Chapter 17 - The Ashes of the Past
By Friday afternoon, the storm had finally cleared, leaving behind a crisp, crystalline autumn sky.
The mortuary had delivered the small, square mahogany urn to the Edina house that morning. Richard had wanted his ashes scattered over the golf course at the Minikahda Club—the private playground where he had spent hundreds of hours boasting about his deals and avoiding his wife.
I took the urn out to the backyard patio, set it on the iron glass table, and sat down with a cup of black coffee.
The back door clicked open.
Julian stepped out. He was dressed in a gray hoodie and dark jeans, holding a warm mug of hot cocoa. Over the past six days, the hollow, haunted look in his eyes had begun to soften. He didn't look like an instrument of extortion anymore; he looked like a thirteen-year-old boy trying to find his footing on solid ground.
He walked over to the table, his eyes lingering on the wooden box.
"Is that him?" Julian asked softly.
"That's him," I replied.
Julian sat down in the chair across from me, wrapping both hands around his warm mug. "Are you going to scatter him at the golf club like he wanted?"
"No," I said. "The golf club denied the request. When a member gets indicted by a federal grand jury posthumously, they tend to revoke his privileges."
A tiny, unexpected smirk flickered at the corner of Julian’s mouth. It was the first time I had seen him smile. It was a good smile—not arrogant like Richard’s, and not calculating like Elena’s. It was his own.
"Where are you going to put him, then?" Julian asked.
"The county cemetery in Shakopee," I said. "Beside his parents. In an unmarked, simple plot. That's where he came from, and that's where he belongs."
Julian looked down at his hot cocoa, silent for a moment. The wind rustled the golden leaves of the maple trees along the perimeter fence.
"Garrett signed away his rights yesterday, didn't he?" Julian asked, his voice steady, surprisingly mature.
"He did," I said. "And your mother entered a formal guilty plea this morning. She accepted an eight-year sentence at the federal women's camp in Waseca."
Julian didn't flinch. He had processed the tears days ago on that freezing river dock.
"She called me from the jail phone yesterday," Julian whispered. "The social worker let me take the call."
I looked at him, waiting, keeping my face neutral. "What did she say?"
"She told me that when she gets out, she’ll come find me. She said blood is thicker than water." Julian looked up, meeting my eyes with a piercing, clear intensity. "You know what I told her, Clara?"
"What did you tell her, Julian?"
"I told her that water doesn't lie to you for thirteen years."
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My chest tightened with a sudden, fierce warmth—a protective instinct that had been buried so deep inside me for decades I had forgotten what it felt like.
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