Epilogue
epilogue
. . .
SUMMER
“You know I don’t like surprises.”
Rory squeezes my thigh in a comforting gesture. “You’re going to like this one. I promise.”
“ Promises, promises, ” I sing from the passenger seat as Rory drives us toward an unknown destination. When I say unknown, I mean it. He not only refused to tell me; he asked me to wear a blindfold. It’s technically an eye mask, but still.
We got back from his swim meet in Sacramento last night, and after a breakfast shift at the café this morning, I’m running on fumes.
“If you don’t love it, I promise I’ll never surprise you again.”
My lips twitch. “Your confidence is admirable.”
I wish I could see him right now. Watching him from the driver’s seat is one of my favorite things. It’s his profile, I think. That and the way he sings to himself or chuckles at prank calls on his favorite radio station before catching me staring and throwing me a wink.
My husband.
Still can’t believe we got real married for a fake relationship.
Except now, we’re in love.
And marriage isn’t what it was when we thought we were doing each other a favor.
I told myself I’d never get married. That love was too fragile, too breakable. I’d seen what it did to my parents. How vows turned to silence, then to distance, and eventually to nothing. I didn’t want to follow that same crumbling path.
But Rory makes it feel different. Solid. Like love could actually be a safe place, not a ticking clock.
The car slows and stops. I hear Rory climb out, then my door opens.
“Okay, careful.” He helps me out and holds both my hands, guiding me forward.
We step inside a building, and he says, “All right. You can take it off.”
I lift the eye mask and blink against the light.
After being in the dark, the first thing I notice is the bright white walls. They’re blinding at first, but then I notice the paintings.
My paintings.
But not recent ones. They’re Coveys.
The anonymous works I left around Coral Cove over the past few months are now hanging in perfect, deliberate arrangement across a warehouse gallery space.
“How?” I ask. My brain stutters, trying to piece it together.
“The social media page was a good start,” Rory says, “but then I had some help.”
A woman in a black blazer, cropped jeans, and heels walks over.
“Hadley Smith,” she says. “I’m the art curator at Shoreline Gallery in Southampton, and I’m a huge fan of yours.”
“Southampton?” My brows lift.
“New York,” she confirms.
“I know,” I smile, then glance sideways at Rory. “Why are you here?”
“She was one of the first people to find a Covey,” he says. “When I contacted her about tracking them down so you could see them all together, she wanted to help.”
Hadley beams. “I’ve been following the Covey artist since the beginning. It’s an honor to meet you.”
I glance around nervously, until I realize we’re the only ones here.
“Don’t worry,” Hadley says. “The show’s not open yet.”
“The show?” I echo.
“The Covey Collection .” She gestures to a wall near the entrance where big black lettering reads, Covey: A Collection by and a blank space where the artist’s name would be.
My name.
“You told me once you’d love to see them all together,” Rory says, “I wanted to make that happen.”
“Rory…” I’m still absorbing it. The layout, the lighting, the precision. All my little soul-offerings, collected and honored. Rory’s pieces are here too. His beach house and the golden hour swimmer in the distance.
I look again at the wall.
“I wanted it to be your choice,” he says. “You can stay anonymous, or—" Hadley hands him a paintbrush and canister of black paint “—you can sign your name.”
“Either way,” she adds, “I have a list of clients who want commissions from you. Whether you’re anonymous or not, the world wants your art.”
My throat tightens. I glance at Rory, tears in my eyes.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I whisper. “And speechless.”
He sets down the brush and paint, then wraps me in his arms.
“I know I’ve said it before, but I’m going to keep saying it. The world needs your art. And if you’re not ready to reveal yourself, then you don’t have to.”
I nod, wiping furiously at a tear.
I’ve always believed I was an artist. Why else would I have kept going when it was easier not to? But Rory has helped me believe that my art deserves to be seen. To be celebrated.
“I wasn’t ready to retire,” Rory says, “because I couldn’t imagine my life without swimming. I didn’t know what I wanted. That’s changed.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smile. “What do you want, Flipper?”
“You and me. Married. For real.”
I swallow hard. “We are married.”
“We have a certificate,” he says, grinning. “But I want the kind that doesn’t come with conditions or convenience. Just love.”
I take a breath, and let it fill all the scared, uncertain spaces in me.
“Even if I come with baggage, and battery-powered backup?”
His grin widens. “Big Dill’s solid. Reliable. I respect that in a teammate.”
He brushes a hand into my hair, his huge grin softening with quiet sincerity.
“Let me keep you, Wildflower.” He kisses my cheek, then my temple. “We could give Edgar some siblings. I’m thinking a sister named Edwina.”
I burst out laughing.
“You want to name our dog Edwina ?”
Rory shrugs, only half serious. “It’s dignified. Regal. She’ll wear little bowties on her ears and glare at tourists from the porch.”
“I don’t know if Edgar could share the spotlight.”
“He needs a sibling. Someone to keep him humble.”
I laugh again, my heart thudding wildly. I glance back at the wall—the blank space below Covey: A Collection by —and feel something shift. The part of me that always feared commitment, feared names and labels and permanence…stills.
I turn to Hadley. “Do you have a thinner brush?”
Her eyes brighten like she’s been waiting for this.
She pulls one from her tote, and hands it over. Rory passes me the paint.
The brush is light in my hand. Familiar.
Like something I was always meant to hold.
And then I sign it.
Summer Shields.
It’s small. But it’s mine.
Rory slides an arm around my waist and tugs me close, his lips brushing my temple. “You did it,” he murmurs. “You let the world see what I’ve seen all along.”
“I did,” I whisper back. Then add, “But I’m still not letting Edgar and Edwina sleep in the bed.”
“Fair,” he says. “But she gets the fancy food. It’s only right.”
I stand there in the middle of a gallery filled with art I once gave away in secret, and a love I never thought I’d trust.
And just like that, I know.
We’re just getting started.
THE END