Epilogue
IRIS
SIX MONTHS LATER
The morning rush at Heron House was a scene of controlled bustling, and I was its director.
The air in my beautiful, functional kitchen hummed with the cheerful clatter of plates, the rich aroma of locally roasted coffee, and the scent of my signature lemon-lavender scones, fresh from the oven.
Through the wide pass-through window I’d had Gus install, I could see the veranda was full.
A couple from Chicago, here for their tenth anniversary, were laughing at something one of their kids said.
A trio of women on a girls’ getaway were planning their morning of diving with Eli, followed by shopping.
A quiet, older gentleman was reading a book, a contented smile on his face as he sipped his coffee.
This. This was the dream. Not a hazy vision on a Pinterest board, but a living, breathing reality. A reality filled with happy guests, the scent of baking, and the steady hum of a business I had built from the ground up.
A monumental project I had started and finished.
My gaze swept across the sunlit room and landed on the magnificent potted Bird of Paradise in the corner.
Its wide, glossy green leaves unfurled toward the light in a vibrant splash of life against the calm blue walls.
Brenna and Liv had lugged it in on opening day, their joint gift to celebrate Heron House B&B’s launch.
They had been a lifeline during those first weeks after my fall, a constant stream of smuggled pastries from Liv and new paperbacks from Brenna.
They’d sat with me on Austin’s porch, letting me vent about physical therapy and celebrating every construction milestone Gus reported.
Second only to the rock-solid presence of Austin, they had been the anchor that kept me from drifting into frustration.
They, too, were part of the foundation of this new life.
Gus and his incredible crew had finished the last of the major renovations nearly two months ago.
The grand Victorian lady was no longer decaying.
She was resurrected, a perfect blend of historic soul and modern comfort.
We’d been open for six weeks, and I was booked at ninety percent capacity.
The reality and the sheer, wonderful success of it still hit me at odd moments.
I moved with confident, pain-free grace, plating scones, refilling coffee mugs, chatting with my guests about the best places to rent a kayak or see the sunset.
The frantic, overwhelmed woman who had once battled a rogue sprinkler and a rickety piece of siding was like a character from a different story.
My gaze drifted past the veranda to the lush green lawn that sloped gently toward the sea.
The magnificent magnolia tree stood tall and proud, its waxy green leaves gleaming in the morning sun.
Its branches were dotted with creamy white blossoms that filled the air with their sweet, intoxicating perfume.
Austin had taken over its care with his usual reserved, obsessive competence, and the tree looked blissfully healthy.
It was our tree now, a silent, beautiful symbol of our shared life.
Our shared homes.
The thought still sent a thrill through me.
I’d been living with him, in his peaceful, meticulously ordered conch house, for five months.
Five months of waking up to the steady rhythm of his breathing, of sharing cups of coffee on his patio before the rest of the world woke up, and of falling asleep tangled in his arms. Feeling absolutely safe.
My idea of renting Heron House’s master suite had blossomed into a very lucrative revenue stream. And as Austin informed me, even a successful proprietress needed some privacy.
By late morning, my guests had headed out for their day’s adventures.
I was in the kitchen, stacking plates into the commercial-grade dishwasher—a luxury I thanked my lucky stars for every single day—feeling profoundly happy.
The kitchen door opened with a soft click, and I turned to find Austin there.
He’d showered after his early morning charter, and the fresh, intoxicating scent of him cut through the lingering sweetness of the scones.
He was wearing a button-down shirt and new jeans, and he looked so impossibly handsome that the air stuttered in my lungs.
“Morning.” His gaze swept around my beautiful kitchen, then landed on me, his eyes soft with an emotion I was no longer afraid to name.
After gentle prodding from me and several of his siblings, he was seeing a counselor in Marathon to help him process that long-suppressed grief and guilt.
As a result, the tight lines around his eyes were fainter these days, his walk more relaxed.
“It’s closer to noon now, Captain.” I smiled, wiping my hands on my apron. “You’re just in time. The last scone has your name on it.”
