Epilogue
Eight Years Later Dual POVs
Ami
Saturday mornings at the beach cottage taste like cinnamon toast and sea air.
We call it our “wing”—the little weathered place we rescued together after we made the family house our roots. The porch faces the tide like it’s been listening for our laughter all week, and the swing we rebuilt creaks the same happy rhythm every time Ethan gives it a nudge.
“Higher, Mama!” Junie chirps, sand already between her toes, hair already salted. Three years old and part mermaid, part mayoral press secretary. She narrates everything as if the gulls signed off on it.
“Higher,” I say, and the swing arcs. My belly tightens with the smallest kick—her sibling’s opinion on the matter. “You have a committee forming,” I tell my bump. “You’ll learn how things work around here.”
Ethan steps out with mugs—one chipped blue for me, one that says WORLD’S OKAYEST MAYOR for him, courtesy of Jake. He kisses my forehead, then Junie’s, then—because he’s him—my notebook, which is open to a sketchy outline and a coffee ring.
“How’s Chapter Eleven?” he asks.
“Opinionated,” I say. “Wants more ocean.”
“Relatable,” he says, and we both grin.
It’s been eight years since the summer worth writing about, and somehow the pages keep coming.
Book one found its readers; book two built me a studio in the front parlor of the family house; book three paid for the roof on the arts center the town built in the old cannery.
Now I write here on weekends, in the cottage we patched board by board, while Junie builds seashell kingdoms and Ethan takes calls from the town or the station, whichever needs him first.
He’s mayor now. He still answers the firehouse radios, too—not for every call, not like the old days, but often enough that the siren’s voice is part of our soundtrack.
“He delegates,” Aunt Maggie says, which is her way of admitting she’s proud.
Jake runs day operations at the station; the town runs on Ethan’s steady, practical kindness.
And if a cat gets itself treed, well— Nine Lives Jake is on speed dial, Meow-Man forever even though he tries to bestow that moniker on Ethan.
“Mrs. O’Hara put us on the ledger,” Ethan says now, handing me my cup. “Apparently we arrived exactly three minutes earlier than we did last Saturday.”
“She’s slipping,” I say, and he laughs.
Junie has discovered her bucket makes a better drum than a castle. “Mama, can we go to the big house later? I want the swing that goes whoosh.”
“That is a very technical description,” Ethan says.
“She means home,” I say, and the word still lands the way it did the day I stepped off the plane.
The family house now OUR house, sits between Aunt Maggie and Ethan’s boyhood place like it always knew we’d come back and stay.
We live there most days—morning light through my studio windows, lemon oil and salt, the porch light that clicks on exactly at dusk as if it’s been told we’re late.
We use the cottage for weekends. It’s the “and” to our “both”—our wings to those roots.
“Okay, Junie June,” Ethan says, scooping her up so she squeals and the swing squeals back. “We’ll head home after the morning tide. But first, your great-auntie texted. She needs us to taste-test lemon bars ‘for quality control.’”
Junie claps. Our baby boy kicks. Somewhere down the beach, Jake’s ATV rattles and a chorus of gulls complains like old men about it.
“Routine inspection?” I call as he passes.
“Mayor’s orders,” Jake yells back. “Also, Chief Meow-ster , the town cat has issued a statement. Something about trees being taller than they appear.”
Ethan bows, dignified. “Please inform the press we support responsible tree management.”
Junie cups her hands like a megaphone. “No cats in trees!”
Jake salutes. “Message received, tiny voter.”
The ATV buzz fades. The ocean breathes. The baby rolls again, insisting on this moment, this place.
“Still okay?” Ethan asks, hand warm on my belly and eyes searching mine like he never gets tired of being sure.
“Still yes,” I say, and it’s the same yes I gave him on the porch eight summers ago, just bigger, worn soft with use.
We pack the morning into the truck—pails, towels, a dozen sandy shells that will join their cousins in the entry jar at home.
As we pull out, the cottage looks back at us with its newly painted trim and its ridiculous weathervane that points “mostly east.” It’s because that’s who we are: mostly certain, occasionally blown wild on purpose.
