Epilogue
ISLA
I wake up alone for exactly twelve seconds before I hear the unmistakable sound of Jack swearing at a drawer in the kitchen. Mild, irritated, deeply domestic swearing.
I pull on one of his T-shirts and follow the noise downstairs.
He’s standing in front of the open silverware drawer with a mug of coffee in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, looking personally betrayed by both.
“What did the drawer do to you?”
He glances up. “You’ve got three different kinds of spoons in here, and none of them are where a normal person would put them.”
“It’s called a system.”
I smile and step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. The kitchen still carries leftovers from last night. A vase of tulips on the table. One candle burned all the way down in its ceramic cup. A platter on the counter with exactly one lemon square left.
Jack watches me reorganize the drawer for all of five seconds before he says, “You’re humoring me.”
“I’m protecting the peace.”
He takes a sip of coffee, then leans his hip against the counter and looks at me in that quiet way he has when he’s not joking around. The one that always makes me feel like he’s seeing more than I’m saying.
“You good?”
I shut the drawer and think about it.
The house is warm. The orchard beyond the window is silver green in the morning light. My body is still tired from the last few months, from the fight and the fear and then the subsequent whiplash of relief.
But there’s coffee and a good man in my kitchen. There’s no panic clawing at the base of my throat.
“I think I’m just not used to mornings that don’t start with me bracing for impact.”
I move toward him without really deciding to. He sets his mug down in time for me to step between his knees where he’s leaning against the counter. His hands land automatically at my waist.
Outside, a gentle breeze moves through the rows.
Jack tips his forehead to mine. “What’s on today’s agenda, boss?”
“Absolutely nothing for at least twenty more minutes. Then maybe I’ll walk the rows. Maybe I’ll make a list and proceed to ignore it. We could sit on the porch together, and you could deal with me being weird about how peaceful everything is.”
“I’m deeply qualified for that.”
He kisses me then, slow and a little sleepy. There’s nowhere else he has to be and no version of the day where he isn’t starting it here. When he pulls back, I stay where I am, hands resting against his ribs.
I allow myself to feel the full shape of it.
The quiet. The kitchen. The orchard. Him.
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted and more.
LATE SPRING
The first time I try to host a formal wine tasting, I dump an entire tray of sample cups down the front steps of the shed.
Blush-pink rosé goes everywhere. Glass skitters into the grass. A tourist in white linen lets out a sound of pure horror, like she’s just witnessed a murder.
Jack, who has spent the last ten minutes hanging the hand-painted sign above the door, looks down at the wreckage. “Strong start,” he says solemnly. “Really sets the tone.”
I whip a dish towel at his chest. “Laugh and I’m revoking husband privileges.”
He crouches to help me gather the unbroken cups, smiling the whole time. “You know we signed legal paperwork.”
“Six months,” I mutter. “I’ll amend the terms.”
The lady in linen ends up buying four bottles anyway.
By the end of the afternoon, the shed smells like wine and cut wood and the flowers Winnie wedged into every available corner. Jack stands in the doorway, sunlight at his back, and looks around like he built the place with his bare hands and stubbornness alone.
He didn’t. I helped. So did Wells, and every other person in town who kept showing up here with nails and food and unsolicited opinions.
Still, when he catches me watching him, he grins and says, “Told you it’d look good.”
And because I’m me, I say, “Don’t get smug.”
Then I kiss him in the doorway.
A week later, Elsie and I sit on the back steps with two glasses of plum wine, while Jack and Wells argue over whether cedar or pine makes more sense for a replacement shelf in the shed.
“You know they both think they’re right,” Elsie says.
“That’s because they’re both insufferable.”
In front of us, the orchard is a green haze. Blossoms are gone now, replaced by the first firm signs of golden fruit. Goldie sits in the grass, trying to weave a crown from dandelions and clover, while Winnie coaches her from a lawn chair.
“You twist, baby, not yank,” Winnie says.
Goldie squints at the stems with great seriousness. “The flowers are being difficult.”
“They’re just like me,” Elsie says and lifts her glass.
I laugh and lean back on my hands. There’s dirt under my nails. There’s wine on my tongue. But there’s no panic humming behind my ribs now.
I’m getting used to it.
The grant funding has allowed us to afford three seasonal workers already. We’re in the process of acquiring a new compact tractor and mechanical shaker. Thanks to the new funders, everything is going according to plan.
SUMMER
By July, Mirabelle is filled to the brim with noise and work.
The seasonal crew moves through the rows in hats and gloves, carrying baskets, cursing the bees and then apologizing when they remember where they are.
The new tasting shed is open four days a week. People come for the wine and stay for hours, walking the rows and listening to the robins.
Jack acts like he doesn’t love this part, but he does.
He shows up halfway through harvest with a truck bed full of lumber or tools or cold drinks, surveys the rows, then finds the one thing that will save me an hour and quietly takes it over.
Replacing a warped crate stack. Tightening the hinge on the wash station gate.
One afternoon, I find him shirtless in the shade behind the shed, repairing a loose board, while sweat runs down his spine.
I stand there much longer than necessary.
He glances up. “You need something, boss?”
“Just assessing your workmanship.”
He smirks. “And?”
I step in close, slide my hand over his chest, feel his sweat-damp muscles beneath my palm. “Promising. Might need more time for inspection.”
He sets the hammer down.
We end up making out in the narrow strip of shade behind the shed while a delivery truck idles at the gate. One of the crewmembers very pointedly starts singing to announce his presence before he rounds the corner.
Later, sweaty and laughing and entirely too old to be getting caught sneaking around our own property, we eat lunch sitting on overturned crates.
“I like this life,” Jack says out of nowhere.
