SLOANE
The fire started as a hesitant flicker against the black sand—then Chase stacked more driftwood and it roared to life, flames snapping high, throwing heat and gold light across the private stretch of beach. Victoria had spread an old wool blanket wide, ringed the pit with smooth stones, and set a cooler nearby: graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows skewered on long metal sticks, and a bottle of cabernet for the adults.
Dad was already toasting his first marshmallow, turning it slowly over the coals, grinning like this was the most natural Saturday night in the world.
Victoria sat cross-legged in an oversized cardigan, pouring wine into plastic cups. She handed one to Dad, then raised hers in a small, quiet toast.
“To quiet nights,” she said softly. “And to us.”
Dad clin
