A/N: We are moving the story along.

AFTER

It's like a storm

That cuts a path

It breaks your will

It feels like that

You think you're lost

But you're not lost on your own

You're not alone

"I Won't Let Go"

Rascal Flatts

May 12, 1952

Worcester, Massachusetts

After their morning talk on the beach, the rest of that day had been as close to perfect as Chuck could have hoped. They ate breakfast in the restaurant at the hotel, then walked the Marginal Way to Perkins Cove. While strolling past the shops that lined the street next to the harbor, Chuck bought Sarah a necklace, a string of silver beads that she had admired while looking in one of the shop windows. He had seen the look on her face and bought it without her awareness, handing her the bag as they'd exited the shop.

They'd eaten lunch in a restaurant overlooking the ocean and taken a leisurely boat ride around the harbor. The walk back along the Marginal Way was a pleasant meandering, full of frequent stops for scenic photographs and resting on benches nestled among the beach rose bushes.

An idyllic vacation day was complete with dinner and more dancing. The night was spent making love. That morning had set the tone, removing walls and barriers, and the feeling had built upon itself. Sarah was relaxed, comfortable, with an almost unconscious awareness that something significant had shifted between them. They had seemed to be communicating on a higher level, almost like telepathy. No words were spoken, but he knew, and she understood that he knew. Specifics weren't required.

The thought of Sarah having a secret pregnancy was still troubling, but only for what it meant externally—Shaw and Jack and all that entailed. Internally, in their relationship, he felt relieved, now sure he knew her secret, and as sad and distressing as the reality of it was to him, he knew they could move beyond it. True to his word, how he felt about Sarah, how he thought of her, remained unchanged.

All the while, the dissolving barriers had seemed to set Sarah free. She had still come to him in the dark that night, but that had been her only inhibition. What had been partially restrained the night before was now wild and passionate; her eagerness to please him was a new experience for him as well. Sarah had always been tougher, bolder than he; the soft side of her was something he knew she reserved for him. He felt at last he had all of her, that she was sharing completely, the fighter and the lover, tough and tender.

All he had known before was Jill–keeping tabs, keeping score, making him feel like she had been doing him a favor, reciprocating for favors, like writing a thank you note. With Sarah, it was real. Emotional. About emotions. No score-keeping, only the uprush of genuine feeling.

Another epiphany, about emotions, happened that evening. Sarah loved him. She loved him. He felt he understood that as never before. The line he had never crossed, his line, independent of Jill and her rules, made complete sense to him. Acting out of love made all the difference, it changed the inner nature of what was done.

Sarah's shame had not been only that she had succumbed to Bryce, but that she had confessed to never loving him. Chuck knew now she hadn't, couldn't have loved Bryce…because she had been in love with Chuck, long before she had started dating Bryce, and all the time they had been together. Bryce filled the hole in her life, in her heart…but not completely, not in the right way. Chuck had lived the same story with Jill. He had been aching for Sarah and using Jill as a bandage, a distraction.

He was so sure because now he felt it—how they fit together perfectly, body and soul, like they had been created to fulfill the need in the other.

With the weight on her heart removed, Sarah could revel in the joy of them being together. Sensing her joy, her bliss, was a high like he had never imagined. He was happy because she was happy. Because he loved her.

Only one moment had blemished that perfect union.

He had gripped her hips as she straddled him, an instinctive reaction to pull her closer to him. His hands were large and her waist was slim. She had been casual, masking her action nonchalantly, but he knew her repositioning of his hands, taking each hand in hers and holding them at his sides, had been an intimate gesture but also a deflection.

She had deliberately moved his hands away from her abdomen.

The dark, her need to replace her nightgown before falling asleep…Carina's words he had overheard on Roxanne's porch… You can't keep it a secret and be with him the way you want…

His knowledge of her history had biased him into believing that despite his theory about Sarah's pregnancy, she hadn't given birth. A miscarriage perhaps…or worse, an abortion…but actually giving birth? It hadn't seemed chronologically possible.

