Epilogue
“Goodness, this is really yours?” Mom asks as Mac helps her onto my bowrider.
“It’s really ours,” I say.
It’s a beautiful sunny morning, though it’s cold enough that we’re bundled in warm coats and gloves for the ride. The fiberglass speedboat appropriately called Sunny Days rocks gently as Mom takes a seat, shading her eyes.
Mac surprised me with the boat at Christmas. When I protested such a large gift—boats are approximately the cost of a newborn child—Mac said it was payment for services rendered last summer. He reminded me I tripled profits at the Dinghy, just like I said I would. “Annie went in on it too,” he told me. “She made an obscene amount of money on the sale of her brownstone.”
I think Annie was still trying to assuage the guilt she felt about everything that had happened, but neither she nor her brother would accept a dime from me.
The name came with the vessel, and it’s apparently bad luck to change it. Which is fine. I love Sunny Days. Though I also would have loved something with a little more pizazz. I suggested Nauti Buoy, which earned me a scowl from Mac, though I could see him trying not to laugh when I threw it on the list.
“Technically, she’s Shelby’s,” Mac clarifies now.
I wanted to share the boat, but Mac insisted Sunny Days be in my name only and under my care so I wouldn’t feel any obligation to consult him with decisions about where or when I travel. I have to admit, cutting my biweekly trip time in more than half has been a huge bonus. Plus it’s so much more fun flying across the waves than being stuck in traffic. Moorage is expensive, but I’m making more money now than I ever did before.
Mac turns on the engine. “Luckily Shelby lets me drive it sometimes.”
I kiss Mac on the cheek as I slide into the seat next to Mom behind him. “Sometimes.”
He sneaks a butterfly-inducing wink over his shoulder as Mom gets settled.
“Ugh, gross, Dad,” Nate says from the passenger seat.
I laugh. Not so sneaky. But I can practically see Mac’s heart burst through his life vest. Nate’s only recently started trying on “Dad.” The first time he said it, Mac nodded, acting like it was no big deal. A few minutes later, he asked me to come with him upstairs to check on something. The minute we were out of sight of Nate, he started crying like a baby.
“Ready?” I ask Mom. She looks hilarious with that giant life vest on over her fancy wool coat and designer jeans, but she also kind of rocks it too.
Her divorce from Dad was finalized this week, which is part of the reason Mom’s coming up to Redbeard Cove for the weekend. “It feels like the best place to celebrate,” she said.
Dad sent me an email shortly after he and Mom separated. He said he was sorry things had turned out this way, and he said he hoped we could remain in contact. It felt weird and impersonal, a bit like we were ending a business relationship. But it was very him. An absolute zero in the family skills department, thanks to missing out on pretty much every aspect of child-rearing. I told him we could maybe have dinner later in the year. It was something. We’ve had one, and it was as awkward as I expected it would be, but I’m willing to try again.
Mom, meanwhile, is making up for lost time. We talk every few days on the phone, and in person when I’m in town, which right now is every other week for a few days at a time. That’s the latest arrangement Deanie and I have worked out—a hybrid schedule where I take clients who don’t need as much in-person work, along with a few up the coast, which we’re getting more and more of. It’s looking like I might start to specialize in coastal tourism and hospitality projects as we take on more of these. We’re keeping things open and flexible, and we have already changed the schedule a few times. I’m extremely fortunate I have the options I do. Plus Mac joins me for most of my trips down to the city, which makes the work trips feel like mini breaks. He spends his time trying new restaurants and specialty food shops. When Nate comes, the two of them explore the city in the few hours I spend at the office before joining them. It’s truly the best of all worlds. Nate even met up with Mark and his mom there one weekend. They’re friends now, which is astonishing to me—but not really, either. It took a while for them to warm up to each other—especially on Nate’s part. Mark made some mistakes, and Nate still had to fight his way out of his shell. But it helped that Nate joined the rugby team. He’s shockingly good at the game, and never would have known that if Mac hadn’t gently nudged him that way.
