Chapter 12 Isla
TWELVE
ISLA
A courthouse and a borrowed white dress should’ve been the perfect way to keep this purely administrative. That was the goal. A few witnesses to ramp up the legitimacy. In a town that treats gossip as a civic hobby, even this will turn into a story with legs.
It’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? The way I’m standing on the front steps of the courthouse in a lace wedding dress, watching my soon-to-be husband argue with a parking meter.
“Hey!”
He looks over his shoulder, hair slightly grown out now. His suit jacket is neatly pressed, his tie slightly crooked. His pinched expression says he’s two seconds away from declaring war on municipal infrastructure.
“This thing ate my quarters,” he says grumpily.
“I told you to use your card.”
“I did,” he says. “It rejected me.”
“Maybe it sensed your character.”
He lifts a hand to his chest. “That’s vicious, Isla.”
“Get in here,” I say with a smile.
It’s easier to smile at him now, even with my stomach tight and my brain screaming about consequences. I know what he’s doing for me is more generous than he’s making it sound. A marriage contract isn’t a small thing.
He finally gives up, shoving his hands into his pockets and jogging up the steps toward us. He moves with that same restless energy he always carries around. His body forgets, I think, that it’s allowed to be still.
Wells is behind me, dressed in a suit that fits him too well for someone who claims to hate dressing up. His face is set in the same stoic expression he usually wears.
“You look,” he begins, and then stops, jaw working like he’s swallowing a comment.
“Say it,” I tell him without turning.
He exhales. “You look really nice, Winslow.”
I glance at him. “That was painless.”
“Don’t force me to take it back.”
“Isla,” Winnie says softly from my other side. “You okay?”
She looks beautiful in an effortless way. Yellow dress, a gold chain at her throat, hair braided back with a few loose strands already escaping. Reid stands half a step behind her, like he always does.
“I’m here. You’re here. It’s all happening.”
“That’s a yes,” Winnie decides.
My dad is beside Wells in his wheelchair, wearing a suit that used to fit him better. It still looks good, though. His hands are folded in his lap. He’s watching the courthouse doors like they might open and swallow us whole.
When I glance down at him, his eyes soften.
“Jack’s a good man, isn’t he? You’ll be good?”
The question hits me in the chest because he’s asked me that several times before. Like when I fixed a broken irrigation line by myself for the first time. Then again when I got through the first season after my mom left without letting the orchard fall apart.
He doesn’t say much. He never has. When he does, it usually matters.
I crouch beside him, careful of the dress, and rest a hand on his knee. “I’ll be more than good,” I say. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, kiddo.”
The courthouse steps seem to tilt under me, and suddenly, I’m back in the kitchen the night I told him about the engagement.
He sat at the table so still it unnerved me, hands quiet, face harder to read than usual. I told him I was getting married to Jack in a few weeks. I watched the questions gather in his expression and then disappear again before they ever made it out of his mouth.
All he asked was whether I felt safe and whether I was sure. When I said yes, even with my pulse beating hard in my throat, he gave a single nod and turned to the window for a long moment.
Then he said, “Your mother would’ve hated this courthouse thing.”
I nearly laughed. Nearly cried. Instead, I said, “I know.”
He kept looking outside. “All right. Then we’ll do it your way.”
That was all. There was no lecture or interrogation to follow. No attempt to drag me back toward the future he used to imagine for me. He simply agreed to follow me into whatever came next.
I’m grateful for that. It makes the decision all that much easier.
When I stand, Jack’s parents and sister approach us in a small cluster. His mom, Sarah, is holding two packs of tissues in her right hand, which seems excessive. His dad and sister follow close behind.
Sarah reaches me first, staring at my dress with open awe. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t you look lovely?”
“It’s borrowed,” I say, because I don’t know what else to do with the tenderness.
She smiles. “Still.”
Jack comes to my side. He glances at my dad, clears his throat, and visibly reins himself in. It’s the same thing he always does when he’s trying to be respectful, slowing his mouth down before it can outrun his good sense. It looks deeply unnatural.
“Mr. Winslow,” he says. “Good to see you.”
My dad nods. “You too.”
Jack shifts his weight, and his fingers hover near mine.
This is the part we agreed on—optics. We’re going to hold hands, sit together, and share one kiss in front of our witnesses. If that is what it takes to make this look real, then so be it.
I slide my hand into Jack’s. His palm is calloused, his fingers warm, the whole of him steady in that irritatingly reliable way he has. It feels less like being taken hold of and more like being braced.
My pulse stutters in a way I don’t appreciate.
“You’re freezing,” he murmurs under his breath.
“I’m not.”
“Then you’re shaking because you’re nervous,” he says, quieter.
“I’m not,” I insist, even as my fingers tighten around his.
“I forgot, freckles. You don’t get nervous.”
We head inside the courthouse together. It’s a Friday afternoon when the last of the paperwork crowd has thinned out, so no one else is around to watch us do this. Thank God.
We’re led into a small room with a long table. The chairs are arranged in a way that suggests intimacy without quite managing it. It’s strangely underwhelming. Beige walls. Fluorescent lighting. A framed photo of the building from 1984.
