Epilogue
BECKETT
The fire glows hot and steady, sparks spiraling up into the cool night.
This year, it’s real. A bonfire big enough to light the whole shoreline along Lake Osprey, contained inside the steel ring Hank and I welded to withstand damn near anything. The safety perimeter is marked, hoses coiled, water tanks ready. Everything by the book.
And yet—just beyond the ring—lanterns glow in shades of red and gold. Heat lamps hum. Speakers hidden in the trees crackle faintly, blending with the music of the fire.
Willa insisted we keep them, because she said what I built last year was part of our story. I couldn’t argue.
Because she was right.
Now it’s both fire and light. Past and future.
She’s a few feet away, fussing over a group of volunteers.
Her cheeks are flushed, her laugh carrying over the crackle of the flames.
She’s still got that same spark that undid me the first time I heard her speak at the town meeting, only now she knows exactly how much power she has over me. And she’s not shy about using it.
Her dad’s here too, sitting in a camp chair near the front, a blanket over his knees. He seems to be doing better these days. Sometimes I catch him watching us, and there’s pride in his eyes, and relief.
Like he knows he doesn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.
Willa’s been busy too. She left the Nashville job behind for good, ending her leave of absence to be here. These days, she runs a growing event-planning business in Maple Ridge. Weddings, festivals, fundraisers. She’s got more work than she can take, and a waitlist to prove it.
As for me, I’m still the fire marshal. Still the guy with rules and plans.
But I’m also hers. And somewhere along the way, I stopped believing I didn’t deserve this.
At the edge of the clearing, a new plaque catches the light. We unveiled it earlier tonight: The Elaine Martin Memorial Stage. A permanent part of the festival now, dedicated to the woman who started it all. Willa cried, of course. I did too.
The laughter of children rings out nearby, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance over just in time to catch the tail end of a story being told.
A little girl, her braids swinging, is surrounded by her friends.
She’s whispering with wide-eyed seriousness.
“And then the fire marshal told her no, but he really liked her, and he made a magic fire that wasn’t fire at all.
And everyone clapped, and they kissed, and that’s why the bonfire came back. ”
Her friends sigh in unison, dreamy and enchanted.
I huff a laugh. Kids have a way of turning the truth into fairytales.
Willa appears at my side, slipping her hand into mine.
“It’s a good story,” she says, watching the girls scatter toward the s’mores tables.
I turn to her, my chest tightening in the same way it always does when she’s near. “It’s not over.”
Her brows knit slightly, like she doesn’t understand—until I drop to one knee right there in the grass. Gasps ripple through the nearest onlookers, but all I see is her.
Her eyes go wide, shimmering in the firelight. “Beckett…”
I pull the small box from my pocket, flip it open to reveal the ring I’ve been carrying for weeks.
My voice is steady, sure. “You turned my ‘no’ into a ‘yes.’ You gave me back more than I thought I could have—hope, love, a future. I don’t ever want to let that go.
So what do you say, Willa? Will you marry me? ”
She presses her hands to her mouth, tears spilling over even as she nods furiously. “Yes. Yes!”
The cheer that rises from the crowd drowns out the crackle of the fire, but all I hear is her voice, all I feel is her arms wrapping around my neck as I slide the ring onto her finger and kiss her like the world depends on it.
When we finally pull back, she laughs through her tears. “Guess that little girl was right. It really is a fairytale.”
“Not a fairytale,” I murmur, brushing her hair back from her wet cheeks. “Ours. And it’s just getting started.”