“I’m ready,” Mom says now, looking slightly nervous as Mac revs the engine and pulls us out of the marina.
“You really drive this thing yourself, Shelby?” Mom asks.
I told her she could call me Bryony or Shelby, but she’s landed on Shelby. “It makes me feel closer to you,” she admitted.
“The only reason I’m sitting back here is to hang out with you,” I tell her.
I can’t see her hands since they’re clad in trim leather gloves, but I’m pretty sure her knuckles are white as she grips the bowline. Just wait until he gets us up to speed.
A few minutes later, she’s gritting her teeth, her eyes wide as her hair whips around her head. But I grip her hand, and soon enough, she’s relaxing, even shrieking a laugh as we hop a little wave.
The ride is as beautiful as always, and since I’m not driving for once, I get to enjoy the scenery even more. Nate and I point out sea life to Mom as we pass—not only seals, sea lions, and eagles, but at one point, the telltale blowhole sprays from a pod of orcas far out in the channel.
At home, I get Mom settled in the spare room. “This is very cute,” she says.
“It used to be mine.”
She looks like a little girl in a new bedroom.
“You can decorate it,” I say impulsively. “It can be your room anytime you want to visit.”
Annie has an apartment in town now, within walking distance of the care home. We see her every time we see Angus. She’s over there more than Mac these days.
Mom nods, her expression a little watery.
I give her a hug. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me, sweetheart.”
A term of endearment. My heart clenches. There’s a first time for everything.
A few hours later, after Nate takes Tink out for a run on the beach, the three of us walk across the boardwalk to the Dinghy, where we’re meeting Mac for lunch. “I thought we’d sit on the patio,” I say. There are vinyl coverings on it so it can be used year-round, plus heat lamps and blankets. “It’s got a beautiful view of the water.”
There’s also, from the far side of the patio, the perfect view of Widow’s Walk. But I leave that part out for now.
When we pass through the doors, Chris rushes over. She hip-checks Nate, telling him to grab a seat on the patio wherever we want. While he blushes and then escapes outside, Chris gushes over my mom and how alike we look. “Shelby’s just about my favorite person in Redbeard Cove,” she says, “mainly because she makes my boss happy.”
“Is that all?” Mom asks.
It takes me grinning for Chris to realize she’s made a joke. She laughs. “No, Mrs. Jones. She’s also a beautiful person, inside and out.”
“I agree with that,” Mom says. “And it’s Miss Brightley, please.”
Chris smiles. “Miss Brightley. Have a look around, then please grab a seat anywhere you like on the patio.”
Mom pauses to look at the portraits all around the room. “These are stunning,” she says.
“Stu painted them.”
“Who?”
“That man we passed on the boardwalk who couldn’t stop staring at you.”
Mom clears her throat. Is she blushing?
“Well. He’s quite talented.”
Her eyes take in the room, searching.
“You sure you’re ready to see her, Mom?”
Mom nods. “It’s why I wanted to come here tonight, Shelby. Not just to crowd you and Mac.”
I laugh softly. “We love having you.” But I’m already bringing her over to the portrait on the far wall, the one I spent so long staring at that day.
When we reach it, Mom sucks in a shaky breath. “It’s really her,” she whispers, staring up at the portrait of the Widow.
“Abigail Brightley,” Mom reads.
I already told her it wouldn’t say mother among her titles. That she made Elizabeth vow to never speak to anyone of her daughter, not even to any of her grandchildren she might meet.
“She got old. But I suppose I did too.”
“Mom, you’re only sixty.”
She stares at the portrait, a muscle in her jaw flickering. Then she turns to me.
“We can get you a print if you like. Or you can always cut through the back and never look at it again.”
Mom turns to me, her eyes wet. “That would be lovely, actually. I could hang her next to the blueberries.”
She’s not just talking about a blueberry bush. Mom sent me a photo of a painting she made years ago. It’s hanging in her living room amongst a whole wall of family photos. In it, Mom’s got her arms around me and Jessica. We’re toddlers, and our fingers and faces are blue. Jessica and I are both laughing, and Mom’s smiling the same way Grandma was in that photo I found; her eyes on us and full of love for her children.