He’s fully moved into my cottage now. We’re still keeping the cabin down by the river because it’s paid off in full, but this living arrangement is permanent now. It feels damn good.
“It’s hard,” he continues. “We’re always sticky. There’s dirt in places dirt shouldn’t be. But I really, really like it.”
“Me too.”
At the summer market, Goldie mans the plum sample station with the intensity of a tiny CEO.
“Take one,” she orders a pair of tourists. “Then buy some jam, or it’s rude.”
Winnie has to intervene before she starts invoicing people.
I stand at my booth, sun warm on the back of my neck, and realize I’m not doing the old math anymore. I’m not counting jars in terms of rent, bottles in terms of survival. I’m just . . . selling what I made. Talking to people. Living in the day I’m in.
When Jack drops a lemonade at my elbow and kisses my cheek in front of God and everybody, I don’t even pretend to be annoyed.
AUTUMN
By September, the first cool mornings start sneaking in.
The rows change slowly. The last of the unpicked fruit falls from the trees, the leaves starting to edge gold. Our work shifts from harvest frenzy to maintenance, to the quieter kind of labor that keeps a place steady.
One Saturday, we all end up at Copper Hollow for the cranberry festival. I didn’t expect to have enough goodwill toward Beau at this stage, but life is strange, and he did help save my orchard, so here we are.
The bog glimmers red beneath the haze of the afternoon light. Tourists line the railings with hot cider and cameras. Goldie is deeply convinced she should be allowed into the water. Winnie keeps explaining why that’s a terrible idea.
Beau greets us at the gate in rolled sleeves and boots. “Try not to fall in,” he says by way of welcome. “Hear the bog’s been ruthless lately.”
I smirk. “Same to you.”
Jack and Beau end up shoulder to shoulder twenty minutes later, discussing the structural issues with one of the loading platforms, because apparently, men will bond over rotting wood in any setting.
At one point, I stand at the edge of the bog and watch the workers moving through the floating berries. Jack comes up behind me, hands warm at my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
I laugh and lean into him. “I was just thinking that it’s nice to be here because I chose to come. Not because I’m desperate or because I need something.”
He kisses the side of my neck. “You know, that’s actually a pretty huge deal.”
It is, isn’t it? I take a moment to let that sink in.
A few weeks later, Jack walks me into the guest room with both hands covering my eyes. He’s been building something in here for days now. Something he says is a surprise for both of us to enjoy.
I’m a little scared of what it might be, but I trust his judgment. For the most part, anyway.
When he lifts his hands, I blink, bleary-eyed, and stare. He’s cleared out the furniture and installed a mirrored wall. In front of us sits a sleek 45 mm chrome pole, anchored to the ceiling and floor with heavy-duty hardware.
I whip around and beam up at him. It’s exactly what I would’ve picked out for myself. “How did you know which one to get?”
“I texted your friend Simone.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Did you know there are many different types of poles?”
I chuckle. “Of course I knew that.”
“Do you like it?’
I move closer, running my fingers along the cool metal. He knows I’ve been missing it lately, all the dancing I used to do at the club. I have no desire to go back to work at Luxe, but it’ll be fun to train in the privacy of my own home.
Even more fun to put on a show for my husband.
“I love it, Jacky baby.”
Then I loop my hands around his neck and jump into his waiting arms.
WINTER
The orchard in winter is quiet and restful, with bare rows and frost that catches in the grass. It’s beautiful, in its own way. I’ve always liked the winter season in Blue Willow.
The icicles that drip from the store windows, the snow that piles onto the town green. It all scrubs the place clean. Besides, I think we could use a fresh start.
In December, Elsie and Wells host a dinner at the inn. The whole town shows up in knitwear and boots. Compared to its dilapidated state last year, the place is positively glowing.
Elsie stands in the kitchen with flour on her cheek and the look of someone who’s still a little startled to be hosting something. Per Wells, they’ll be opening up to formal guests again soon.
I stand in the parlor doorway and take it all in. Jack finds me there, slides up beside me, and tucks an arm around my waist.
“What’s with the face?” he murmurs.
“What face?”
“The one where you look like you’re about to cry or start a commune.”
“Maybe both,” I reply. “Did you see Goldie all wrapped up in a blanket by the hearth? She’s so cute it makes me want to vomit.”
He laughs under his breath. “You need me to hold your hair?”
I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “I just didn’t know life could look like this. Messy and ordinary and still so damn good.”
He squeezes me once. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s pretty fuckin’ perfect, isn’t it?
SPRING AGAIN
The flowers bloom all at once this year. They’re white and blush, the rows lit from within. Petals catch in my hair when I walk through the rows. They gather on the porch steps and drift into the tasting shed, settling on the counter.
Jack finds me one evening with my hand on Elias’ trunk. “Checking in with upper management?” he asks.
“Getting his opinion on event planning.”
He comes to stand beside me. “And?”
“He thinks we should have our vow renewal very soon. Did you know that we’re coming up on the one-year termination clause of our marriage agreement?”
“You mean our anniversary?” He laughs, reaching for my hand. “We forgot the reassessment period.”
I snap my fingers. “Six months went by too fast.”
The breeze picks up, sending a scatter of petals over our shoes.
I look up at Jack. This is the man who married me in a panic and then stayed long enough to make it feel like a choice. He’s rearranged everything—the rows, the cottage, the shape of my entire life.
“You up for this weekend?”
He smiles slowly, like he has to let the joy catch up to his face. “Yeah?”
“Let’s do it here under the blossoms. Before the last of the petals fall.”
He leans down and kisses me. I savor the feeling of his lips, the rush I still get from being loved by him. There’s no fear tucked behind my affection now. No question about whether or not I’ll get to keep it.
I already know this kind of thing can last forever.