A pair of white-tailed sea hawks broke from the high canopy of the northern pines along the canal, circling high on the thermal updrafts above the water, their broad wings catching the sun as they banked clean, deep, and free across the limitless blue American sky.
I looked down at the hand-carved inscription on the arm of the cedar rocking chair beside my knee:
`BUILT PLUMB. HELD TRUE.`
`MERCER HOMESTEAD // ESTABLISHED 1944`
A slow, radiant, permanent smile broke across Eleanor Mercer-Vance’s face—a smile that held zero fear, zero debts, zero lies, and zero graves.
I looked out over the quiet cul-de-sac and the forty miles of clean, sweet river water where my father’s memory, my husband’s love, and my own life had finally taken root upon solid rock:
“The line is plumb, Papa,” Eleanor Mercer-Vance whispered into the morning breeze:
“The doors are locked from the inside.”