“I’m sorry you never got to meet her, Shelby,” Mom says now, her eyes wet with tears. Mom cries a lot these days. She says it’s good, that she’s making up for lost time.
“It’s okay,” I say. “She wasn’t kind to you.”
“I wasn’t kind at times either. But she was your grandmother.”
I reach for the camel at my neck. “I was thinking of giving this to you,” I whisper. “I thought it might remind you of happier times with her.”
Mom shakes her head. “No. I like seeing it on you. That way, it reminds me of love.”
While Mom sits down at the table with Nate, I head over to grab Mac from his office. He had to head here to take care of a few things after the ride in.
“Come in,” he grunts when I knock on the door.
When I open it, he’s leaning over his desk, squinting at his computer. He grins wide when he sees me, like we didn’t just spend all weekend together.
“We’re here,” I say.
“I’m just wrapping up,” Mac says. He pushes back, opening his arms.
I walk around his desk and sink onto his lap.
He makes a sound of contentment as he pulls me into his chest. After tapping a few things around me into his laptop, he snaps the computer shut. “Good enough.”
He leans back and runs the flat of his hand over my hip, burrowing his face into my neck. “So, is it a yes?”
I laugh softly. He asks me this every other day. He’s talking about getting married. I told him I wanted to wait until we’d known each other for a year. I can’t exactly remember why, though, right in this moment, with him caressing my ass and nipping at my collarbone.
“Maybe.”
“How about being the mother of my children?”
My stomach flips. This is a new one he’s added into the rotation. We’ve talked about kids before, but only in passing. He said he was open to it, but that it was up to me. I think he felt like he might be too old. But ever since Nate started calling him Dad, he’s changed. And it’s doing things to me.
“It’s easy. All you need to do is say yes.”
“How does that work?” I ask.
“We fuck like crazy, with no condom, over and over again, until we make a baby.”
My lower half grows hot. “Mac…”
“Fuck, let’s just do that part anyway. We could start right now.”
“They’re waiting for us outside,” I laugh.
“They can wait another minute.”
He’s not wrong. I’d bet money they wouldn’t notice if we took an hour to get over there because they’ve jumped right back into the animated discussion about Zelda they were having on the way over. Nate introduced her to the game at Christmas, and she’s been playing it like it’s homework ever since. The fun kind.
“God, you smell good,” Mac says, his nose grazing my jaw.
I’m using the same soap and shampoo I always do.
“The man’s just…obsessed,” Deanie told me last night when we were at her place for drinks. She pulled me aside after Mac and her brother Raphael started bro-ing down about this obscure author they’re both super into. “First of all,” Deanie said when she pulled me aside, “please can you take Raphael? He’s driving me insane.” The oldest of her three younger siblings is staying with her for an indefinite period of time while he works on his PhD. “I’m only half kidding. I think being up there might chill him out. But second of all”—and here, she actually sighed—“you know when they say ‘he’s only got eyes for you’? Well, I swear your man wrote the book. It’s like you hung the moon.”
“Who, Mac?” I asked, my stomach swirling.
“Who the hell else would I be talking about?”
I glanced over just as Mac caught my eye. He gave me a wink and a little grin while Raphael waxed on.
To me, he’s just Mac. But as he utters a curse now, setting me up on his desk so he can cool off, I think she might be right.
He adjusts himself and then leans back in his chair, his eyes roving over me. Then he grows serious. “Hey, was Vita okay out there?”
Mac was stiff around my mom at first. He knows how fraught our relationship was, how much hurt I carried because of her. But now they’re like best friends. He can see how hard she’s working on herself. Sometimes they even joke about therapy together.
Mom came up here for the holidays but didn’t make it to the Dinghy. I told her about the portrait of her mom that was hanging here plus the Vita sandwich we named after her. I think she was too overwhelmed to handle it then.
“She will be,” I say. “She wants a print of The Widow.”
