Epilogue
Ivy
Three months later
“End of April is my favorite,” I say. “Everything looks like a fresh start.”
The air smells like rain that is thinking about happening.
The sky is a soft gray, but the groves are green.
New needle growth is bright on the tips of the firs; the ground is springy, and the robins are busy.
I lace my fingers with Remy’s as we follow the path along the fence.
His thumb brushes my knuckles a few times like a secret code that only we know.
He smiles at the ground first, then at me. “Everything is a fresh start.”
We check the rows like we always do. He stops to nudge soil around a root that looks exposed.
I crouch to pick up a bit of twine and tuck it in my pocket for later.
We talk about silly things. How the new barn cats have chosen the old seed sacks as their kingdom.
How Junie’s class is hatching chicks, and the teacher keeps sending photos that make Remy pretend he does not want six of them.
My bet is that by the end of summer we’ll have a whole chicken coop to go with the goats that the neighbors never came back for, and Remy doesn’t complain about. He secretly loves them.
We turn the bend and step into the small clearing. I stop.
There is a blue and white plaid blanket spread on the soft grass. A basket sits ready. Two glass bottles of lemonade catch what little sun there is and light up like they are full of their own glow.
I look up at him. “What do you have planned, Remy?”
He tries for casual and does not quite get there. “Walk. Lunch. Maybe I try to convince you of something.”
I laugh and he takes my hand again and leads me to the blanket. He kneels and opens the basket like a magician who is proud of his hat. Sandwiches wrapped in parchment. A container that smells like dill and mustard.
He hands me a sandwich. “Turkey on sourdough with that honey mustard you like.”
I take a bite and close my eyes. “This is perfect.”
He opens another container. “Potato salad. Your favorite kind. Extra pickles.”
I eat a forkful and try not to moan with delight. “You remembered.”
“I always remember.”
And he does always remember. It’s the little things that he never forgets. About how I like my food or things I say I want to try to do. He treats everything like it’s important and like it means something.
We eat, and it’s quiet but not awkward because it never is.
Being with Remy and just being still is something that I appreciate.
Birds chatter above us. Somewhere across the grove a branch snaps and then settles.
The whole place feels like a secret, even though it is just our little clearing off the main path.
I lean on one elbow and watch him chew, watch the relaxed lines of his face, watch the way he looks at the trees like they are old friends who always know what to say.
“What is this all for?” I ask finally. “The blanket. The basket. The perfect sandwich. My favorite salad.”
He stifles a smile. “Can I not surprise you with a picnic?”
“You can, and you did.” I nudge the other container with my toe. “What is that one?”
He picks it up and sets it between us. “White cake. Buttercream frosting. Your favorite.”
“This is a very serious picnic.”
“I am a very serious man.”
He cracks the lid, and the scent of sugar fills the air. The frosting is pale and swirled like a cloud. In the center sits something that is not cake. Light flashes before my brain catches up.
A ring.
It’s tucked into the hollow he has made in the frosting. It catches the gray day and still gleams.
My heart stumbles. My breath trips over it. “Oh.”
His mouth lifts. He keeps his eyes on mine. “Now we come as a package deal. Not only do you get a husband, but you get to be an instant mom. How would you feel about that?”
Tears prick so fast I cannot help it. The answer is already in my chest before he finishes the question. “Yes,” I say. “Always yes. In every lifetime, Remington, it is you and me.”
Something in his face breaks open. Relief.
Joy. A thousand miles of worry eased in one breath.
He reaches into the frosting, pinches the ring free, wipes it on a napkin that he absolutely planned for, and takes my left hand.
His fingers are steady. The ring slides over my knuckle as if it was waiting to be there all its life.
“Perfect,” he says, kissing my knuckles.
“It is,” I say, but I am not talking about the ring.
He leans in and kisses me. It is soft and sure and tastes like lemon and sugar. The clearing goes quiet for one long moment. The trees hold their breath with me.
A rustle breaks the spell. We both turn.
Finn and Tate are there, each with a hand around Junie’s middle like she is a cartoon character trying to sprint. She wiggles free and cups her hands around her mouth.
“Did she say yes?” she calls, lungs like a trumpet.
“I did, Junie,” I laugh, and hold my arms wide.
“Will you be my mom now?” she asks, small and serious.
My breath catches, and my heart squeezes.
“Yes,” I say, voice thick, “if you’ll have me.”
She barrels across the blanket, knees first into my lap, nearly knocking me flat. I wrap her up and tuck her under my chin. She smells like crayons and the cinnamon toast she had for breakfast.
“I get to be your mom,” I whisper into her hair.
We talked to her months ago, telling her she probably wouldn’t being seeing Sloane again.
She didn’t cry. Just sort of...tilted her head and asked if she could have ice cream after dinner.
Junie was never attached to Sloane. How could she be?
Sloane floated in and out, cold one minute and distracted the next.
She never hurt Junie, but she never made space for her, either.
And kids know. Even when they don’t have the words for it.
But I am here. Not trying to be her mother, just trying to be someone she could trust.
And now, she’s in my arms, asking me for something she’s never really had before.
Not a placeholder. Not someone temporary. A mom.
She pulls back just enough to see my face. Relief loosens her mouth, and she sags against me again. “I was glad you said yes. I love you, Ivy.”
“I love you more,” I say, and kiss her forehead. The ring flashes near her cheek and she gasps.
