Epilogue
Emily
“Your office is overrun, Grady.” Chloe tucks a strand of pink hair behind her ear, her infant nestled against her chest beneath a soft nursing cover, while the burp cloth draped over her shoulder bears a faint milk stain.
“I may have underestimated how much space you would need to write your novel.”
“It’s plenty of room when it’s not being invaded,” he murmurs, distracted.
I eye the chaos from my spot on the couch. The little office that was once Grady’s refuge has surrendered to the realities of pack life.
A bouncy seat claims the corner nearest the door, its vibrating mechanism humming at a frequency designed to put tiny humans to sleep and drive adults insane.
A half-built pack-and-play sprawls across the open floor beyond the desk, its plastic parts scattered in a jigsaw puzzle that Jared told me not to touch.
Across from us, Grady sits behind the walnut desk I built him, a printed manuscript stacked beside his laptop and a single sheet of cream paper held carefully between his fingers. The publisher’s letterhead catches the afternoon light.
Chloe had brought it over when the mail arrived on the afternoon boat, and it had taken thirty minutes to convince him to open it.
Now, he reads it a second time, his thumb brushing over the embossed logo at the top.
“Well?” Chloe demands, his best friend showing far less patience than I. “What does it say?”
He sets the letter down with a quiet exhale and closes the laptop.
Oh, no.
That isn’t the reaction I’d hoped for.
I start to rise, but then Quinn appears from the front room in a yellow dress, her long brown hair tied in a lopsided ponytail. Sprinkles pads behind her, the big Newfoundland’s paws heavy on the hardwood, his nose nudging a crumpled onesie across the floor as if it’s a treasure he’s discovered.
“What are you guys all doing in here?” she demands, but doesn’t give us time to respond before she hurries forward to grip the edge of Grady’s desk and points to the letter. “What’s that?”
“Quinn—” I start.
“Someone wants to publish my book.”
I freeze before a grin spreads across my face, and Chloe lets out a high-pitched squeal that startles her pup, who whimpers before she calms him.
“A book?” Quinn’s eyes go wide. “Like Aunt Chloe writes? Are you famous, too?”
Grady gives a short laugh. “Not even a little bit, princess.”
“Give it time,” I say, my hand finding the armrest, fingers digging into the upholstery. “The book is good.”
At the desk, he wrestles with the compliment before speaking. “I don’t need fame, Em.”
“Stop downplaying the accomplishment,” I tell him. “You spent months working on it. Let yourself have the win.”
He takes a deep breath. “You’re right.”
“Congratulations, Grady,” I want to leap up to hug him, but I’m not as fast as I used to be. “I’m so proud of you.”
A faint blush stains his cheeks. “Thank you.”
Chloe shifts the pup to her other breast beneath the cover. “You should call your mother, Grady. She’ll want to know.”
Grady’s thumb finds the edge of the cream paper and creases the corner. He hasn’t spoken to his father since Connecticut. His mother, though, calls once a week, every Sunday evening. The calls are careful, but she doesn’t stop, both of them working on building a better relationship.
Some evenings, he sits on the porch talking about the island, the book, articles, and things that shouldn’t matter but do.
“She’s right,” I encourage. “You shouldn’t keep this for Sunday. Call now.”
Grady picks up his phone from the desk, unlocks it, and scrolls through his contacts with his thumb. He hesitates when he finds her name before finally calling.
The phone rings once. Twice. Grady stands from the chair, cane in hand, and moves toward the hallway, the call connecting as he disappears around the corner.
His soft murmur carries back. “Hey, Mom. Yeah, I’m good. I got some news today.”
I brace my hands on the couch cushion and lever myself to my feet. The movement requires more effort than it used to now that my center of gravity is somewhere in my lower abdomen, a solid, insistent presence that reminds me of its existence every time I move.
One hand finds my belly, fingers spreading across its curve. The pup kicks, a hard jab into my palm, and I suck in a breath.
Chloe gives me the sympathetic look of a woman who has very recently been where I am. “Where’s Jared? He’s supposed to be taking care of you.”
“He’s looking after Leif.” I waddle toward the door. “Leif’s having a rough afternoon.”
“You’re eight months pregnant, Em. He’s not the only one having it rough.”
“I’m just going to get some water.” I slip out into the hall.
Behind me, Grady’s conversation continues from the guest bedroom, which had been his before we moved him upstairs. Warmth creeps into his conversation as he talks to his mother about the book offer, and I’m so damn proud of him that I can barely stand it.
The front room is warmer than the office, afternoon light spilling through the tall windows and catching the dust motes that swirl in the still air.
