Epilogue
EPILOGUE
On the first floor of Magic Mud Pottery, Hillel strutted past Faye and the three boxes of pottery she was packing up for a gallery in Miami. Sitting down on the ground beside her, he attempted to scratch an itch, but the diaper he was wearing was blocking him.
“Oh,” Faye said, reaching below the material. “Let me help you out.”
Hillel happily accepted the offer, before strutting back upstairs with his hairless tail proudly pointed to the sky, to return to Greg. Hillel may have started out as her familiar, but it was clear that the dog was always meant for Greg. Since he’d moved back into Magic Mud Pottery with Faye six months ago, the two had been inseparable.
Greg appeared on the staircase.
“He seems sad,” Greg said. “Do you think he seems sad?”
“He’ll be fine, ” Faye said, adamant. “We’ll both be fine.”
“I know,” Greg said, taking a deep breath. “I just... I want to make sure I’m not leaving you with any problems.”
“I have all his pants packed up,” she said, “and I haven’t given him any hard kosher salami in three days. We should be good for the trip.”
In fact, the diaper had been Greg’s idea. Somehow, he had figured out that Hillel only got diarrhea after eating hard kosher salami. Since neither of them wanted the little guy to have to forgo his favorite nighttime snack, they had settled on the extra help of a wearable puppy pad. Greg had also taken the initiative to read a book on sewing, and after joining a local sewing club had made Hillel all manner of adorable pants.
“Go pack, Greg,” Faye said, returning to her boxes. “And also, eat that magic cake I made you. It’s loaded with lavender and valerian root for anxiety...and sprinkled with sea salt for protection.”
“Right,” Greg said. “Magic cakes. I’m so gonna miss your magic cakes.”
“Pack!”
He nodded, and walked back up to the second floor.
It was strange that Greg was the one who was having so much difficulty with leaving. But she reasoned it was the by-product of them both being in therapy—confronting their demons. Greg had learned that he needed to set down roots if he wanted true and meaningful connection with others, and Faye had learned that she could let someone go—allow them to leave her—and still feel safe in their love.
Not that therapy made either of them perfect, but much like in her pottery business, it turned out things didn’t need to be perfect to be loved.
The bell above the front door rang, announcing a new visitor. Faye turned to see the mailman shaking off snow.
“Quite a bunch of boxes today,” he said, loading them up.
“Believe it or not,” Faye said, moving to help him, “these are for a gallery showing in Miami.”
“A gallery showing,” he said. “That’s impressive.”
She nodded. It would be the first major exposition of her work, and she had Greg, Nelly, Miranda, and Shulamit to thank for it. They were the people who pushed her to send her work out, to contact galleries all across America, including her article, “The Art of Imperfection,” with each piece she sent. Eventually, an offer from a gallery in Miami came, and she figured, with Greg going away, she might as well use the time to take a vacation.
Faye finished helping the mailman load packages into his truck before signing all the necessary documentation for a safe journey. Returning to her store, she flipped over the Open sign to Closed. She was planning to spend three weeks with Nelly in Florida, dividing their time between Boca Raton, Fort Lauderdale, and Miami.
Followed by one week with Nelly, Miranda, and Shulamit at a Healing Trauma with the Hebrew Priestess Retreat at the Isabella Fellman Center.
As for baby Jules, born healthy and over the holiday of Passover, she would be spending the week being doted on by loving grandparents.
Heading upstairs, Faye felt a mixture of emotions. Excitement at getting a break from work, and for finally having her work displayed in a gallery, opening herself up to new fans and a new market. Worry for Greg, that he would be safe, that he would be okay, while taking on another dangerous undercover assignment. And of course, the most prescient feeling of all, a sense of loss. The sense that she was losing him again. Even though it was just for a few months, she would miss him.
It made walking into her bedroom, seeing his open suitcase lying on the bed—still not packed, because Greg was, once again, obsessing about something on the computer—difficult.
“Honey,” Faye said. “You’re never going to catch your flight if you keep delaying finishing packing.”
Greg turned around. “I know,” he said, looking back at the bed. And then, the truth: “I just didn’t think it would be this hard to leave you.”