Unless what he believed was wrong–a lie, a fabrication.

The more he thought, the more trouble he had reconciling the truth with what he perceived.

She was hiding her body from him. He couldn't comprehend any other reason why…unless her body bore marks, scars from childbirth.

They were so close to ridding themselves of their burden. It was now a matter of speaking the words, saying them out loud.

Another beach day collecting sea shells and hunting for crabs, another night of passion, and then they were on the road back to Massachusetts. They listened to the radio, singing along with Frank Sinatra and Doris Day. Sarah stayed close to him, her head resting on his shoulder.

They had begun to speak about the logistics of living in Chuck's house as they entered Worcester, nearing their home. Sarah's things were in Ellie's old room; Chuck was sleeping in the same room he had slept in since he was a small child. A bit of rearranging seemed pertinent, to smooth the transition to married life, an abrupt but welcome change.

Chuck pulled in the driveway and parked his car. He insisted on carrying Sarah into the house, even as she shrieked when he scooped her into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck, fluttering her legs as they laughed together, her laughter deep and satisfied.

Once they were on the porch, Chuck noticed boxes, the door propped open, and Gertrude and Casey moving to and fro, inside and out.

Chuck's laughter faded and he slowly lowered Sarah to her feet, exchanging a curious look with his wife. "What's going on?" Chuck asked, raising his voice so that whoever was closest to the door could hear.

"Chuck?" Gertrude called, as she rushed onto the porch, wearing a beaming smile. She squealed, reaching for both of them and embracing them. "Welcome home!" she sang.

"Gertrude, what's all this?" Chuck asked, pulling away from her and gesturing to the boxes. "Is something wrong?"

"Montgomery called this morning," Casey grumbled as he emerged from the house, unfazed by Chuck's homecoming. "Money's in the bank."

"Then what are you doing?" Chuck asked, raising his voice in frustration.

"Oh, Chuck," Gertrude gushed. "John and I agreed a long time ago that once you were married, that we would let you have your privacy."

"What?" Chuck shouted in surprise. "Since when?" He looked frantically back and forth between Gertrude and Casey.

"If your parents were alive, you would have bought a new house, not lived indefinitely with them in their house. This is your house. It always was, always has been," Casey said flatly.

"Whoa…whoa," Chuck stuttered, holding up his hands, palms out. "We need to talk about this. Where are you going to go?"

"We have a room–" Gertrude started, sounding defensive.

"No, no, no," Chuck insisted. "Can we please go inside and talk about this?" He continued to gesture until Casey and Gertrude complied. Sarah grabbed his hand as they walked inside.

Casey sat on one end of the sofa, rather than in the chair he always used. Gertrude sat beside him, stiffly, balancing forward on the cushion like she was uncomfortable. That left the armchair, and Chuck stretched out his hand to Sarah, directing her to sit, while he stood. Chuck wouldn't sit in Casey's chair.

"There is no reason for you to leave this house," Chuck said, resting his hands on his hips. "Sarah and I both want you here." Sarah nodded in affirmation.

"Chuck, we lived here so that we could take care of you, take care of your house for you until you were old enough to do it yourself. But you're married, really married," Gertrude said, turning to Sarah and smiling, her eyes glistening. "You don't need us to take care of you anymore."

"It isn't about taking care of me," Chuck argued. "It's about…family. You both are my family, just as much as Sarah is my family now."

Casey shifted uncomfortably. He opened his mouth as if he were about to complain, but Gertrude bumped into his shoulder, hard, to quiet him.

"Can I say something?" Sarah said meekly but with her typical quiet intensity.

Gertrude smiled and nodded.

"If Chuck and I had a proper engagement, we would have had time to sort all this out. I would have been preparing all along to…be a wife," she said, chuckling on the word, the sound of it amazing her. "But everything happened so fast. There is still a lot I have to learn."

