the surf, with the town and the fire and the fried chicken dinner. With the life that he and Lily had, against all odds, found for themselves.
For a moment, just for a moment, Andrew looked back. He had been very powerful. He had ruled all that he surveyed, in stealth and secrecy. He had been one of the most feared men in the world. And he had saved that world, once or twice.
He turned again, to look at the woman in the firelight. And then, laughing in sheer joy, he went to join her.
The muzzle flash lit the room.
Andrew Rowan, the man who had been Control, woke fully without moving.
Ten seconds passed before the soft echo of thunder reached him. Andrew stirred, sighed. Not gunfire. Only lightning.
The room flickered with soft orange light; the fire in the hearth was dying. It hadn't really been needed for warmth, but it had been lovely. A cool, salty breeze floated the white curtains like gentle ghosts. The night had been forecast mild and they'd left all the windows open; the smell of paint was fading under the gentle seduction of the ocean air.
Beside him, Lily breathed deeply, evenly in sleep.
Andrew slid out of the bed and walked to the French doors. He put his shoulder against the frame and watched the storm ten miles out to sea.
Around him, the house rested. It had been a busy day for the old lady. So many voices and footsteps, so much attention after so many silent years. They had made six months' worth of progress in a single day. But there was still so much to do. Paint the nursery first, pale green over the stark white base coat. Get that done and let Lily putter with setting it up. Then this room. They only had a third of the furniture they needed for this house, and a good percentage that was in the wrong place. There were boxes in every room, waiting to be unpacked.
On the long-term plan, there were miles of woodwork to be stripped and refinished, and acres of hardwood floor. Bricks, too, on every fireplace, needed to be restored. Replace the kitchen floor, soon. Rebuild the boat house and put in a dock, come spring. Put in some lights on the football field across the road, and outside the house.
There was the closed-off tunnel in the basement to be unblocked and checked and concealed. Access to the old lighthouse without breaking cover would be invaluable. He wanted motion sensors around the perimeter, too. Exterior lights. A plain old-fashioned burglar alarm. And a dog. Something large and loud and child-friendly. Keep the babies out of the ocean, and keep watch downstairs at night. Repair the rail on the widow's walk, maybe replace it with something solid for cover. Building hiding places for the guns, secure ones that no curious child could access. Acquire more guns, more ammo. A shotgun, sawed-off, last resort in here for Lily….
Lightning flashed. Of habit, Andrew counted to the thunder, a game he had learned as a small child. Eight miles and closing. He would need to go around and close the windows soon.
Below the house, the waves beat on the shore louder, faster. High overhead, the new lighthouse fired its reassuring, regular beam out over the sea, communing tamely with its wild cousin. The storm rolled closer. Seven miles now.
The waves, the wind, the storm.
And my daughter, he thought, floats in her own saltwater sea, safe and growing strong. She will come home to this house, she will be the first of many, and this house will be full of life and laughter, running feet and, inevitably, slamming doors. Her brothers and sisters will be conceived in this room – well, on these premises, he amended wryly – and her father, if he is lucky, will die in this bed, a contented old man surrounded by his children and grandchildren.
And his wife, his beautiful, brave wife, who had risked everything, everything for him.
The lightning flashed, and the thunder cracked instantly, unexpectedly close. Lily woke and came to his side. She did not speak, only slipped into his arms and held him, sharing the storm with him.
The waves, the wind, the storm.
And the safe harbor that the man who had been Control had never expected to find.