“I’ve already had breakfast.” But he walked over, stealing a crumb from the plate anyway. He popped it into his mouth. “Just came to see you.”
My heart melted into a happy, ridiculous puddle when he leaned in and gave me a slow, lingering kiss. Even after all these months, his simple, quiet affection still had the power to make my knees wobbly.
“I’m glad you did,” I said when he pulled away.
He seemed a little on edge this morning, a purposeful intensity humming just beneath his calm surface. He took my hand. “Come with me for a minute. There’s something I want to show you.”
Intrigued, I let him lead me from the kitchen, through the now bright and airy living room, to the quiet nook I had come to love most in the entire house: the window seat.
The place where I’d found Aunt Constance’s letter.
The sun streamed through the wide window as we sat on the cushioned seat.
Austin’s large frame filled the intimate space.
He still held my hand, his thumb stroking the back of my knuckles.
“I brought you something,” he said.
After letting go, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a flat, small, and neatly tied canvas pouch. It was the kind of bag he used for holding spare parts or special lures, practical and well-worn. He pressed it into my palm.
“Ooh, a present!” I exclaimed. “Maybe a shell you found on a remote flat? Or perhaps a piece of sea glass worn smooth by the ocean?”
I cocked my head, but he remained silent and just smiled faintly. I carefully untied the drawstring and tipped the contents into my hand.
It wasn’t a shell.
Several perfect, intricate loops of thin rope—twine that looked like he’d used it a time or two—were coiled in my hand. Smiling, I gently separated the loops, then froze. My heart stopped.
A ring lay in the center.
It was simple, elegant. A band of shining white gold holding a single, square-cut diamond that sparkled with a hint of blue.
Remembering its job, my heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I jerked my head up, my eyes wide with a question.
Austin rubbed both palms on his jeans, but when he met my eyes, his gaze was unwavering, so full of raw, powerful emotion that made my eyes begin to sting.
“That’s a fisherman’s knot.” His voice was low, steady, as he gestured to the coil of rope still resting in my palm.
“It’s a variation of a uni knot. It’s the one you use when you want to make sure the line never, ever slips, no matter how hard the fight is, no matter what storm hits.
You tie it right,” his eyes held mine, “and it holds forever.”
He took my other hand, his grip firm, grounding.
“Heron House was your new beginning, Iris. A place where you put down roots and built something lasting.” He took a deep, shaky breath.
“And you were my new start. I spent thirteen years thinking my life was over, that all the good parts were just memories. You taught me how to live again, not just survive.”
His voice was thick with emotion he no longer tried to hide. He took the loop of rope from my palm and expertly slipped the ring free. He didn’t get down on one knee. He didn’t need to. All he had to do was meet my gaze—his vulnerability his greatest strength, his heart in his eyes.
“I want to be your anchor, Iris. And I want you to be mine. For all the storms to come.” He held up the ring, the beautiful gem catching the morning light. “Please marry me.”
I couldn’t speak. I could only nod, a frantic, jerky motion, my throat too tight with joy.
He took that as the answer it was. A slow, beautiful smile bloomed on his face. He took my left hand and slid the ring onto my finger.
“Yes,” I managed to choke out, my voice a watery, triumphant whisper. “Oh, Austin. Of course, yes.”
I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in the warm, solid curve of his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him. Of home. He held me tightly, his strong arms a promise of forever.
Eventually, we broke apart. He picked up the coils of rope, turning them in his hands. “I set it up first with fishing line since you usually make this knot in line, but I thought it looked stupid for a proposal. The rope has more weight to it, more meaning.”
“It was perfect. All of it. Completely you.”
We sat there for a long time, in that sunlit, meaningful spot, surrounded by the hum of the life and love we had built together, my new ring a cool, solid weight on my finger.
Our future was secure.
One knot, tied forever.
Thank you for reading BETTER THAN SUNSHINE!
Keep reading to discover what’s next in the Sunset Siesta series…