“It’s so pretty.”
Finn and Tate pretend to look anywhere but at us while they grin like fools.
Finn gives Remy the useless manly nod that means everything.
Tate wipes his cheek with the back of his wrist and declares it is dust. A photographer walks up, smiling, and takes quiet shots from the side while Junie crawls off my lap to examine the cake with scientific attention.
“Can I have a bite?” she asks.
“You can have the whole piece,” Remy says, and she cheers like someone handed her the moon. “I brought extra, because I had a feeling you’d join us.”
We eat cake with forks straight from the container because nothing about this day requires a plate. The frosting is exactly what he promised. Thick and sweet with the kind of buttercream that melts first and then leaves the flavor behind to visit twice.
Finn takes a few photos with my phone. Tate pretends to direct like a film auteur. The photographer stays kind and invisible and somehow gets photos when I forget he is there. Remy kisses my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. The sky brightens like it approves.
On the walk back we go slow. Junie swings between us and counts the steps to the barn like it is a game that matters.
Finn and Tate carry the basket and the blanket and talk about how Willa and Rowan are going to want every single detail as soon as possible.
Remy squeezes my hand every few minutes like he needs to verify this is real. I squeeze back like I agree.
I wash my sticky fingers in the kitchen sink and stare at the ring while water runs over my hands. It looks right. It looks like it has been there forever, even though it’s brand new.
“You keep looking at it,” Remy says, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed and his smile soft.
“I keep checking to see if this is a dream.”
“It’s not.”
“Good,” I say, and reach for him again because I cannot not.
He kisses me until Junie yells from the hallway that we’re gross and that she needs help. We break apart and try to look like responsible adults.
“Later,” he murmurs. There is a promise in the word.
“Later,” I agree.
We make the announcement like people who cannot hold good news inside.
We stop at the bookstore first. The bell jingles, and the whole place smells like coffee and books.
Lilith is behind the counter labeling jars.
Willa and Rowan are perched on stools with coffee cups in their hands and grins on their faces when they see us.
Lilith looks up at me at once and catches the light on my hand.
Her mouth goes round in a perfect circle.
“Oh,” she says, and then she is around the counter, and we are pressed together, and I am crying again because she is crying, and Rowan is already getting out a sheet of paper to plan my wedding flowers.
“You said yes,” Rowan says, like she participated in the choosing.
“I said yes.”
“Of course you did,” she says, wiping at her eyes and pretending she is not.
“I’m so happy for you!” Willa says.
Donna is next, because there is no reality where she hears it third.
We drive over and find her at her desk with a pen behind her ear and a stack of pages that smell like ink and plot.
She stands when we walk in, eyes flicking from my face to my hand to Remy’s face. She presses her hands to her chest.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, and when she hugs me, she smells like powder and peppermint. “I am so happy I could burst. Look at you. Look at you both.”
Pete appears from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and kisses the top of my head. He hugs Remy and pretends not to cry. He winks at Junie and calls her Miss Mayor, and she bows with gravitas like this is a ceremony he prepared her for. Those two always have inside jokes.
Pete’s still struggling, but he has had some good days. He’s on a new medication and it is making him comfortable. We’re taking every day we have with him as a gift and cherishing them, because that’s all you can do. Tomorrow is never promised to anyone.
We head back to the farm because it feels right to bring the day home.
The sun finally breaks and slips under the clouds, laying a gold edge on the grove.
Lola sits in the window with the superiority of a monarch who approves of this match.
Junie runs ahead and then runs back, unable to decide whether to be first into the house or first into my arms.
When the door closes behind us, the quiet is not empty. It is full. Remy leans his back against the wood and pulls me in. His voice goes low. “My wife,” he says, trying the word on like a new coat.
“My husband,” I say, and try it, too.
We stand there for a minute and let the day pass through us. Every laugh, every hug, every time someone’s eyes went bright. The ring that flashes when I tip my hand and disappears when I curl my fingers.
“Tell me what you were thinking,” I say. “When you proposed.”
“That you would hopefully say yes,” he says, deadpan.
I swat his arm and he grins, then sobers. “I was thinking about all the ways I could have asked you and then I decided I wanted it to taste like the life we are building. Simple. Sweet. A little ridiculous. Something we could share with sticky fingers and a laugh.”
“That is exactly what it was.” I press my mouth to his. “Thank you for choosing me.”
“I will keep choosing you,” he says. “Every day.”
After dinner we sit in the library. Remy pulls the throw over our legs and Junie reads the first chapter of her new book aloud, sounding out the long words, confident on the small ones. She reads me the dedication as if it is a spell.
For everyone who ever wanted a home.
I lean into Remy until our shoulders are one line. My left hand rests on his knee. The ring is warm from my skin. It fits. It shines when I lift it. It disappears when I lace my fingers with his. Both are true. Both are right.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “we can start planning. Cake flavors, a list of songs. Those little lights you like in the trees.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
I think about the girl who arrived in this town with her heart scuffed and empty. I think about the woman who sits in this room now with a ring on her finger and a family wrapped around her like a quilt. I think about the way he said package deal and made it sound like a gift. Because it is.
“Always yes,” I whisper, even though I already said it.
He tips my chin and nods like he knows I needed to say it twice. “Always yes,” he echoes.
Because in every lifetime, I’d choose them.