Epilogue - Sabrina
The bell over the flower shop door jingled twice before Sabrina realized she was holding her breath.
The sound was cheerful, innocent, the kind of bright little chime that belonged to Saturday mornings and leisurely errands, not the thundering pulse she could feel at the base of her throat.
She had been wound tight for days now, she realized, ever since the date had been set in ink rather than pencil, ever since the wedding had become something real enough to plan rather than dream about.
"Relax," Bree whispered at her shoulder, close enough that Sabrina caught the familiar scent of her perfume, something floral and warm that always made her think of art studios and paint-stained fingers. "We're here for peonies, not a parole hearing."
Sabrina huffed out a laugh that released some of the tension coiled in her chest. "Peonies are high stakes."
"They're round and fluffy and pink," Bree said, her voice carrying that particular blend of affection and exasperation that close friends perfected over time. "They are the literal opposite of high stakes. They are the stakes you send to kindergarten with a juice box."
The florist appeared from the back room before Sabrina could formulate a response, arms full of vases that clinked softly together as she walked. She was a woman in her fifties with silver-threaded hair and the kind of capable hands that suggested decades of coaxing beauty from stems and soil.
"You two made it," she said, warmth threading through the words. "Good. I have three centerpiece options and two bouquet samples, just like we talked about. Been looking forward to this all week."
The front of the shop looked like a wedding had stretched, yawned, and decided to take a leisurely nap on every available surface.
Glass vases of varying heights lined the counter in a glittering parade.
Buckets of greenery crowded the worn wooden floor, their leaves catching the morning light that filtered through the front windows.
A spray of white roses cascaded from a tall stand in the corner, so lush and abundant that it seemed to spill into the room like a frozen waterfall.
The air smelled of cut stems and green things, underlaid with the heady sweetness of lilies and the softer, more delicate perfume of the peonies Sabrina had come to see. It was the kind of smell that made promises, that whispered of celebrations and new chapters.
Sabrina stepped closer to the sample arrangements on the counter, her fingers hovering over petals that looked almost too perfect to touch. "Okay," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "Show me."
The florist pointed to the first arrangement, a study in restraint and classic beauty. "Option one: classic whites and greens. Very clean lines. Very 'elegant weekend featured in a lifestyle magazine.' The kind of thing that photographs beautifully and never goes out of style."
Bree wrinkled her nose, the expression so familiar it made Sabrina smile. "She's marrying a biker who owns a fire extinguisher as a fashion accessory and proposed in a rental cabin. Maybe not the magazine route."
"Option two," the florist continued, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, "adds blush tones and that soft coral you liked when you came in last month. Still elegant, but more alive. More movement. It breathes a little."
Sabrina's fingers brushed a ruffled petal, feeling the velvet softness of it, the way it yielded under her touch like something living and willing.
The coral caught the light in a way that reminded her of sunrise over the water, of the first morning she had woken up in the cottage, knowing she was going to stay.
"I like this one," she said softly.
"Option three is full color," the florist said, gesturing to the third arrangement with obvious pride. "In case you decided to abandon restraint entirely and just let joy have its way with the table."
Bree leaned in, studying the riot of blooms with an artist's eye. "That one looks like a party exploded. Extremely enthusiastic confetti energy. I respect it deeply."
Sabrina smiled, feeling the expression settle into something genuine. "It's beautiful. Really beautiful. But number two feels like us."
"Us as in you and me," Bree asked, "or you and Colby?"
"Both," Sabrina said. She reached out and touched another petal, tracing its curve. "You're the blush, all warmth and softness. He's the green, steady, and grounding. And I'm the one making spreadsheets about how all of it fits together."
Bree laughed, the sound bright and clear in the flower-scented air. "He's rubbed off on you. A year ago, you would have said you were the wildflowers or the morning light or something poetic. Now you're the spreadsheet."
"Spreadsheets are poetic," Sabrina said. "In their own way."
The florist set the bouquet samples on the counter with careful precision, each one positioned to catch the light.
