Epilogue
Belle Rive
Rivanna River, Virginia
“Look, Papa, at the painted sky!”
The little girl, barely three years old, perched on the edge of a sturdy wooden chair, her bare feet dusted with the day’s play.
Plump legs swinging, she waited for her parents to share her view.
It was a beloved ritual most evenings no matter the season.
In winter they watched from the windows; warmer weather had them outside.
Bleu climbed the porch steps, his attention shifting from Brielle in the open doorway to their little daughter, a French-made doll from Pépère clutched close, its painted features and fancy dress worn.
Watching her, his heart felt too big for his chest. A warm wind stirred the wisteria climbing the porch posts and his daughter’s unruly curls.
She had her mother’s mahogany hair and his Acadie blue eyes—and one deeply dimpled cheek entirely her own.
Their older, twin sons were still by the river with their cousins from Orchard Rest, their shared talk and laughter heard up the hill.
Mirabel looked over her shoulder at a smiling Brielle. “The sky is sleepy, Maman, and nearly abed.”
She stretched out her arms, her doll forgotten, as Bleu took her on his lap in the largest rattan chair. Yawning, she nestled against him as Brielle sank into the seat beside them and took his hand, the three of them overlooking the sleepy, painted sunset.
Fireflies began their slow, blinking dance against the violet-blue horizon that stretched endlessly toward the places he once roamed. But that was another, now distant life exchanged for a far richer, rooted one.
He had found home.