And across the hairline above little Eleanor’s left ear, curving down toward her temple in an unmistakable crescent, was the dark wine-red vascular mark of her heritage: a port-wine stain shaped like half an antique surveying transit plumb.
The mark of Arthur Mercer Senior.
The mark of the bedrock.
Little Eleanor ran straight to Garrett’s legs, throwing her small arms around his knee, then scrambling up into my lap, setting her basket of strawberries on the chestnut table, throwing her strong, loving little arms around my neck, pressing her soft, warm cheek against mine:
“Mommy!” Eleanor laughed into the morning breeze, her heartbeat beating in rhythmic, sixty-cycle perfection against mine:
“Plumb level!”
“Good doggie!” Eleanor cheered, kissing Barnaby’s golden forehead as the dog wagged his tail:
“The bad parasites are in their cages!”
“We are home, Mommy!”
Barnaby thumped his golden tail against the deck: thump.
I reached down, holding my brave, beautiful daughter against my chest while Garrett, Thomas, and Uncle David stood beside us, feeling our steady, healthy hearts beating in unyielding, sovereign harmony:
