Epilogue
One year later…
“I, John Carroll Seymour, take you, Vivian Bernardita—” John’s lips twitched, and she glared at him “—Flint, for my lawful wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, ’til death do us part.
I’ll love and honor you all the days of my life. ”
He slipped a platinum band onto her finger.
Her heart was full. As they stood in the American Visionary Art Museum’s sculpture garden, the dangly blue earrings from Maison Moreau caught the day’s sunshine and dappled John’s chest. A collection of friends, family and coworkers beamed at them.
“Now you, Vivian,” her friend Lisa said.
On their way home from Copenhagen last year, they’d swung back through Tangier. Lisa had squealed and promised to complete her online ordination.
“I, Vivian Bernardita Flint, take you, John Carroll Seymour, for my lawful husband.”
As she listed her vows, she felt them more deeply than the oath she’d sworn to the Constitution.
“Excellent.” Lisa clasped A World History of Art by Hugh Honour and John Fleming to her chest. “By the power given to me by the American Marriage Ministries and by the State of Maryland, I now pronounce you married. You may now kiss.”
The gathering erupted into applause.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lisa announced to their loved ones, “it’s my honor to present for the first time as a married couple, John Seymour and Vivian Flint!”
The string trio played “La Vie En Rose” as they strolled down the aisle, followed by Thomas and Torrey, Logan and Alaina, Patrick and Lisa, and Timothée and Anjali.
John had originally suggested James Bond’s theme song, but she’d reminded him that, though she was based in the States these days, she still needed to be discreet.
In the museum’s sculpture barn, they led their giggling procession to the upstairs waiting room. As wedding guests filtered into the reception and took their seats, they’d chill with cocktails and wait to be announced.
Not her idea, but her parents had insisted they go old school with the party’s events if they were making the guests dine near Fifi, a fifteen-foot-tall pink poodle kinetic sculpture.
She tugged John into the bridal dressing room for privacy.
“Hello there, husband.”
“Hello, wife.”
They’d been officially married for a year, but celebrating their vows in front of a hundred friends and family members made their anniversary an occasion.
A knock at the door interrupted their kiss.
“Torrey, I swear to God, if that’s another glass of champagne—”
As the door opened, her heart softened.
“This a bad time?” MacColl asked.
“Always,” she said to MacColl. “I’m happy you made it.”
Especially since they weren’t supposed to fraternize outside work and risk a foreign agent connecting them as colleagues. She hugged him anyway.
“Don’t worry. I’m not staying, so I won’t mess up the seating chart.” MacColl checked they were alone, then closed the door. “I’m on my way overseas.”
“Congratulations!” She’d heard through the office grapevine he’d been promoted to chief of station in Croatia.
“Thanks. That business last year reminded higher-ups of what I can do in the field. But my departure means there’s a vacancy at Langley. I told them you’d fill my shoes well.”
She raised her eyebrows.
Over the past year, she’d been cooling her heels training new officers at the Farm while her profile died down.
She’d connected her artists with reputable dealers who’d mentor their careers.
Taking over for MacColl would put her back in the game.
Late nights, unpredictable schedule and periodic heart-stopping emergencies.
John kissed her temple. “You’d be great.”
“I’ll consider it,” she said to MacColl. “But today’s about us, not work. John and I need to stuff ourselves with cake. Call you tomorrow?”
“Looking forward to it,” MacColl said as he opened the door. “For the record, I’m happy it worked out between you two.”
“Thanks, Boss.” She closed the door, then squeezed John’s hand three times. “Ready for the rest of our lives?”
He squeezed back. “As long as it’s with you, Gorgeous, I’m ready for anything.”
* * * * *