Chapter 35 - The Spring Thaw
March arrived with a sudden, violent warmth that swept down from the Canadian shield, turning the heavy winter snowpacks into roaring torrents of muddy water that cascaded down the steep ravines of the Hudson Highlands.
The river was a chaotic expanse of churning grey water and massive floating blocks of rotting ice that ground against the stone pilings of the old railroad bridges with thunderous booms.
Inside the Beacon cabin, the heavy wooden doors stood wide open to let in the crisp, damp scent of spring mud, budding lilac, and wet pine needles. Casey stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching a pair of bald eagles wheeling gracefully through the rising thermal currents above Storm King Mountain.
The final manuscript of The Navesink Protocols lay bound on the heavy oak desk, its dark brown calfskin cover gleaming under the midday sun. It had already been accepted by an independent publishing house in Boston, completely bypassing the academic gatekeepers of Morningside Heights.
"The galleys arrived from Boston this morning," Dominic said, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her back gently against his chest. He rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and archival ink. "The editors want to know if you're ready to do a nationwide book tour starting in May."
Casey leaned back into his embrace, her hands resting comfortably over his arms. "Tell them no book tour," she murmured with a quiet smile. "I'm a historian, not a celebrity. Besides, my mother has finally planted her spring garden out back, and Alistair is halfway through translating a stack of eighteenth-century Dutch smuggling logs he found in the basement archives. I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," Dominic whispered, pressing a soft kiss against her temple. "Because I have a proposition for you."
Casey turned around in his arms, raising an eyebrow with playful skepticism. "A proposition from Dominic Russo? Usually, those involve brass USB drives, federal safehouses, and midnight car chases."
Dominic chuckled, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a small, flat brass key that gleamed brightly in the spring sunlight.
"Not this time," he said, his voice dropping into a tender, serious register. "Remember the old stone boathouse down by the cove—the one with the slate roof that everyone thought was structurally unsound?"
Casey's breath caught slightly in her throat. "The one where we found the original nineteen-fifty-four maritime manifests?"
"That's the one," Dominic said, placing the brass key gently into her open palm. "I had the engineers check the foundation last week. The stone is solid Roman granite beneath three feet of silt. I thought... maybe we could clear out the old records, install a proper library on the upper floor, and set up a permanent archive for your research."
Casey looked down at the heavy brass key, then back up into Dominic's steady, unswerving dark eyes. All the fear, the running, the terror of the Hoboken safehouse, and the bitter cold of the university corruption scandal felt like they belonged to another lifetime entirely.
May you like
"Only if we keep the fireplace," Casey said, her voice trembling slightly with quiet joy. "And only if we leave plenty of room for my mother's rosebushes by the dock."
Dominic smiled—a wide, brilliant grin that chased away every remaining shadow of his past. "Consider it done, Doctor. Come on, let's go check the water."