Mac smiles. “That’s great. And you?”
I lean forward and kiss his nose, just because I want to. Then I lower myself back down onto his broad, muscular thighs, this time straddling him. I guess I’m obsessed too. “I’m better now,” I say.
When I grind myself into his lap, Mac makes a low warning growl.
“Is this a problem?” I do it some more.
“Careful, Ponytail.”
I’m not careful. I slip my hands into his hair and plant my mouth on his.
Mac meets my kiss by intensifying it, coaxing my lips open and flicking at my tongue.
I moan and break the kiss. It’s the same move he makes when he goes down on me. “Guess I deserved that,” I say breathily.
I could say yes. I could say yes right now.
Mac chuckles, then slides his hand down my front, toward my waistband. “I think they’re probably okay out there for a few more minutes. Just long enough for me to make you?—”
There’s a knock on the door.
“Fuck me,” he breathes.
“I draw the line at fucking you in your office when my mother’s here, anyway,” I whisper, getting off his lap. I take a grounding breath, then walk to the door.
Mac readjusts himself again and gives me a nod.
It’s Lana. And she’s not alone.
“Hey, girls!” My heart warms to see her two daughters with her.
The little one, Aurora, waves. “Hello!” She’s five.
Her seven-year-old, Nova, is quieter, but smiles shyly. “Hi.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know Mac wasn’t alone,” Lana says awkwardly.
“No worries,” I say, hugging her. “We’re just about to have lunch with my mom and Nate out there.”
“Oh, I won’t keep you, then,” Lana says. “I just came by to grab my stuff to wash since I called in today. Mac, thanks again for getting my shift covered.” To me, she says, “These professional development days are going to be the end of me.”
“It’s all good, Lana,” Mac says. “Rock!”
Nova wraps her hand around his fist.
Mac glares. He’s leaning over with his elbows on his knees, losing horrifically at rock, paper, scissors, as he always does with these two.
“Paper gets rock,” Nova says softly, a big smile on her face. Aurora jumps up and down, cheering.
Something inside me throbs. I think it’s my ovaries. I clear my throat. “So you haven’t found a replacement sitter yet?” I ask Lana.
Lana shakes her head, looking stressed. Her regular babysitter moved a few weeks ago, and she’s had poor luck since. “The one I hired for today called in sick five minutes before I was supposed to leave for my shift. Hence your man here helping me out.”
“Chris was happy to help,” Mac says. “Rock!” he says again. This time Aurora gets him, squealing with joy.
“We could help,” I say. “Until you find someone permanent.”
“You’re very kind,” Lana says. “But you’ve already got a job. Anyway, it’s fine. The before- and after-school care is covered. It’s really just these one-offs. And summer break.” She grimaces. “Oh, God, summer break.”
“Scissors!” Aurora cries, fake-snipping Mac’s flat hand.
He roars like a cartoon villain. “Why do I always lose with you two?”
The girls giggle.
When Mac meets my eyes, his mouth turns up. Not because I’m watching, but because he’s having the time of his life.
And because he loves me. Silly, impulsive, goofy me.
My whole heart feels like it’s going to explode.
“Come on, girls. Let’s go,” Lana says. “We’ll see you at drinks next week, right? Please?” Chris and I are coming to her place so she won’t have to find a sitter.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say.
When Lana and the girls leave, I shut the door.
Mac’s standing up, getting ready to head out.
“Alasdair MacGregor,” I say.
He snaps his gaze up to me. “Bryony Shelby?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” he asks, looking like he doesn’t dare to hope.
“Yes to marrying you. Yes to babies. Yes to?—”
“All of it?” he croaks.
“All of it,” I say.
He’s before me so fast I hardly see him move, sweeping me up like he’s just come back from sea.
When I walk out of the office with Mac, my hand nestled in his as we head to our laughing family, I feel as light as that day I leapt off that dock. As light as a camel balloon in the wind, I imagine.
Because I know that so long as I’ve got Mac by my side—and Nate—I’m home. Here and there, and everywhere in between.