Chapter 7 - The Coastal Refuge
The rain had stopped by mid-morning, leaving the air in Larchmont smelling of wet pine, cold salt, and the sharp bite of approaching winter.
Inside the small shingle cottage on the spit of granite, Margaret Marino sat at the Formica kitchen table, wearing a thick cashmere sweater that belonged to Walter’s late sister, paging through a notebook filled with Carrie’s neat, handwritten budget calculations.
“She has you down for thirty dollars a week on organic produce,” Margaret observed, looking up over her reading glasses at Carrie, who was standing by the small stove heating water for chamomile tea. “Carrie, my dear, Dominic spends more than that on a single bottle of sparkling water at the St. Regis.”
Carrie didn’t turn around immediately. She placed both hands flat against the cool laminate counter, feeling the steady, rhythmic kick of her daughter against her diaphragm.
“That was Dominic’s money, Margaret,” Carrie said quietly. “This is mine. There’s a distinct difference in how it tastes.”
Margaret closed the notebook with a soft click. “You can’t hide in a three-room cottage on the Sound forever. The lawyers will find you by tomorrow afternoon. Sterling is a shark; he’s spent forty years cleaning up my late husband’s messes, and he won’t hesitate to file an emergency custody motion claiming you’re removing an unborn child from its primary domicile without court approval.”
Carrie turned, her eyes sharp and clear. “Let him file. Every single financial document on my old MacBook proves that the Westchester estate was purchased using funds diverted from the historical trust without proper disclosures. If Sterling forces a custody hearing, we open discovery on every corporate account Dominic has hidden since 2021.”
Before Margaret could answer, a sharp rap sounded against the front door.
It wasn't Walter’s measured rhythm, nor was it the gentle knock of a visitor. It was two heavy, authoritative thuds that vibrated through the floorboards of the old house.
Walter Hayes stepped out from the tiny hallway, his hand resting casually inside his jacket pocket. He looked through the peephole, his brow furrowing slightly.
“Who is it, Walter?” Carrie asked, her hand moving automatically to her phone on the table.
“Not process servers,” Walter muttered, unlocking the deadbolt and pulling the heavy oak door open half an inch.
A tall man in a charcoal bespoke suit stood on the porch, his silver-threaded hair neatly brushed, holding a leather briefcase in one hand. It wasn’t Dominic. It was Richard Vance, Marino Holdings’ chief operating officer, looking entirely out of place against the weathered gray shingles of the Larchmont coast.
“Mrs. Marino,” Richard said, his voice carrying clearly through the narrow gap. “May I come in? Or do I need to conduct this conversation through a screen door like an insurance adjuster?”
Carrie stepped into the hallway, her navy maternity dress smoothing against her rounded frame. She looked at Richard with an expression of cool, professional detachment that she had learned across nine years of sitting beside Dominic at high-level charity boards.
“Richard,” Carrie said evenly. “If you’re here to deliver another settlement offer from Dominic, you can save your breath and the gas mileage on your town car.”
May you like
“I’m not here on Dominic’s behalf, Carrie,” Richard said, lifting his briefcase slightly. “I’m here on behalf of the board of directors. And if you give me ten minutes inside this kitchen, I think you’ll find our interests are remarkably well-aligned.”
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