A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  The journal was in Cameron’s backpack, but he decided not to read from it today. He felt no sense of leisure in this place, only the urge to return to the sailboat. He walked across the sand to the dinghy waiting by the waterline. He searched for a break in the waves, then shoved the boat into the water and jumped aboard, dropping the motor and crossing the bay. When he climbed aboard the Breakwater, he stowed the dinghy and pointed the sailboat toward the open sea. As soon as he was clear of the land, he hoisted the sails and ran before the wind, his hands light on the helm, his eyes on the horizon, looking west toward home.

  The sun fell quickly toward the sea, its haste a feature of the tropical latitudes. Cameron watched it from behind his sunglasses as the sails luffed and the deck moved beneath him. When the sunset drew near, he turned on the autopilot and went below to retrieve the bottle of Lafite, now as heavy as a brick with his collection of sands. He brought it up to the cockpit and loosened the cork, then took the jar from his backpack and poured the black sand into the bottle. When it was full, he reset the cork and carried the bottle forward to the pulpit. There he sat, one leg on either side of the bow, feeling the spray on his skin and the warmth of the dying light on his face.

  As the sun touched the hem of the ocean, he conjured Olivia’s face as she was on the last night of her life. He pictured her smile in the candlelight, heard her say the words, We need to do this more often, and heard himself agree. It was a promise they had made many times and broken just as often, the dream of a quieter life they never managed to make. When the sun fell beneath the waves, Cameron began to speak. He gave voice to the words he couldn’t say at her funeral, the words that had been buried in him like a thorn since he heard she was gone.

  “You were everything to me, Livie. You were my truest joy. You saw the best in me. I could search the whole world and never find another like you. I wish I could go back and tell myself not to get into the car, but I can’t. Please, I beg of you, forgive me.”

  He held up the bottle and saw the letter he had written inside, lines of white occluded by sand. He kissed the rim as lovingly as if it were his wife’s lips, then lifted the bottle over his head and cast it into the sea. It made a great splash and disappeared from sight. He closed his eyes and imagined it descending into the depths, through shades of blue and black, until at last it settled down on a bed of soft silt where it would remain until the end of days. Tears stung his eyes, but he didn’t mind. For the first time in years, he felt peace.

  “Good-bye, Olivia,” he said. “I will always love you. Perhaps one day we’ll meet again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PAINTED HILL FARM

  KESWICK, VIRGINIA

  JUNE 12, 2016

  7:32 P.M.

  The guests started arriving at half past seven, parking their cars along the pebbled drive within walking distance of the house. There were twenty in all—seven staff members from CJA; four from Remington & Key; Peter Chavez and Rana Jalil; Jashel and Farzana; Alya and Fazul; and Ashik, Sonia, and Sonia’s occupational therapist. They were the only people outside Presto who knew about the settlement. The media was still in the dark, despite the dogged persistence of a few reporters. Lewis and Cameron had headed them off, and eventually they tired of asking. The judge had been the hardest person to satisfy. He called Lewis again after the deadline passed and even made a trip out to the farm, entreating his old friend for a morsel to satisfy his curiosity. But Lewis stood firm, and in time the judge, too, left the matter alone.

  The summer sky was dusky blue as the sun descended toward the horizon. The lawn behind the house was dressed as if for a wedding, with white tables spread out upon the grass, topped with floral centerpieces, flatware, and china; a dance floor beneath the limbs of a great oak tree; and string lights and lanterns and candles all around. Josh met the guests in the turnaround with Lily and directed them to the backyard, where Madison and Caroline were handing out drinks.

  When the plaintiffs arrived, escorted by Rana and Peter Chavez, Lily gave Sonia, Alya, and Farzana bracelets she had made with daisies from Caroline’s flower bed. The women accepted the gifts with childlike delight. Josh marveled at their resilience. All of them had experienced enough anguish to make them bitter toward the world. Yet their eyes held no darkness, not tonight. Even Sonia, who could see the flowers only by touch, smiled brightly, giving Josh a glimpse of the effervescent girl she was before the fire.