"These are scaled down for you to actually carry and get a feel for.
The real ones will be fuller, more abundant.
But try them. See how they sit in your hands. See how they make you feel."
Sabrina picked up the soft coral and white bouquet, wrapping her fingers around the stems, which had been bound with green ribbon.
The weight of it surprised her, substantial but not heavy, balanced in a way that felt intentional.
The stems fit her hand like they had been measured for her grip, as if the florist had somehow known exactly how her fingers would curve.
Her chest did a strange, full thing, expanding with something that felt dangerously close to tears.
"Too much?" she asked, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.
"Perfect," Bree said, and there was no teasing in her voice now, just warmth. "You look like someone who knows exactly what she's doing. Like someone who's ready."
"That's terrifying," Sabrina muttered, but she didn't put the bouquet down.
The bell over the door chimed again.
Sabrina didn't turn right away. She was too busy imagining herself walking down an aisle with this exact weight in her hands, these exact colors catching the light.
Colby waiting at the end in that dark shirt she liked, the one that made his eyes look greener.
The cabins glinting in the background, their windows catching the afternoon sun, the land she had fought for spreading out behind them like a blessing.
Then a voice she knew far too well slid across the room like oil on water.
"Well. This is cozy."
The bouquet slipped in her grip, her fingers suddenly clumsy. She caught it before it could tumble to the floor, stems pressing into her palm, and turned.
Gavin stood just inside the door, one hand still resting on the brass knob like he owned the moment, as if he had orchestrated this encounter and was waiting to see how his audience would respond.
He wore a pressed shirt in a shade of blue she remembered him favoring, an expensive jacket that probably cost more than her first month's insurance premium on the cabins, and the same watch he'd worn when he told her the late fees on Norman House were her fault for not "thinking ahead. "
Time had been kind to him in the superficial ways, she noticed with the detached clarity of shock. Same sharp jaw. Same carefully styled hair. Same posture that said he expected rooms to arrange themselves around his convenience.
Her stomach tried to climb into her throat. Her feet stayed exactly where they were.
"Get out," Bree said, her voice flat and cold in a way Sabrina had rarely heard from her.
Gavin's gaze flicked over Bree with the dismissive assessment he'd always given things he considered beneath his attention, then landed on Sabrina again. Held. "Hello, Sabrina. You're looking well. Marriage prep seems to agree with you."
She tightened her fingers on the bouquet stems until the green ribbon pressed into her palm, until she could feel the ridges of each individual stem through the wrapping. "What are you doing here?"
"Shopping," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocence that fooled no one. "Last I checked, this was a public business. I'm allowed to buy flowers like anyone else."
"You don't live in Copper Moon," she said. "You never did. You thought this town was a backwater with delusions of charm."
"I'm allowed to visit," he said, something flickering behind his carefully composed expression. "I heard a rumor that the old Norman property finally produced something. After all those years of you pouring money into a sinkhole, I thought I'd drive out and see what rose from the ashes."
Bree took a step closer to Sabrina, her shoulder almost touching, forming a wall of solidarity. "You do not get to talk about ashes," she said. "Not to her. Not ever."
Gavin's mouth curved into something that showed his teeth without qualifying as a smile. "You must be the artist friend. I've heard so much about your passionate opinions over time."
"And I've heard you're a weasel," Bree said, her voice perfectly pleasant in a way that made the words land harder. "Looks like my intel was accurate."
The florist had gone still behind the counter, her capable hands frozen over a bucket of baby's breath. Her gaze darted between them, reading the room with the instincts of someone who had witnessed her share of human drama, then slid toward the phone mounted on the wall near the back room.
Sabrina drew in a breath that didn't shake, despite everything in her that wanted to.
She had practiced this moment in her head a thousand times, imagined what she would say if she ever saw him again, how she would stand, what expression she would wear.
Now that it was happening, all of that rehearsal felt very far away.
"You heard wrong, actually," she said to Gavin, her voice steadier than she expected. "The land produced exactly what I wanted it to. What I had planned for it to become."