The sharp, salty air of Kamakura was a world away from the pressurized, perfumed atmosphere of New York high society. Barbara Rimestone stood on the engawa of their traditional-style home, her hands wrapped around a cup of green tea, watching the late afternoon sun paint the Pacific Ocean in strokes of gold and orange.
The silence here wasn't empty; it was full. Full of the whisper of pine needles, the distant cry of gulls, and the profound, humbling peace of a life rebuilt.
Six months had passed since the collapse. The first few weeks in Japan had been a blur of disorientation and grief.
They had traded a Fifth Avenue penthouse for a modest, beautiful house paid for with what remained of Barbara's private accounts, accounts Shunsuke had never known about. It was her final, secret act of self-preservation.
