Chapter 12 - A Sanctuary in the East WingBy late February, the transformation of their lives was complete.
The private master suite in the east wing of Blackwood Manor had become a sanctuary of warmth, laughter, and light.
The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the sparkling, snow-covered bluffs of the Hudson, while a massive fire crackled in the limestone hearth every evening.
Theo had begun his first semester at the prestigious Riverdale Country School, his grades outstanding, surrounded by friends who visited the manor every Friday afternoon to build model airplanes in the sunroom.
And every Sunday afternoon at 2:00 PM, without fail, the long mahogany dining table was filled with family.
Don Salvatore Falcone would sit at the head of the table, laughing as he carved the prime rib, while Mrs. Higgins brought platters of handmade gnocchi and warm sourdough bread from the kitchen.
One sunny Saturday morning, Laurel walked into the grand kitchen carrying a basket of fresh herbs from the greenhouse.
The air was warm, filled with the rich aromas of simmering cinnamon cider, roasting pecans, and fresh sourdough bread.
Mrs. Higgins was kneading dough at the marble island with a wide, happy smile.
“Good morning, Miss Laurel,” Mrs. Higgins greeted her warmly, wiping flour from her hands. “The fresh blackberries arrived from the Hudson Valley orchards this morning. Don Damian requested his favorite berry tarts for afternoon tea.”
“I’ll help you prepare the berries, Mrs. Higgins,” Laurel smiled, reaching for an apron.
Mrs. Higgins immediately caught her 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 blackberries on a Saturday morning. You have a bridal gown fitting with the French designers in thirty minutes.”
Laurel laughed, leaning down to kiss the old woman’s cheek. “You spoil me, Mrs. Higgins.”
“You earned every bit of it, child,” she whispered, her eyes twinkling with happy tears. “Now go on. Don Damian is waiting for you in the rose garden.”
Laurel walked out through the terrace doors into the estate’s private rose garden.
The gravel paths had been cleared of winter snow, and the early spring roses were blooming in vibrant crimson clusters beneath the morning light.
Damian 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 Laurel, he let out a happy yip and bolted down the path, tumbling straight into her shins, wagging his tail furiously.
Laurel knelt down, laughing as the puppy showered her face with enthusiastic, wet kisses.
Damian walked up, looking down at them with that rare, breathtaking smile that always made her heart race.
“Looks like Barnaby approves of his new mother,” Damian murmured, extending a hand to pull her up into his arms.
He buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.
“Vanilla, clean rain, and sweet roses,” he whispered against her skin. “The only scent I ever want to wake up to.”
Laurel wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling against his cheek.
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“Mrs. Higgins kicked me out of the kitchen again, Damian.”
“Mrs. Higgins is a very wise woman,” he chuckled, his hands resting naturally on her hips. “And she knows that your hands have far more important work to do.”
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