Mayor Bobby Brindle stands at the front of the room. His hair is combed, his tie neat. He’s not wearing a baseball cap or a bright orange windbreaker, which is oddly disorienting, too.
“There she is,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Hi, Bobby.”
He takes my free hand, squeezing once. “You doin’ all right?”
I nod rather than spill my guts to the whole room.
Bobby turns to Jack. “Rhodes.”
“Sir,” Jack says stiffly.
We don’t normally use formalities around Bobby, and we certainly don’t stand this straight around him, either. I think Jack wants me to know he’s taking this seriously. That, or he’s decided he’s putting on a real show.
“You clean up well,” Bobby says. “I’m proud of you.”
Jack’s throat bobs. “Thanks.”
It’s strange, watching them together like that. Jack came into town already grown and restless, not looking for somewhere permanent to land. But Bobby being Bobby, he welcomed him in with open arms. Now, he’s been happily stuck here for six years.
Winnie and Reid settle in. Wells positions my dad’s wheelchair so he can see everything comfortably. Elsie hovers close, hands clasped, eyes already glassy.
With everyone in place, my mind goes, briefly and unhelpfully, to Greer Ashby.
The Ashbys were one of the original families tied to the bog before Beau Langford’s family tightened its grip and forced them out. Greer left town with her pride intact and no desire to ever come back, which, under most circumstances, I would’ve respected without question.
Today, I wish she were here.
I wish she were leaning against the wall in the back, rolling her eyes at the courthouse carpet and murmuring something wicked about government-funded romance. Greer has always had a way of making me feel less alone without trying very hard to do it.
I called her anyway. I told myself it was harmless to ask.
She answered from New York with traffic and wind behind her, sounding busy and bright and completely elsewhere. When I told her I was getting married, she went quiet for a second. I think she was trying to fit the words into the shape of the life she thought I had.
“I’m in the middle of pitch week,” she said at last. “I’m underwater. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I told her, too fast to make it convincing. “It’s small. It’s nothing.”
She started to say something else, then seemed to think better of it. “Text me later, okay?”
I said yes. Then I hung up, and I didn’t try again.
If this were real, I might have pushed. I might have told her I needed her here. Instead, I let it go because this whole thing already feels fragile enough. I can’t keep pulling at pieces I’m afraid might come loose.
Bobby clears his throat. “We’re going to keep this simple, the way you asked. We’ll do the legal bit, and then I’ll say a few words. That work for everyone?”
We both nod.
Bobby smiles. “Good.”
He goes through the official language, the names, the consent, the legal statements that transform paperwork into something recognized by the state. Then he pauses, hands resting on the folder.
“I’ve known both of you a long time. I’ve watched you work hard and carry more than you should. I’ve watched you show up for this town and for the people in it, even when it wasn’t convenient.”
Jack’s fingers tighten around mine.
“Marriage means different things to different people,” Bobby continues. “Sometimes it’s romance. Sometimes it’s faith. Sometimes it’s the decision to stand beside someone when life is complicated, and the future isn’t guaranteed.”
He looks at me. “Isla Winslow, you’ve spent your whole life protecting Mirabelle. You’ve protected it with your hands, your time, your stubbornness, and your heart. You deserve a partner who respects that.”
Then he looks at Jack. “Jack Rhodes, you’ve spent a long time acting like you don’t want roots. But you’ve been planting them here anyway. Every job you take in town. Every time you show up. Every connection you make with the people of this wonderful town.”
Jack’s jaw flexes. He looks devastatingly good in a way I resent on principle. Broad shoulders, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s already tired of pretending to be formal, mouth set in that familiar crooked line that usually means trouble.
“So today,” Bobby adds, “whether you call this practical or brave or overdue, I’m proud of you both. And I’m honored to be the one to make it official. By the authority vested in me by the state of Connecticut, I now pronounce you married.”
The room falls into a hushed silence that slots in somewhere beneath my ribs.
“You may kiss.”
Jack breathes in deep beside me. I feel it in his chest through our joined hands, as if his whole body is bracing for impact. Up close, he looks different than he does when he’s teasing me across my dining table or arguing about logistics.
The truth is, there probably aren’t many men who would meet me here and not ask me to be softer, easier, less complicated. Jack never has.
“Okay?” he murmurs.
I nod because my voice doesn’t feel reliable.
He lifts his free hand and cups my jaw. It’s like he’s asking permission, even though the whole room is watching. It should feel staged. It should feel performative.
It feels like the exact opposite.
When his mouth meets mine, heat rushes through me. Lips press on patient, waiting lips. Then his hand tightens slightly at my jaw.
I like it immediately, which feels like its own kind of betrayal. The kiss is gentle, but there’s enough pressure in it to make me want more, enough restraint to make me aware of exactly what he’s holding back.
Despite my better judgment, I know this man must be an excellent kisser. I want his tongue. I want the full press of him, all that solid muscle and steady heat, instead of this careful version he’s giving me in front of witnesses.
We pull away, but Jack’s eyes stay on mine, thumb brushing once at the edge of my jaw.
“Good?” he whispers.
“Mmhmm.”
“Congratulations!” Bobby declares, and the spell snaps clean in half.
I blink, heat still climbing under my skin. If this is what pretending feels like, I’m in more trouble than I thought.