  Rana shook Josh’s hand. “This is one gorgeous piece of earth.”

  Josh nodded and waved for everyone to follow him around the side of the house. “It’s Arcadia. But I miss the city. If I spend too much time out here, I get restless.”

  Rana grinned. “From what Cameron said, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Josh laughed. “I have to say, I never saw that one coming.”

  “What are you going to tell Tony? He’s been pushing hard to get you a job.”

  “I talked to him yesterday. I told him I got a commission for a book. He was relieved. The editors didn’t really want to bring me back.” Josh paused. “So what are you going to do now? Go back to bagging fast-fashion bandits?”

  Rana shook his head. “I’m going to find another Presto. Judge Chandler opened the door. Someone needs to walk through it.”

  Madison and Caroline welcomed them into the backyard with flutes of champagne and sparkling water. Josh watched as his wife embraced Sonia and Alya and spoke to them in halting Bengali. He caught Madison’s eye and she smiled softly as Lily ran to her side. In the past two weeks, she had begun to warm to him again, engaging him in conversation and treating him like a member of the family. As the days passed, her smiles came easier, and she returned his spontaneous hug after the shareholders’ meeting. The master bedroom was still off-limits, but every evening Josh grew more hopeful. He took a flute of champagne from her hand and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said.

  “Shush,” she replied, blushing beneath her makeup.

  When everyone was assembled, Lewis spoke a few words, then pointed the way to buffet tables brimming with the fruits of the Virginia summer—beef tenderloin, Cornish game hens, heirloom-tomato salad, corn and bean succotash, watermelon—and an assortment of Bengali offerings prepared by an Indian restaurant in Charlottesville. With music wafting through the air, everyone ate with gusto, and Josh filled his stomach until he had no room to spare.

  After dessert, Lewis stood at his seat and waited until the crowd grew quiet. “There are a lot of things in my heart at this moment, but I won’t bore you with a speech. I just want to say that it has been an honor to work with all of you on this case, and especially with you, Ashik, Sonia, Jashel, and Alya. I can only imagine how disorienting this has been. But by coming here and showing people in this country that you are real, that your pain is real, you did something heroic. You not only brought a giant corporation to its knees, you brought it to repentance.” He held up his glass, half-full of Chardonnay. “I salute you. We all salute you.”

  A chorus of voices rang out in agreement. “Hear, hear!”

  When Lewis took his seat again, Rana stood up. “I have something to add. I’ve been talking with our Bangladeshi friends, and they’d like to do something special with the settlement money. From what we can tell, there were 604 workers who were injured or lost their lives in the Millennium fire. A lot of those families are now destitute. In a just world, the factory owner and the brands who made clothes there would have paid them compensation. Short of that, Ashik has proposed—and the others have agreed—to share the settlement with them. Each family will receive four lakh taka, or about five thousand dollars, from a foundation my mother set up. It’s not enough to secure their future, but it will help them meet basic needs.” Rana’s eyes began to shine, and he held up his water glass. “To generosity.”

  Again, the crowd gave its approbation.

  Finally, Josh stood and surveyed the faces around him, warmed by the glow of candles and lamplight.
A wave of memories washed over him—Cameron at the Lincoln Memorial, Rana at Gladstones, Ashik and Sonia by the river in Kalma, Jashel fleeing the sweatshop at Class 5, Alya inviting them into her loft in Korail, Madison arguing before the court, the fire in Judge Chandler’s eyes, Cameron on the sailboat in Cape Verde, and Vance on the stage, speaking with the zeal of the reformed. He tried to give order to his thoughts, to express them eloquently, but in the end the words tumbled out of him in a stream of consciousness.

