Epilogue
One Year Later
Christmas Eve
My heel dangling from my foot, I swing it gently, watching as Thomas signs on the dotted line. I don’t think so much relieved air has ever left me at the conclusion of a deal. “Done,” he says, dropping the pen and blowing his cheeks out. “And I guess I’m retired.”
I push my foot into my shoe and stand, going to him, holding my hand out. “It’s been a pleasure.”
He laughs loudly. “The past year, you mean?”
“Of course.”
He chuckles and hauls me in for a hug, and I roll my eyes but accept. “You always said you could make it happen in one year with compliance.”
“Yeah, well, I have a new boss to please.” I pull away and smile at him fondly. “Good luck, Thomas.”
The door bursts open, and Thomas’s granddaughter appears. “Grandpa, we’ll miss the flight! Mum’s waiting in the car.”
“I’m coming, Macey,” he breathes.
“Thank you, Camryn.” Kissing my cheek, he collects his jacket off the chair. “For everything.”
I hold up a hand in goodbye and watch as he collects Marcy and leads her out of the building.
He’s off to Colorado to spend Christmas with his daughter, Gail, and Marcy.
I haven’t asked about Anthony, as I couldn’t care less, and Thomas hasn’t brought him up, out of respect, I guess.
Barbara, though? She’s took Thomas for half of everything and cleared off to France. He doesn’t seem too bothered.
I pick up my laptop and empty coffee cup and head back to my office, keen to get out of here and get home to the boys. The building’s empty, as everyone’s already knocked off for Christmas.
I chuckle when I look at the volume of Christmas decorations. If it’s possible, Crystal went even more overboard this year. And I didn’t scowl. Well, maybe once . . .
I grab my bag and coat and flick the light off, stopping when I make it to the door and looking back at my desk. I smile, close the door, and leave. I can’t say I won’t ever be back, because Dec owns the company now.
You always said you could make it happen in one year with compliance.
I achieved what I set out to do. Amazing what a difference compliance makes. I pause a beat as I step on the elevator. Wait. Dec doesn’t own the company. The shareholders own the company.
My smile widens, and I pull out my phone and text him.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
The little dots start flickering instantly, the elevator doors open, and I start to step off but gasp when I find Dec immediately outside. “What took you so long?” he asks.
I smile and drop my bag and coat, throwing my arms around his shoulders. “I missed you,” I breathe, finding his mouth and kissing him hard.
He hums and lifts me from the floor a few inches, indulging my demand until we hear the doors closing and opening again, over and over. I break away and look over my shoulder, seeing my bag and coat blocking them.
“Oops.”
Dec lowers me and collects my coat, helping me into it, before he claims my bag and my hand.
“Where’s Albi?”
“In the car with Mr. P.”
“Oh, you picked him up already?”
“I think we need to consider some kind of assisted living.”
I wince. I can’t deny that there have been some heart-stopping frights this year with Mr. Percival.
He took a tumble down the steps on the High Street a few months ago, and Dec stopped by only last week and found the bathroom flooded, the bath tap running, Mr. Percival nowhere in sight. “What’s happened now?”
“He left a tea towel on the stove.” He looks at me with a hitched brow. “The stove was on.”
“Oh God. Why was the stove on?”
“He forgot to turn it off after he finished making his seventieth batch of mince pies.” God love Mr. P, the man is one hundred, soon-to-be one hundred and one, and still bakes for the masses at Christmas.
He was thrilled when he received his one-hundredth birthday greetings from King Charles last January, we all were.
He framed the card, which didn’t surprise any of us. But these accidents are . . . worrying.
“He refuses to entertain assisted living,” I remind Dec.
“Then he comes and lives with us, simple.”
“He won’t like it,” I warn, quite certain I don’t want to be the one to have that conversation with him. “I guarantee you’ll meet resistance.” He’s a proud man.
“So will he.” Dec smiles across to me. “How do you feel?”
He asks me this often. Settled. I feel settled.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow, though I know it won’t come without its moments, but I’m coping much better when they do catch me.
And on the nineteenth—when it was four years since Noah died—it was still incredibly hard.
But Dec took the day off, graciously gave me the day off too, and we did what we did the year before.
Wandered. Drank silky hot chocolate. He bought me a dress, this one a beautiful emerald-green velvet shift dress, and this time we made it out for our dinner date while April and Blaine watched Albi.
It was perfect. And while it had been four years to the day since I lost my boy, I recognised the fact that it had also been one year to the day that I met Albi.