"Seems like you're a quick learner," Casey grumbled, just clearly enough for Chuck to hear, looking pointedly at Sarah's glowing face. Gertrude stomped on his foot so hard he yelped. The glare she flashed his way withered him into submission. He grumbled something else Chuck couldn't hear, probably an apology to his wife for being so crude.

"Excuse my borish husband," Gertrude apologized.

Sarah sat forward in her chair, reaching for Gertrude's hand and holding it while the older woman waited. "If I had my mother while I was growing up, she would have been teaching me all along," Sarah explained sadly. Chuck saw the dark storm in her blue eyes. "All I ever had was you, when I was little. You were like a mother to me. At least that was how I thought of you." Sarah's eyes glistened beneath a film of tears.

Gertrude's lower lip trembled before she pressed her lips closed, a rare softness in her blue eyes.

"I still need your help. If you're willing to stay…and help me," Sarah stated, asking without pleading.

"Oh, dear, of course I'll help you," Gertrude gushed, leaning forward and grasping both of Sarah's hands in hers.

"You are both my family…because of Chuck," Sarah whispered, still touching Gertrude but leaning against her husband as he stood next to her chair.

Chuck cleared his throat, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. "I know it's…weird. But you still work for me. It works for us. Why fix something that isn't broken?"

Casey grunted loudly. "If we stay, there still have to be some changes. Gert and I go back to the rooms we used to use when your parents hired us. You and Sarah should sleep in your parents' old bedroom. Gert and I moved to that room when you were having nightmares…and we just stayed. No more. We move."

"Really?" Chuck asked.

"What? Did you think you should share your old bedroom with your wife?" Casey snipped. "Pirate lamp and all?" he joshed.

The pirate lamp had been retired to his closet when he was 12. But Chuck let Casey have his rare joke.

"Your kids will use those rooms," Casey stated.

Chuck flushed at Casey's words. Sarah's gaze shifted to the floor, as Chuck had suspected it would. He could now anticipate Sarah's reactions based on his hypothesis about her secret.

Gertrude, however, reacted strangely as well. She seemed to pale, her back straightening as she tilted away, releasing Sarah's hands. Casey didn't react at all, either oblivious to his wife's reaction, or intentionally ignoring it.

"That's a lot of furniture to move around, a lot of planning," Gertrude said, adjusting her tone artificially, adding a brightness that didn't quite match her expression. Her countenance adjusted more gradually.

"A lot of pains in my back," Casey grumbled.

"A little bit at a time," Gertrude hummed, tapping Casey on his knee. Turning to Chuck, Gertrude added, "For now, we can concentrate on moving to our old room. You and Sarah stay in your room, Chuck." Gertrude tempered a smirk that made Chuck blush.

"Let's get things settled," Chuck said, rubbing his hands together. "Then I can call Morgan and check in."

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Chuck woke, believing the crying he sensed was from a dream. It took him a moment to orient, finding himself in his room, in his own bed. He felt a kick under the sheet, all at once aware of Sarah beside him. She was thrashing in her sleep, kicking him and tickling him with her long hair as she flailed.

He raised himself on his elbows, comprehending the weeping he thought he had imagined was in fact his wife, crying in her sleep. Sarah was in the throes of a nightmare, a new experience for him. He debated, unsure if he should wake her or wait to see if she settled.

She was mumbling incoherently. Her breathing was ragged, like she was out of breath from running a long distance.

"No…no…don't…take…DON'T…"

She flailed, rolling. He grabbed her, steadying her, keeping her from falling off the side of his bed, much smaller than the queen-sized bed they had shared in the hotel. The feel of her bare skin under his hand surprised him, as he scanned the floor beside the bed for her nightgown.

She had fallen asleep more suddenly, before she could redress herself for bed.

He focused, more aware of where he placed his hands as he held her.