  “Very few of you know the whole story about how this came about, or where I was when it began. I’ve been a journalist my whole career. I’ve covered stories around the globe. Nothing compares with this. People talk about reversals of fortune. This defines the term. I want you to know how thankful I am for you”—he took a sharp breath—“how truly thankful. This case has given me a new lease on life. Without you, I don’t know where I’d be.” He raised his glass of wine. “So here’s to second chances, clean slates, and friendships old and new. Cheers!”

  Once again, everyone spoke with a single voice. “Hear, hear!”

  Josh was about to sit down when he remembered something. “One more thing,” he said, fishing in his jacket for the envelope. “This is from Cameron Alexander.” He opened the flap and removed the contents. “There’s a note here. It says, ‘To Sonia, Jashel, and Alya: Vance and I thought your original request was more than fair.’ With the note is a check for three million dollars.” As the crowd gasped, he finished his thought. “There’s a part of this story that many of you will never know. But I can honestly say, this is a good ending.”

  At last, Josh collapsed in his chair, his head swimming with feeling. Lily slipped her hand into his and squeezed. “Are you okay, Daddy? You’re crying.”

  He wiped his eyes and smiled. “I’ve never been better. Are you having fun?”

  She nodded with girlish delight. “This is the best party ever.”

  It was then that he heard the voice of Louis Armstrong rise above the chatter. He knew what he had to do. He turned to Madison and held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

  Her eyes widened when she recognized the song. Then she blinked and began to smile. She took his hand and walked with him to the dance floor. The lights above them twinkled as he drew her close and began to sway with the music. It was the song they had danced to at their wedding—“What a Wonderful World.” For precious seconds, Josh’s universe compressed into two square feet of polished wood and a woman who stood almost as tall as he did, a woman he knew better than any other, who had allowed him to follow his dream and write for the world, who had borne him the most beautiful child and welcomed him home when he had lost his way. She nestled her head against his shoulder and held him tight. He felt her breath on his neck, smelled the scent of her perfume. His heart began to race and desire coursed through his body. It seemed impossible, but somehow he felt as if the clock of time had rewound itself and they were twenty-five again, and the pain of his betrayal wasn’t just gone, it didn’t exist, and the path before him was open, and the future was everything he had hoped it would be.

  After a while, the song faded and blended into another, but they didn’t leave the floor. It came to him then that there were others around them—Lewis with Caroline; Lily with Mark, a paralegal at CJA whom she secretly adored; Ashik with Sonia, holding her steady; and Jashel with a self-conscious Farzana. He glanced toward the tables, worried that Alya had been left out, but then he saw Rana at her side, asking her to dance. She put Fazul down, letting him scamper around the grass, and trailed Rana to the floor.

  “Let’s go,” Madison whispered in his ear, taking his hand and leading him through the trees toward the barn. When they were alone, she said, “I have something to tell you.” She searched his eyes in the dim light. “I had a talk with my father. I told him about the girls at Casa da Amizade. He’s willing to help, but he has conditions.”

  Josh just stared at her, unable to comprehend the depth of her kindness.

  “He’ll handle everything,” she went on. “You will never speak to Maria again. And you’ll assign him all future royalties from The End of Childhood. It’s only fair. That was her book as much as it was yours.”

  “Of course,” he managed when he had collected his wits. “Does that mean—?”

  She touched his lips to silence him. “That night in Bangladesh, I decided to trust you again. The last few weeks I’ve doubted my judgment. But I don’t think I was wrong. I’m willing to give you one more chance. You remember the promise you made. Say it again.”

  He put his forehead against hers and spoke the words as a solemn pledge. “I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

  “I believe you,” she whispered. She lifted her chin and kissed him, then smiled with mischief and drew him toward the barn.

  EPILOGUE

  Boston

  Thanksgiving Day 2016

  BERKELEY PLACE

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  NOVEMBER 24, 2016

  4:01 P.M.