Leif sits on the sofa with a cold compress draped across the back of his neck, his periwinkle eyes fixed on a paperback book he hasn’t opened.
The glass of water on the side table beads with condensation.
His usual crisp button-up hangs untucked over the soft joggers he swapped for his neat trousers after weeks of resisting the concession for the round swell of his belly.
I cross to him and bend, one hand braced on the sofa arm, the other smoothing over the curve of his stomach. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Em.” Leif’s hand covers mine. “Just hot.”
“You need anything?”
“Hey, that’s my job.” Jared appears from the kitchen doorway.
He carries a small plate of apple slices arranged in a neat fan, a dollop of peanut butter in the center, and a prenatal vitamin set in a tiny ceramic dish.
He sets them on the side table next to Leif’s water before he turns to me. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy, too. I got this.”
“I’m just getting water.”
“You’re hovering. I’m supposed to be the hoverer.” Jared’s hands move to his hips with a rumble of discontent. “You’re not allowed to fuss again until after the pup comes.”
“Since when?” I demand.
“Since you got pregnant. It’s in our marriage contract.”
“We’re not married,” I remind him.
“Only because you two got knocked up, and I refuse to rush the ceremony. But the second the pups are here, we’re planning a wedding, and it will be beautiful.”
Leif picks up the vitamin, dry-swallows it, and reaches for an apple slice. “Just give it up, Em. Until these pups come, there’s no stopping him. I’ve tried. Grady’s tried. The man is immune to reason.”
Jared’s grin spreads across his face, unchecked and entirely pleased with itself.
The sea-glass green of his irises catches the light, and for a moment, he’s the young Alpha I first encountered in the pawn shop, looking to earn some quick cash so he could bring his cousin a cup of coffee on his first day of work.
“If you have so much energy,” I tell him, stealing an apple slice from Leif’s plate, “you should finish building that pack-and-play before someone trips over the pieces.”
“I have reinforcements coming.” A knock sounds on the front door, and he hurries toward it. “There they are now.”
The front door swings open, and Blake strides in with a toolbox in hand.
Nathaniel follows, his khakis crisp despite it being Saturday, a measuring tape clipped to his belt.
Holden brings with him a covered dish that fills the entryway with cinnamon, his round cheeks flushed from the walk over from the Homestead.
Dominic comes last, his hands empty and ready to work.
“Okay, where are we starting?” Blake asks, setting the toolbox on the floor with a metallic clatter.
“Pack-and-play in the office,” I say. “It’s half-built already. Jared started it this morning.”
Holden heads over to Leif and me and whips the napkin off his dish to reveal a stack of still steaming cookies. “I brought snickerdoodles.”
Leif chucks his healthy apple slice back onto the plate and reaches for it with grabby hands.
“Hey,” Jared protests. “The book says—”
“We’re not finishing this for you, Jared,” Nathaniel calls back. “Get in here!”
With a last huff at us, he hurries to join the others.
Their voices carry back, Blake’s easy laugh, Nathaniel’s measured questions, and Dominic’s exclamations over something he’s found.
I remain in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the other resting on the curve of my stomach. The baby shifts, a slow roll that has me flattening my palm over the fabric of my shirt.
From the office comes Blake’s dismayed cry. “Jared, these support brackets are upside down. The whole thing would collapse if an infant so much as looked at it wrong.”
“It looked right,” Jared protests.
“Nothing about this is right,” Dominic says. “Did you even read the directions?”
“There are only pictures,” Jared grumbles.
Blake’s laughter fills the office. “Good thing we showed up when we did.”
“How about I start dinner?” Holden offers, heading for the kitchen. “I’ll whip up a meal that will be easy for Jared to finish later.”
“It’s almost as if someone told him about Jared’s new culinary adventures,” Leif teases as he lifts another cookie from the plate balanced on his belly. “If he’s going to insist on taking over meal preparations, he needs to move past breakfast sandwiches and ham sandwiches and BLT sandwiches.”
I snicker as I settle beside him, and our bellies bump as I steal one of the cookies.
Leif’s hand finds mine, our fingers tangling together.
From the office, Jared is being walked through the correct assembly of a pack-and-play by a very patient Blake and Nathaniel. Dominic is humming off-key to their pup, who has started crying, while Holden putters around in the kitchen.
Grady finishes his call and joins us, giving Leif the good news about his book, and Leif rewards him by sharing the cookies.
My pup kicks, Leif’s pup rolls, and I am happier than I ever thought I could be, with a home I never dreamed of having, and a pack I’ll never stop falling in love with, over and over again, for the rest of our lives.
The End.