Chapter 6 - A Mountain of Our Own
Six months later. October in Vermont.
The Green Mountains had exploded into a cathedral of crimson, gold, and vibrant orange. The air was crisp, carrying the sweet, earthy scent of fallen maple leaves, woodsmoke, and the distant promise of early winter snow.
I stood on the wraparound cedar deck of our newly completed project: the master restoration of the historic Green Mountain Heritage Lodge in Stowe.
Below me, the ribbon-cutting ceremony was in full swing. Over two hundred guests—local preservationists, town officials, business leaders, and community members—were mingling across the stone terraces, sipping hot spiced cider and admiring the restored timber framing, the soaring stone fireplaces, and the hand-crafted ironwork my design firm had spent five months meticulously bringing back to life.
"Mrs. Reed!"
Patricia Holbrook approached me, holding two crystal glasses of sparkling apple cider. She handed one to me, her face glowing with genuine admiration.
"The governor’s cultural commissioner just toured the great hall," Holbrook said, beaming. "He told our board that this is the finest historical interior restoration completed in the state of Vermont in the last twenty-five years. Willa... you didn't just save this building. You gave it a soul."
"Thank you, Patricia," I said, clinking my glass against hers. "It was a labor of love."
"And how is your family?" Holbrook asked gently, her tone laced with that delicate, respectful warmth reserved for those who had survived a public storm and emerged victorious.
I looked out across the lawn toward the outdoor fire pits.
Sitting on a rustic cedar bench was my father, Russell. He looked ten years younger. Dressed in a clean navy wool sweater, his silver hair neatly trimmed, he was laughing heartily as Uncle David demonstrated an absurdly exaggerated golf swing with an umbrella, making Aunt Brenda and Cousin Megan double over in laughter.
Beside them, running across the colorful leaf-strewn lawn, were Miles and Sadie.
Sadie was wearing simple blue jeans, a warm fleece pullover, and sturdy hiking boots—a world away from the fragile designer furs her mother used to force her into. She was holding a wooden glider plane that Miles had helped her assemble in Dad’s new Essex workshop.
"Watch this, Miles! Watch how high it goes!" Sadie yelled, her face lit with the bright, carefree radiance of a normal nine-year-old girl.
She launched the plane. It caught a gentle autumn updraft, soaring gracefully over the lawn before landing softly near the fire pit. Miles cheered, high-fiving his cousin before they both took off sprinting to retrieve it.
"My family is doing wonderfully, Patricia," I answered, my heart full to overflowing. "Better than we ever have."
Later that evening, after the last guests had departed and the lanterns along the lodge pathways began to glow against the twilight, Gabe and I walked hand-in-hand down toward the edge of the property.
Miles was walking ahead of us, holding hands with both Dad and Sadie, chattering non-stop about the upcoming ski season.
"Dad says the first snow is coming before Thanksgiving!" Miles announced proudly, turning around to walk backward. "And he promised he’d teach Sadie how to do the pizza turn on the garage practice boards next Saturday!"
"I’m going to go faster than you, Miles!" Sadie teased, sticking her tongue out playfully.
"Nuh-uh! I know how to use the poles now!" Miles laughed.
Watching them, Gabe squeezed my hand, pulling me gently against his side. "Eleanor sent the final trustee report this afternoon," he said quietly.
"And?"
"The Rutland warehouse mortgage has been completely restructured under a low-interest commercial bond," Gabe replied. "The logistics tenant signed a ten-year lease extension. By the time Miles and Sadie turn twenty-five, their trust funds will each be worth over seven hundred thousand dollars."
I leaned my head against Gabe’s shoulder, breathing in the cool, clean mountain air.
"Have you heard anything about Mom?" I asked.
Gabe nodded slowly. "Russell told me this morning. Corinne moved into a small one-bedroom senior apartment outside Hartford. She spends most of her days calling local social clubs, trying to get on committees that don't want her. She tried to reach out to Aunt Brenda last week."
"What did Brenda do?"
"Brenda blocked her number," Gabe said simply.
Corinne had chosen her path. For forty years, she had believed that power, manipulation, and cruelty were the currencies of family life. She had believed that by tearing others down, she could elevate herself. And in the end, she had been left exactly where every narcissist ultimately arrives: alone in an empty room, surrounded only by the echoes of her own manufactured drama.
As for Taryn, her probation officer had strictly enforced her community service hours. She was working thirty hours a week at the dental clinic, living in her modest apartment, stripped of the designer illusions that had sustained her ego. She was slowly, painfully learning what the rest of the world had always known: that life does not owe you a free ride at someone else's expense.
We didn't hate them. Hate required too much energy, too much space in the heart.
We had simply evicted them from our lives, reclaiming the peace they had spent decades trying to destroy.
As we reached the crest of the hill overlooking the Stowe valley, Miles suddenly stopped.
He looked up at the towering, snow-capped peak of Mount Mansfield rising in the distance, bathed in the soft purple and gold light of the setting sun.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.
I recognized it immediately.
It was the drawing he had made eight months ago in the back of our car. The drawing with the red cabin, the stick figures wearing ski goggles, and the little bench overlooking the slopes.
He unfolded it, smoothing the creases against his knee.
"Miles?" I knelt beside him. "What are you doing with that, sweetheart?"
Miles looked at the drawing, then looked up at me with his clear, beautiful, unbroken brown eyes.
"I kept it," Miles said softly. "Because when Grandma didn't want it, I thought it was because the drawing was bad. I thought I didn't draw the mountains right."
My throat tightened. "Oh, Miles..."
Miles smiled—a real, bright, radiant smile that banished every shadow of that February lobby.
"But today, I drew a new one in Grandpa’s workshop," Miles said proudly.
He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a fresh piece of paper, proudly unfolding it for Gabe and me to see.
This drawing didn't have Corinne. It didn't have an empty, lonely bench.
It showed five stick figures: Miles, Gabe, me, Grandpa Russell, and Sadie. They were all holding hands atop an enormous, sun-drenched mountain. And at the bottom of the page, in his careful, eight-year-old handwriting, Miles had written:
**"Our Mountain. Everyone Is Allowed."**
Miles took the old drawing—the one Corinne had shoved beneath her brochures—crumpled it into a tight little ball, and tossed it into the stone fire pit where the cedar logs were burning down into warm, glowing embers.
We watched the paper catch fire, flare bright orange for a single, brilliant second, and turn to harmless, drifting ash that floated up into the autumn sky.
Miles slipped his small hand into mine, and his other hand into Gabe’s.
"Come on, Mom! Come on, Dad!" Miles beamed, pulling us toward the warm light of the lodge. "Let's go inside. Grandpa says the hot chocolate is ready!"
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"Lead the way, buddy," Gabe smiled.
We walked up the stone steps together, surrounded by the laughter of true family, the warmth of unshakeable love, and the boundless, open horizon of a mountain that was finally, truly, our own.
