Chapter 13 - Cleaning House on Sound ShoreThe following three weeks were a whirlwind of joyous celebration and new beginnings.
Under my direction, the Vance Foundation established an endowment dedicated to providing legal aid, financial literacy, and protective advocacy for domestic workers and low-income caregivers facing exploitation across New York.
The domestic staff at the Long Island compound were given permanent employment contracts with full pension benefits, union wages, and comprehensive healthcare coverage under the newly chartered Vance Trust.
Mrs. Gable was given full executive authority over household provisioning, ensuring that all food and supplies were sourced exclusively from honest local vendors, including the small Italian markets in Queens.
One Saturday morning, I walked into the grand kitchen.
The scent of fresh cinnamon, brewing dark roast coffee, and warm sourdough bread filled the sunny room.
Mrs. Gable was kneading dough at the marble island with a wide, happy smile.
“Good morning, Miss Nora,” Mrs. Gable greeted me warmly, wiping flour from her hands. “The fresh strawberries arrived from the Hudson Valley orchards this morning. Don Cassian requested his mother’s favorite fruit tarts for afternoon tea.”
“I’ll help you hull the strawberries, Mrs. Gable,” I smiled, reaching for an apron.
Mrs. Gable immediately caught my wrist with gentle firmness, tutting softly under her breath.
“You will do no such thing, young lady,” the old cook scolded affectionately. “The Donna of this house does not hull strawberries on a Saturday morning. You have a bridal gown fitting with the French designers in thirty minutes.”
I laughed, leaning down to kiss the old woman’s cheek. “You spoil me, Mrs. Gable.”
“You earned every bit of it, child,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling with happy tears. “Now go on. Don Cassian is waiting for you in the rose garden.”
I walked out through the terrace doors into the estate’s private rose garden.
The gravel paths had been cleared of winter debris, and the early spring roses were blooming in vibrant crimson clusters beneath the morning light.
Cassian stood by the marble fountain, holding the leash of a bounding, four-month-old golden retriever puppy that was joyfully chasing dry leaves across the grass.
When the puppy saw me, he let out a happy yip and bolted down the path, tumbling straight into my shins, wagging his tail furiously.
I knelt down, laughing as the puppy showered my face with enthusiastic, wet kisses.
Cassian walked up, looking down at us with that rare, breathtaking smile that always made my heart race.
“Looks like Barnaby approves of his new mother,” Cassian murmured, extending a hand to pull me up into his arms.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
“Vanilla, clean rain, and sweet roses,” he whispered against my skin. “The only scent I ever want to come home to.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, smiling against his cheek.
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“Mrs. Gable kicked me out of the kitchen again, Cassian.”
“Mrs. Gable is a very wise woman,” he chuckled, his hands resting naturally on my hips. “And she knows that your hands have far more important work to do.”
