Chapter 93 The expansion

Chapter 93 The expansion

The winter after Helena Cartwright's retreat brings an unexpected gift to the foundation.

It arrives in the form of a letter from a law firm in Boston—not the aggressive, threatening letters we've received from Senator Cartwright's attorneys, but a quiet, respectful inquiry from the estate of a woman named Beatrice Alden. Mrs. Alden, the letter explains, was a longtime supporter of domestic violence shelters and victim advocacy programs. She passed away at the age of ninety-two, and in her will, she left a substantial bequest to the Reyes-Sterling Foundation.

"How substantial?" Sophie asks, looking up from her laptop. She's home for winter break, camped out at the kitchen island with her law school applications and a mug of hot chocolate.

"Two million dollars," Isabella says.

Sophie sets down her mug. "That's very substantial."

"There's more. Mrs. Alden's family also owns a property in Vermont—a former summer camp on Lake Champlain. Seventy acres. Twelve cabins. A main lodge. A boathouse. They're offering to sell it to us for a fraction of its market value. Mrs. Alden's letter says she followed our work for years and believed we could use it to expand the retreat program."

The kitchen goes quiet. Margaret has stopped chopping vegetables. Caroline has turned from the stove. My mother, who's visiting for the week, has set down her knitting.

"Seventy acres," Daniel says. "That's almost twice the size of the mountain lodge."

"Twelve cabins," Mateo adds. He's already calculating. "We could triple our retreat capacity. Run multiple sessions simultaneously. Offer longer-term residencies for women who need more than a week."

"We could have a dedicated art therapy building," Oliver says. "And a proper fossil education center for Sam's programs."

"A library," Josie says quietly. She's on video call from DC, her face pixelated but her voice clear. "A real library. Not just a room with bookshelves. A space designed for reading and research and preservation."

Sophie stands up. "I'm going to need a bigger whiteboard."

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The acquisition takes six months of legal work, but by early summer, the Champlain Retreat Center is officially part of the Reyes-Sterling Foundation.

The property is beautiful—a stretch of lakeshore forest that's been in the Alden family for four generations, with cabins built in the 1920s and a main lodge constructed from local stone and timber. It's been empty for five years, ever since Mrs. Alden became too frail to maintain it, and there's work to be done. The cabins need new roofs. The boathouse needs to be rebuilt entirely. The trails that wind through the forest are overgrown and waiting to be restored.

Mateo and Daniel take the lead on renovations, working through the summer with a crew of local contractors. Oliver designs a mural for the main lodge—a Lake Champlain landscape, the water stretching toward the Adirondacks, the sky full of light. Theo contributes ceramic tiles for the fireplace surrounds, each one hand-glazed in shades of blue and green. Josie spends her weekends driving up from DC, cataloging the books that were left behind and planning the library she's always dreamed of building.

Sophie, now officially a law student, handles the legal and regulatory maze with the fierce competence that's been her trademark since she was six years old. "Zoning variances are just negotiations," she tells me. "And I'm very good at negotiating."

The first retreat session at Champlain opens in late August. Twelve women. Twelve children. A week of art therapy and nature walks and the slow, careful work of learning to feel safe. Andrea comes as a guest speaker, sharing her story with women who are just beginning their journeys. Ruth, now eighty-six, attends via video call, her face beaming from an iPad propped on the mantel.

Helena and Maeve are there too. They've been coming to retreats for nearly a year now—at the mountain lodge, at Champlain, wherever they can find a session with space. Maeve has become something like a junior counselor, helping the younger children with their art projects, teaching them the fossil identification skills Sam taught her. She's thirteen now, taller and less guarded, her dark eyes still watchful but no longer afraid.

"I want to work here someday," she tells me on the last day of the session. We're sitting on the dock, watching the sun set over Lake Champlain. "Not just as a guest. As staff. I want to help other kids like me."

"You already are helping them. Every time you show a new child how to find fossils. Every time you tell them it gets better."

"I know. But I want to do it for real. Like a job. Like a purpose."

"Then you will. When you're older. When you've finished school. We'll be here."

She nods, satisfied. "Good. I've already started planning."

"Planning what?"

"Everything. Programs. Activities. A whole curriculum for kids who've been through trauma. Sophie's been helping me with the footnotes."

Of course she has. Sophie has adopted Maeve as a protégé, recognizing in her the same fierce organizational drive that's powered Sophie through a childhood of legal documents and pancake negotiations. They've been corresponding for months—letters and emails and late-night video calls about trauma-informed programming and the proper use of citations.

"She's going to be terrifying when she grows up," Sophie told me last week. "I mean that as the highest possible compliment."

The sun sets over the lake, painting the water in shades of gold and rose. The mountains rise in the distance, familiar and eternal. And somewhere in the main lodge, Sophie is probably drafting another certificate.