Chapter 8 - The Gift of the Purple Crayon
Downstairs in the private courtyard garden of the corporate headquarters, little Mabel was sitting on a wooden bench beside Ethan Brooks.
Ethan, the hardened former federal investigator who had spent twenty years dealing with international criminals and corporate terrorists, was currently holding a pink activity book, patiently helping Mabel choose between a green crayon and a yellow crayon for a picture of a butterfly.
“I think the green one makes the wings look faster,” Ethan remarked with total seriousness.
“No,” Mabel corrected firmly, holding up her signature purple crayon. “Purple is for princesses.”
“Ah,” Ethan nodded in agreement. “My mistake. Purple it is.”
Preston and Denise walked out into the sunlit garden, watching the scene with deep warmth.
Mabel saw her mother and immediately hopped off the bench, running across the manicured grass as fast as her little legs could carry her, her untied shoelace dragging behind her just as it had on the night of the dinner.
“Mama! Look!” Mabel cheered, holding up her drawing. “I made a butterfly for Mr. Hale!”
Preston knelt down on the grass, completely unconcerned about getting his six-thousand-dollar bespoke suit dirty. He took the drawing from Mabel’s tiny hands, studying it with the exact same intense focus he used when reviewing hundred-million-dollar acquisition files.
“This,” Preston declared, looking at Mabel with genuine admiration, “is the finest piece of art in this entire building. I am going to frame it and hang it right behind my desk in the CEO office.”
Mabel beamed with pride, her gap-toothed smile radiant in the afternoon sun. “Did the bad man go away forever?”
Preston’s expression turned gentle and profound. “Yes, sweetheart. The bad man went away, and he is never, ever coming back.”
He reached out and picked up the purple crayon resting in Mabel’s small hand, looking at the worn piece of wax that had inadvertently saved his life and preserved the livelihoods of four thousand families.
“Mabel,” Preston said softly. “Do you know what this crayon did?”
Mabel shook her head innocently. “It colors pictures.”
“It did much more than that,” Preston smiled, pulling a small wooden box from his pocket and setting it on her lap. “It saved a lot of good people.”
Mabel opened the wooden box. Inside rested a complete set of one hundred and twenty brand-new, custom-made metallic crayons, each one engraved in gold lettering with her name: MABEL CARTER - CHIEF PROTECTOR OF HALE MERIDIAN.
May you like
Mabel’s eyes lit up like stars. “For me?!”
“For you,” Preston said, kissing her forehead. “Because as long as I am alive, you and your mother will always have a place at this table.”