Ethan
Town Hall smells like coffee and fresh paper and lemon cleaner Aunt Maggie swears by.
She refuses to run for office anymore—says mayoring is a young person’s sport—but she keeps an office here “for ambience” and allows three opinions per agenda item “for balance.” She’s also on the town arts board, the historical commission, and what I believe is a self-created position called Porch Swing Oversight.
This morning’s meeting runs long—storm drains, a pier repair, a grant for the after-school program—but every decision feels like a thread in a net we’ve been weaving since that first summer. It’s not flashy. It holds.
After lunch I take Junie to the station because no one says no to the junior tour guide in sparkly boots.
She points out everything: hoses, helmets, the snack drawer.
She calls Jake “Deputy Cat” and he pretends to be insulted.
He’s the best kind of legend—the kind who shows up with a ladder when all you can see are branches.
By the time we turn onto our street, the day has softened into the kind of afternoon Seabrook does best—sun warm but not pushy, air salted, neighbors waving from porches because that’s the law.
The family house sits between Aunt Maggie’s and the one I grew up in, blue door bright, porch swing exactly where it belongs.
I still get that same quiet shock: I get to walk up these steps, into this life, to her .
Inside, Ami’s studio glows. Pages taped along the molding, a scattering of pencils, a mug that says WRITE LIKE A SMALL TOWN GOSSIPS.
She’s cross-legged on the rug with a stack of picture books—research for a new idea she swears she isn’t ready to talk about yet.
The way her hand settles over her belly says otherwise.
“Quality control,” Aunt Maggie announces from the kitchen, breezing in with a tray like a parade float. “Three lemon bars for the mayor, two for the junior electorate, and one for the artist because sugar is essential to culture.”
“You said that when I was twelve and you wanted me to clean the garage,” I remind her.
“And did it work?” she says.
“It did,” I admit.
We eat on the porch. Junie narrates a story about a sea captain who is also a cat, which is deeply on brand.
The baby thumps approvingly every time the word boat appears.
Mrs. O’Hara walks by and informs us we are precisely four minutes later than last Saturday, which goes in the ledger under Concerning Trends .
After naps-that-aren’t-naps, we wander down to the beach as the light goes sherbet. We do this most evenings we can. It’s not a tradition so much as a way of breathing.
Junie runs ahead with a kite that mostly behaves. Ami’s hand tucks into mine like it always knew the route. The tide nicks at the shore the same way it did the night I told her forever under a sky like this.
“Remember?” she asks.
“Every frame,” I say.
We stop where the water just kisses our shoes. The baby rolls; Ami laughs; I place my palm there like a promise.
“We should tell him,” Ami says, eyes on the horizon. “The big stuff. Not all at once. Just… little vows he can grow into.”
“Okay,” I whisper, and the wind takes it and brings it back. “Tell him.”
Ami leans close, voice low, words for all of us.
“You’re coming to a town that keeps its porch lights on.
Your dad is brave in the kind of ways that don’t make the news.
Your great-aunt will overfeed you and under-explain everything.
Your sister will teach you to negotiate with gulls.
And your mom will always write you into every story, even the ones with dragons. ”
Junie skids back and tucks herself against my leg, kite tail wrapped around her wrist like a ribbon. “And Daddy says no cats in trees,” she adds gravely.
“Especially that,” I say.
A gull laughs because of course it does.
We stay there until the first star shows up. Then we turn home, because that’s what we do: we turn toward each other, toward the swing and the lemon bars and the ledger and the siren and the art and the names on the mailboxes and the promises we keep.
At the steps, Ami looks back at the street—the line of houses, the lamp glow, Aunt Maggie’s silhouette in her window, Junie’s kite tail snagged on our railing like a silly flag—and then at me.
“Still forever?” she asks, the same smile as the first yes.
“Still forever,” I say, and mean it the way the tide does: not loud, not showy, just always.
The porch light clicks on.
Inside, the house settles.
Outside, the ocean breathes.
Roots and wings, still.
THE END