Chapter 6 - The Cleansing of Beacon Street
By Saturday morning, the autumn weather over Boston had broken into an immaculate, golden weekend.
The heavy front doors of Ethan’s three-story limestone townhouse on Beacon Street were thrown wide open to the crisp October air, the smell of fallen leaves and sea salt from the Charles River basin drifting through the high-ceilinged rooms.
Parked at the curb were two white utility vans from New England Architectural Salvage.
Inside the grand double parlor on the second floor—a room that had stood cold, dark, and museum-like for four years following his late wife’s death—three professional carpenters were methodically unbolting the heavy mahogany bookcases, opening the space to the massive bay windows overlooking the Public Garden.
Standing in the center of the room, wearing an oversized navy sweater, comfortable leggings, and white wool socks, was Abigail.
In her hands was an architectural sketch pad.
Beside her, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by paint color swatches, was Olivia.
"Not gray, Daddy!" Olivia shouted toward the doorway, holding up a bright robin's-egg blue square. "Boys don't want gray walls! They want blue with gold stars on the ceiling like the planetarium!"
Ethan stepped into the room, wearing a gray Henley shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a wooden tool belt slung over his hips, carrying a cordless drill and a stack of sanded pine molding.
He looked at Abigail, his face glowing with a peace so profound, so unshakeable, that the seven years of grief that had lined his features seemed to have vanished entirely.
"The lady of the house gets the final vote on the color palette, Livvy," Ethan smiled, walking across the room and dropping a kiss onto the top of his daughter's head before leaning down to press his lips against Abigail’s cheek.
"Robin's-egg blue with gold stars sounds magnificent, sweetheart," Abigail smiled, resting her hand over the curve of her stomach, leaning her weight trustingly against Ethan’s shoulder.
The doorbell chimed from the foyer below.
Two minutes later, Arthur Ross walked up the grand staircase, dressed in an unbuttoned tweed vest over an Oxford shirt, holding a heavy red-tabbed leather portfolio.
"Good morning, family," Arthur announced, his dry, cultured baritone filling the sunlit room.
Ethan set his drill onto the workbench, wiping his hands on a shop towel. "Did the chancery court ratify the filings, Arthur?"
Arthur Ross opened the portfolio, pulling out three gold-embossed judicial decrees stamped with the crimson seal of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts:
PROBATE & FAMILY COURT DIVISION // CAUSE NO: 26-D-8814
SPECIAL DECLARATORY COVENANT OF PATERNITY & LINEAL RECOGNITION
SUBJECT: UNBORN MALE CHILD (GESTATIONAL AGE: 28 WEEKS)
BIOLOGICAL FATHER: ETHAN THOMAS REED (100% UNCONDITIONAL LEGAL RECOGNITION)
CO-GUARANTOR & MOTHER: DR. ABIGAIL MORRISON.
Arthur turned to page two:
THE REED-MORRISON SOVEREIGN FAMILY TRUST
PRIMARY REAL ESTATE CONVEYANCE: 442 BEACON STREET, BOSTON
GRANTEES: ETHAN REED & DR. ABIGAIL MORRISON, AS JOINT TENANTS WITH FULL RIGHT OF SURVIVORSHIP
CAPITAL ALLOCATION: 50% CONTROLLING PREFERRED EQUITY IN REED GLOBAL RENEWABLES VESTED UNCONDITIONALLY IN THE ABIGAIL & LEO REED FOUNDATION.
Abigail stared at the legal parchment.
Her breath caught in her throat. "Ethan... fifty percent of your company?"
"You are not an employee, Abby," Ethan said softly, stepping in front of her, taking both of her hands into his strong, calloused palms. "You are not a guest in this house. You are the foundation of everything I build from this day forward. This home, this company, and my life belong to you and our children."
He reached into his pocket, withdrawing an antique black velvet presentation box.
He opened it beneath the morning sun.
Inside, resting on white silk, was not a new diamond from a commercial boutique on Newbury Street.
It was an exquisite, platinum-set three-carat oval sapphire surrounded by a halo of brilliant-cut diamonds—the historic Morrison family engagement ring that Abigail’s late grandmother had worn for sixty years, which Ethan had spent forty-eight hours tracking down from an estate jeweler in Providence where her uncle had pawned it three years earlier.
Abigail’s hand flew to her mouth, a sharp, concussive sob tearing from her chest.
"My grandmother's ring..." she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelieving wonder.
"You told me that you wanted an equal seat at the table, Abigail," Ethan whispered, dropping to one knee on the hardwood floorboards before his daughter, his attorney, and his future wife.
He held the sapphire ring up toward her.
"I don't want an equal seat, Abby," Ethan said, his voice rich with an ancient, eternal devotion. "I want you to be the queen of this house. Will you marry me, Abigail?"
Olivia bounded up from the floor, clapping her hands with pure, ecstatic joy. "Say yes, Dr. Abby! Say yes so we can put the crib together!"
Abigail looked down at the man who had walked through his own fire to find her, looked at the little girl who had given her a glitter card, and felt the firm, joyful kick of her unborn son against her ribs.
She smiled—a brilliant, radiant, tearful smile that banished every shadow of the past forever.
May you like
"Yes, Ethan," Abigail wept, extending her left hand. "A thousand times, yes."
Ethan slid the sapphire ring onto her third finger, the platinum band warming instantly against her skin, before rising to his feet, sweeping her into his arms, and kissing her deeply beneath the bright autumn sun streaming through the windows of their permanent home.