Faye came closer. Greg wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him. Of course, she felt the same way. And yet, what she had learned from her experience with the golem, and from therapy over the last year, was that letting go was also a part of love. Allowing someone to be themselves, pursue their dreams— take up space and be too much —were all the hallmarks of a relationship that was worth fighting for.
“It’s two months,” she reminded him.
“Two months,” he moaned, and placed his head on her stomach. “I’m gonna miss you so damn much.”
“I’m going to miss you, too,” she admitted. “But I remind myself that this is what you love to do. This is your passion—following leads, pursuing justice, telling a story. Plus, after what happened with The Paper Boys, I’m excited to see them all finally getting taken down.”
Greg nodded. The piece he had written on The Paper Boys, their involvement and infiltration into local government, had sparked not only wider concern and a massive investigation from the FBI—but accolades, as well. His latest undertaking would be an extension of his previous work—an exposé on anti-Semitism at the highest levels of American education, with a possible connection to Iran. It was one of his most dangerous articles ever, but like all the stories he took on, the pursuit of truth was important.
“You have the number to reach me if there’s any problem?” he asked.
Faye tapped on her head. “All three of them. Memorized.”
“And the number for my editor?”
“Got that, too.”
He nodded, and looked towards his suitcase.
Faye took the opportunity to tease him. “Oh, come on,” she said, slapping him playfully on the arm. “I know you. I know you can’t wait to get back into things. Don’t tell me you’re not just a teeny bit excited.”
The corners of his lips edged upward into a smile. “Maybe just a teeny bit excited.”
Faye laughed. “Truthfully,” she admitted, “me, too.”
“Really?” Greg raised both eyebrows.
“I never thought I would be saying that about a three-week trip to Florida with Nelly... but oh my Goddess, Greg , my first ever gallery showing!”
“I just wish I could be there.”
“Me, too,” she said sadly. “But thankfully, Nelly has promised to film every minute.”
“And I—” he grabbed her by the waist, pulling her closer “—am going to watch every single second of it, over and over.”
“Over and over, huh?”
His hands drifted up her back. Her chest, like her heart, pressed into him. It was more than love, really. It was the knowledge that you could be completely yourself with someone, and that your love, like your heart, would still be safe.
“I love you, Faye Kaplan.”
“I love you, too.”
He kissed her again, held her there against him—and she committed every moment to memory. His scent. His eyes. The way his arms felt around her body when she needed a hug. There was so much to Greg, and her love for him, that was good and memorable. It didn’t erase the wounds of her past, but it was healing all the same.
Her eyes wandered over to the floor. The red string bracelet he had been wearing for a year had finally fallen off.
“Nooo,” Faye said, pulling away from him and picking it up.
Greg frowned, concerned. “Is this a bad sign?”
“It could be,” she said, sitting back down beside him on the bed. “Or, it could just mean we need something more permanent.”
“Permanent?”
She nodded resolutely. “In fact, I would say this is an excellent sign. As if the universe is telling us that one part of our journey is over and another is about to begin. I think we should listen to the universe, Greg. She’s not always perfect, but...she does tend to have our best interests at heart.”
“Faye—”
Faye reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out the ring she had made for him. A simple silver ring, crafted by her own hand. The words I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine etched onto the inside. After all, it wasn’t just hate that could be built and created on words...it was love, too.
“Wait,” he said, blinking three times, shaking his head, before seeking clarity. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
Faye shrugged casually. “I mean, really, what’s the big deal? I’m perfect for you. You’re perfect for me. We don’t have any plans to break up, right?”
He answered with a happy, and wordless, scoff of disbelief.
“Well, there you go,” she said. “Since we both see no possible way for this to end, we may as well get the tax benefits that come along with love and a long-term relationship.”
The question lingered in the air between them.
Greg rose from his seat and, taking Faye by the waist, spun her around the room. “Faiga Kaplan,” he shouted, lifting her off her feet, “I thought you would never ask.”
It was the most remarkable type of magic—falling in love, finding your person, crafting your own life, writing a story where you deserved to be valued. And then, taking the ring and putting it on, he kissed her. And she kissed him. They folded into each other’s arms and made their way to the bed.