The sounds of her crying, even in a dream, were too heart-wrenching to endure. "Sarah," he whispered, gently shaking her awake. She woke harshly, gasping, still flailing against him.

"Ssh," he whispered, kissing the salty, heated skin of her cheek. "It's just a bad dream."

She shuddered, sighing in relief, sagging against him, but still crying. It took several seconds for her to regain her lucidity, and longer for her to realize she was naked, something that surprised her as well. She tucked the sheet around her, casually; he remained intentionally unaware, keeping his eyes focused on her face.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said, rolling towards him and resting her head on his chest, the sheet tucked strategically around her.

He trailed his fingers through the tangled blonde hair that covered them both. "It's ok, baby," he whispered. He was both accepting her apology and offering general comfort, unaware of the name he used to address her until it was out of his mouth.

He was about to apologize, remembering how she detested pet names, but she spoke first. "Baby?" she asked, her voice gentle, quizzical.

"It just slipped out before I–"

"It's very sweet, Chuck," she hummed. "When you say it."

"I didn't want to sound condescending," he offered, thinking of Bryce and the crude way he had addressed her. Jill had hated any kind of pet name like that, the one thing she had in common with Sarah.

"You never said it before," she whispered. "It makes me feel…special, when you say it."

Warmth surged through him, touched at her openness, reveling in the closeness he felt, despite the sheet that separated them. "I'll have to remember that," he replied, his voice deep. He kissed her forehead, feeling his sleepiness coming back to claim him.

He slept soundly until the morning, noticing Sarah had reached for her nightgown and donned it at some point after her nightmare, without waking him.

May 13, 1952

Worcester, Massachusetts

"This can't be right," Chuck stammered as he scanned over the paperwork Roan had placed in front of him on his desk.

"Oh, but it is, my boy. It is," Roan beamed, smiling his polished smile. "Two words. Compounded Interest."

Chuck scowled. "I know how compound interest works, Roan. I have a Master's Degree from Stanford."

"Then why are you so confused?" Roan chortled.

"It's…a lot of money. It's crazy," he sighed in wonder.

"You, my friend, had the unique luck of being born about a year before the Stock Market crash of 1929, better known as Black Monday. Your parents started investing for both you and your sister before your sister was born in 1925, while the stock market was booming. Your sister's fund lost money, but then it was rolled into yours, both of yours. It's been growing ever since. It's been 23 years and the Dow still isn't at the level it was the Friday before Black Monday. Your testamentary trust was growing, untouched, for that entire span. It more than quintupled in value, Chuck," Roan finished, patting Chuck on the shoulder. "Oh, and you're welcome," Roan teased.

Chuck was still processing everything Roan had told him, the large sum of money that was now available in his business account. "Thank you?" Chuck asked. "You weren't the financial advisor, were you?"

"Hah!" Roan scoffed. "No, but a lesser man could have, and probably would have, robbed you blind. You were ten and that simpleton Casey couldn't do more than rudimentary math."

Chuck had to laugh. Roan was a lawyer first, everything else second. Chuck would never have classified him in the category he seemed to be placing himself in, a better man than Casey. "So why didn't you, Roan?" Chuck asked, lifting one eyebrow.

Roan's smile faded, from dazzling to genuine. "Because your father was one of the greatest men I ever knew. And I promised him I would guard your money, your future, if anything ever happened to him. I made that promise and less than a year later, he was gone." Roan's voice was gentle, a quality Chuck had never heard from him before.

Chuck's sarcasm fizzled, replaced by a genuine sense of gratitude. The silence buzzed with sentiment. After a time, Chuck asked, "Roan, can I ask you something about my father?"

"Of course you can," Roan replied.

"How much do you know about my dad…you know, when he was younger. Before he met my mother," Chuck added.

"Only bits here and there. I didn't meet your father until he incorporated Burton Carmichael in 1924. I know he wasn't upper class, like your mom. She pissed off the Carmichaels when she married your father. He worked hard to be what he thought was worthy of her. Your mom never saw it that way, but he certainly did.