My little lifesaver. The joy he brings and the grief, which will never leave me, still conflict, but I’m at ease feeling both. I understand it.
But Dec wasn’t talking about any of that when he asked me how I’m feeling.
“I feel like I achieved something today,” I admit.
“After three long years trying to achieve it.” I nudge him.
“You weren’t so bad to work with.” To be fair, I hardly worked with him, because he simply handed me the ropes and let me crack on. And I did.
Dec laughs as we break out into a bleak, grey London. Quite a departure from last year. “Well,” he says. “I might have another project for you to spend the next year on.”
I stop, pulling him to a stop too. “What did you buy now?” I ask. He looks sheepish. “Tell me you haven’t turned your father over again.”
“God, no. I’m over that. In fact, he’s asked us over for dinner after Christmas.”
I recoil. “And how do you feel about that?”
“Indifferent.” He shrugs, and I roll my eyes. Indifferent, my arse.
“We’re going, you know that?”
Now, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know that. I also accepted the invitation to Paisley’s wedding.”
“Oh. My. God,” I say, dramatic. Finally. It’s been sitting in a drawer for weeks. I didn’t push it. I could see him silently pondering the idea of us going.
“Shut up.”
I laugh as he pulls me on, and I hear the familiar sound of little knuckles wrapping on a window. I drop Dec’s hand and pull the door open.
“Are you finished work now?” Albi asks, leaning forward to meet my lips as I pucker up.
“I’m finished.”
“Yay!”
“Hi, Mr. Percival,” I say, hearing his chirpy reply as I round the car and get in the back with Albi. “What’s the plan?”
“Shhh,” Albi says, making me frown.
“Why am I shushing?”
“Mr. Percival has a headache.”
He does? I lean between the seats, checking him over in the front seat as Dec pulls off. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, dear, perfectly fine.” Then he gasps and reaches for his ear, holding it. “Bleeding headache, that’s all.”
I look at Dec. “We should take him to his doctor.” I sit back and fish through my bag for my phone, worried. “How long has it hurt, Mr. Percival?”
“What, dear?”
“Your head,” I say, going to my contacts to find his surgery’s number. “How long has it hurt?”
“Oh, just for a little while, dear.”
“You need to lie down, don’t you, Mr. P?” Dec says.
“Yes, yes, a lie down would do the trick.”
“No, I think you should see your doctor.” I lean forward again. “Maybe the smoke from the tea towel has gone to his head.”
“For the love of God,” he mutters. “Everyone, stop fussing!”
I rest back and raise my brows, looking at Dec in the rearview mirror, catching that his brows are raised too.
Yeah, good luck telling him that he’s getting assistance or moving into our place.
Dec must read me, because when he pulls up at a red light, he turns to Mr. P.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, clearing his throat.
“And watcha been thinking?”
“You’re coming to live with us, and I don’t want any arguments about it, okay? You’re nearly one hundred and one, and—”
“Okay,” Mr. Percival says, simple as that. Dec recoils. So do I.
“Oh my gosh,” Albi sings. “Mr. Percival, you can sleep in my teepee! We can have milk and cookies together before bedtime, and you can help me build my Lego. Daddy and Camryn decorated my bedroom in Spitfires too! I’ll show you.
And I have a bunk bed now. I sleep on top. You can sleep on the bottom one.”
“Jeez, kid, put a sock in it, will you? I’m supposed to have a headache.”
Dec snorts, and I laugh, frowning. “So, again, what’s the plan?” I ask. “I need to pop to the store and I have some deliveries to collect.”
“I need sticky tape!” Albi declares.
“I need some Scotch,” Dec adds.
“I need a nap,” Mr. Percival says.
“Okay, let’s take Mr. Percival home, I can quickly change, and then we can go to the store.”
“Shhh,” Albi hisses, his finger at his mouth.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Then he grins. Albi’s grins are like sunshine—pure, bright and warming. I hold my hand out to him, and he takes it, squeezing hard. “Love you, fella,” I say, my heart swelling.
“Love you back, Camryn,” he says, so casually. Like he doesn’t understand the weight of those words. And he might not, but I do know that he does, in fact, love me.
“What about me?” Dec asks from up front, casting his eyes to the rear-view mirror to me.
“I love you too,” I say, smiling.
“But she loves me more,” Albi replies, again casual, looking out of the window while still clinging onto my hand.
He truly doesn’t understand the weight of those words.
“And that will always be okay,” Dec, murmurs, smiling at the road.