  The afternoon was crisp and breezy and festooned with sunlight filtering through the branches of trees mostly bare. Cameron stood on the porch of his father’s home and watched leaves skitter across the lane, then cartwheel into the sky, caught by a gust of wind. Noel had offered to collect him at the train station, but he declined and took a taxi instead, knowing that without his mother to run the kitchen, Justine needed all the help she could get. It was just as well. He was glad to have a few more minutes of silence before stepping into the joyous pandemonium of another Thanksgiving with his family.

  The last five months had been a runaway train as the Atlas team launched its supply-chain mapping expedition, and Kristin Raymond and her communications team fielded endless media requests about Presto’s new manifesto, and Vance did a tour of the Sunday-morning talk shows, and gave an interview to Forbes, and saw his face splashed on the cover of Time beside the caption: “The Iconoclast: Will the Poster Boy of Big Retail Inspire a New Industrial Revolution?” Cameron hadn’t left the building before ten p.m., and when he had carved out a window of free time, he had spent it outfitting his new condo in Georgetown, two floors below Vance. He had made the decision to move a week after his return from the sea. The Breakwater had served him well, but it wasn’t a permanent home, not if he intended to have guests over, and perhaps, when the time was right, to enjoy the company of a woman again.

  After filling his lungs with refreshing air, Cameron opened the door and gave himself over to the task of socializing. His niece Rita Mae met him with a hug. “We’re so happy you could come!” she exulted, her eyes glittering over dimpled cheeks.

  His smile broadened. “How is it possible that you don’t have a boyfriend yet?”

  She laughed unself-consciously. “As Olivia used to say, ‘The right man is worth the wait.’”

  Cameron caught his breath, moved by the memory. “Good girl,” he said softly.

  Rita Mae took his coat and placed it in the closet, then drew him into the kitchen to greet Justine and Noel. He looked over the countertops, admiring the dishes that would soon grace the sideboard in the dining room. He took a pinch of stuffing with his fingers, and Noel swatted his hand. He grinned at her and followed Rita Mae into the family room, greeting the husbands and nephews. Then he turned toward the hearth and met his father’s eyes.

  “You don’t need to get up,” he said when Ben labored to stand.

  “Nonsense,” Ben replied gruffly. “What good are legs if you don’t use them?”

  When at last he creaked to his feet, his wrinkled face came alive and he shook Cameron’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, son. Thank you for making the trip.”

  Cameron touched his father’s shoulder. “You’re welcome. It’s good to see you too.”

  “Here, Uncle Cameron,” said Rita Mae, handing him a glass of Chardonnay. “You should ask Granddad about the book. It’s coming out next spring.”

  So Cameron did, and his father beamed with pride
and launched into a synopsis of Hope Deferred, Hope Rekindled, an autobiographical journey through the Civil Rights Movement, its tectonic cultural aftermath, and his many storied years teaching at Harvard Law. Little, Brown and Company had slated it for release in May. It was, as Ben put it, his magnum opus.

  In time, Justine summoned the family to the dinner table. Cameron glanced at Olivia’s old chair and felt the familiar ache. The guilt, however, was gone, washed away by the sea. He pictured her lovely face, and then, for reasons he couldn’t discern, another face came to him—that of Kanya Nguyen, Presto’s compliance director in Bangkok. The memory of her sent flutters through his stomach, much to his private embarrassment. But something else grew out of it, a sense of anticipation. After the New Year, he was scheduled to embark on a tour of Presto’s offices with Adeline Wellman, Rebecca Sinclair’s replacement. The Bangkok office would be their second stop. Perhaps, if Kanya was still unattached, he would buy her a drink.

  After the family held hands and Ben said grace, they made their way through the line and piled food onto their plates. Their conversations over the meal were festive and uncomplicated, a spiderweb of stories from school and work and chatter about the recent presidential election.

  Eventually Ben touched his fork to his wineglass and got their attention. “It gives me great joy to have all of you here. The only thing missing is my wife beside me. But I know she’s with us in spirit. I see her love in all of your eyes. I thought we could do something in her honor. I want us to go around and say something we’re thankful for. I’ll start.”