"Why do you ask?" Roan questioned. Chuck had never asked Roan about anything related to his parents.

"When the bank was clearing out Jack's house, one of the men working there said his sister was married to a friend of my father's. A Polish baker named Dominic Babinska. Did my dad ever talk about him?" Chuck asked.

"The name sounds familiar, but…other than that, I'm not sure," Roan commented, thinking.

"My father grew up with him, apparently. Which meant he knew Jack Burton. And according to Carina Miller, they also grew up with someone named Salvatore Cipriani," Chuck said cautiously.

"Cipriani I know," Roan said, lowering his voice, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "Not personally. But let's just say…he has lawyers on the take, lawyers that I know. Not me, but…others."

"Shaw reports to Cipriani," Chuck said, sotto voce, for the same reason.

Chuck sighed and looked up. "I told Diane but—"

"Diane told me what you thought. About Jack and Iaconi," Roan admitted. "Diane and I…fraternize…occasionally…outside of business," Roan said with a sardonic smile.

"Well, without going into specifics, I know what I thought is true. Jack owed Frank Iaconi a large sum of money. And Shaw was blackmailing Jack. Over something that has to do with Sarah," Chuck said, his throat dry as the words seemed to catch. He didn't want to explain beyond what he already had, not when the subject remained so touchy.

"That's worrisome" Roan mumbled absently.

"So four friends—Cipriani, Babinska, Jack, and my father—grew up together. Cipriani joins the mafia," Chuck said, talking to himself out loud.

Roan tsked, shaking his head. "Cipriani most likely didn't have a choice, Chuck. That old country stuff…if your father was in, you were in. You can't rank without Italian blood."

Chuck knew that, vaguely, from the chatter he had overheard with some of the workers at his factory. "But they were friends. Was that how Jack got involved? Was that how Jack could have owed so much money that remained uncollected for so long?"

Roan narrowed his eyes at Chuck. "How do you…have all this information?"

"Let's say I…have proof, that's all," Chuck added, believing the less people who knew about the ledger, the better.

"If I were you, Chuck," Roan added, leaning forward, concern on his face, "I would tread carefully. It can get dangerous pretty quickly."

It was chilling to consider, but Chuck had to deal with the situation sooner rather than later. Jack had been dead for almost a month. No matter what else, things would come to a head soon. They were almost out of time. The only comfort he had was that he knew Sarah was safe.

"Roan, Carina told me I should contact Babinska. That he has an in with Cipriani," Chuck said.

Roan's eyes bulged. "And you want to talk to him…why…exactly?" he sputtered.

"Because Jack owed Cipriani's boss money and now he's dead. I need to make damn sure no one is coming after Sarah looking for payment," Chuck snapped.

Still sputtering, Roan added, "With the mafia, you let sleeping dogs lie, I tell you. Let them lie! You go in there announcing you're looking to settle, they'll settle alright. They're still criminals. They still steal for a living."

"That's why I'm talking to Babinska first. I'm trying a different angle."

Roan looked doubtful.

Chuck had his doubts too, but he was relying on something he had been relying on all his life, at least involuntarily. His father's reputation. Chuck was now going to rely on it voluntarily; he hoped it was enough.

A/N: Thank you Zettel. Historical Notes: The Stock Market crashed on Monday, October 28, 1929, which eventually would trigger the Great Depression. In this story, Chuck was one year old. The value of the Stock Market on October 26, 1929 would not be seen again until 1954, two years beyond this story. Twenty-five years just to get back to where they were. Roan's explanation is valid. As devastating as the Great Depression was for some, many were able to make their fortunes during it, or because of it. Money invested in the early 1930s did nothing but grow for 25 years. It's the same argument about saving when you're young, as time is the ultimate creator of wealth. Chuck's trust funds were in the very narrow sweet spot of the Great Depression.