Epilogue
Lilah
Cady Springs - June
Summer has finally settled into the mountains.
The peaks still wear streaks of snow like forgotten scarves, but Main Street smells of wildflowers and warm bread.
My studio door stands open to the breeze, the bell above it chiming whenever someone wanders in.
From here, I can see the florist’s shop next door, its windows crowded with hanging baskets and sun-drunk daisies.
On the other side, the bakery’s door is propped wide, the sweet scents drifting in every time Marci opens the oven.
It’s the perfect spot for my new studio, right between color and sweetness. The ring Wade slipped on my finger last spring still catches the light whenever I reach for my camera. It’s proof that some promises don’t need ceremony to last, but we had one anyway.
I glance around my own space with framed prints lining one wall. There’s a long worktable scattered with lenses and an old wooden easel by the window where I display my latest work.
The little sign in the window reads Lilah Grant Photography, hand-lettered in Wade’s precise block script.
Outside, a few locals stop to peek in, smiling, waving. Cady Springs has a way of claiming you once you stop trying to leave.
The phone buzzes on my desk … Wade’s name flashing across the screen. I answer on the first ring.
“Hey, mountain man.”
His chuckle rumbles through the speaker, low and familiar. “Hey, trouble. You at the shop?”
“Still. Almost closing.” I can hear the wind where he is, a high ridge maybe, the same wind that used to scare me when it pushed too hard at the world. Now it just sounds like him—strong and always finding his way home.
“Tour group doing okay?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says. “They’re slow, but the view’s worth the wait. We’ll be off the trail by six.”
“Good. Don’t be late tonight.”
“Oh?” There’s a smile in the word. “What’s tonight?”
“Something special,” I say, biting back the grin that’s been threatening all day. “And before you ask, no, I’m not telling. Just make sure you’re home on time.”
He laughs. “Now you sound like me.”
“Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”
“I’ll be there,” he promises.
The line goes quiet for a second, both of us listening to the other’s silence. Then:
“Love you, Lilah.”
“Love you, too. Now go wrangle your hikers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The call ends. I stand for a moment, phone still warm in my hand, looking out at the street that’s become my world.
Marci from the bakery waves as she sets a tray of sugar cookies in the window. Next door, the florist’s daughter is sweeping petals off the stoop. Across the street, the mountains rise in the distance like they always have.
Instinctively, I press a hand against my stomach. Eight weeks along and already everything feels different.
On the worktable sits a new frame, empty for now. Tonight, when he walks through the door, I’ll show him the ultrasound print tucked in my bag, gray and grainy and perfect. I’ll tell him he’s going to be a father again, and that this time, it might be a girl.
Caleb’s going to be a brother. Dad’s going to experience being a grandparent.
Outside, the bell over the door jingles as a warm breeze rolls through, carrying the scent of lilacs from next door. I breathe it in, smiling.
Cady Springs is the home I never should have left. It holds everything and everyone important to me. My dad, my husband, my studio, my mountains, my life.