Epilogue
Holden
Six Months Later
The Jolly Trunk smells like cinnamon and fresh pine, which Wren insists is the right combination for June despite it being nowhere near Christmas.
She's rearranging the window display again, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she positions a vintage train set we found at an estate sale last week.
"It's crooked," I tell her from behind the counter where I'm attempting to understand our inventory system.
"It's artistically asymmetrical," she corrects without looking back.
"It's going to fall," I warn.
"It's going to work out," she insists, then immediately knocks over three toy soldiers with her elbow. "Okay, maybe it needs adjustment."
I abandon the inventory system—which I still don't understand after six months of co-ownership—and go help her. My hands find her waist as I reach around her to steady the display.
"This is helping?" she asks, leaning back against me.
"This is supervising," I correct, pressing a kiss to her temple.
"Your supervision technique needs work," she says, but she's smiling.
"My supervision technique is flawless," I argue, spinning her around to face me.
The shop is empty this early in the morning, just us and Helena's music boxes catching the dawn light. The Swiss cylinder box plays softly in the background—Wren winds it every morning now, a ritual that started the day after we officially became partners in every sense of the word.
"We should open soon," she says, but makes no move to leave my arms.
"We should," I agree, pulling her closer instead.
"Customers might come," she points out.
"They might," I acknowledge, lowering my head to kiss her properly.
The kiss is interrupted by a loud tapping on the window. We break apart to find Teddy grinning at us, his Santa beard now styled into small braids courtesy of his granddaughter.
"Committee meeting!" he shouts through the glass.
"It's Tuesday," Wren calls back. "Committee meetings are on Thursdays."
"Emergency meeting!" he insists. "Mr. Jackson bought another dog!"
"That's not an emergency," I tell him. "That's just Tuesday."
"This one's a Saint Bernard!" Teddy announces. "It doesn't fit in his apartment!"
Wren sighs and goes to unlock the door. "How many dogs does this make?"
"Fifteen," Teddy says cheerfully. "He's started a dog committee."
"Dogs can't be on committees," I remind him.
"Tell that to Mr. Jackson. He made them all official badges," Teddy says, showing us a photo of a Corgi wearing a laminated committee credential.
"That's actually adorable," Wren admits.
"Don't encourage him," I plead. "Yesterday he tried to teach them Robert's Rules of Order."
"Did it work?" she asks.
"The Border Collie figured it out," Teddy reports. "Very smart dog. Mr. Jackson wants to make him secretary."
The door chimes again and Giuseppe enters, carrying a tray of something that might be muffins or might be an art project.
"I made breakfast!" he announces proudly.
"What's in them?" Wren asks suspiciously.
"Love," Giuseppe says.
"What else?" I press.
"Flour. Eggs. The usual," he says vaguely.
"Define usual," Wren requests.
"Edible," Giuseppe assures us. "Mostly."
"Your confidence is overwhelming," I mutter, but take one anyway. After six months, I've learned that Giuseppe's food is unpredictable but rarely actually dangerous.
"Oh!" Giuseppe remembers. "Malcolm sent another yacht photo."
"Of course he did," Wren sighs, checking her phone.
The photo shows Malcolm on what is admittedly a larger yacht, but he's standing at an angle that suggests he's trying to hide something.
"Is that a rental sticker?" I ask, zooming in.
"'Bob's Boat Rentals,'" Wren reads. "Oh, Malcolm."
"Should we tell him we know?" Giuseppe asks.
"Never," I say firmly. "His yacht insecurity is the gift that keeps on giving."
"Speaking of gifts," Wren says suddenly, then stops herself. "Never mind."
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Committee stuff," she says quickly, but she's biting her lip the way she does when she's keeping a secret.
"You're terrible at secrets," I inform her.
"I'm excellent at keeping secrets," she protests.
"You told me about my surprise birthday party within five minutes of planning it," I remind her.
"That was different. I was excited," she defends.
"You're excited now," I observe, studying her face.
"Maybe," she admits, bouncing slightly on her toes.
"Wren..."
"Fine!" she explodes. "I bought the building!"
"What building?" I ask, confused.
"This building! The whole thing! The apartments above, the basement below, all of it!" she says in a rush.
"How?" I ask, stunned.
"The protection fund gave me a loan, and Mr. Jackson co-signed, and Giuseppe promised not to cook in the upstairs kitchen, and—"
I cut her off with a kiss that makes Teddy applaud and Giuseppe cry into his muffins.
"When?" I manage when we break apart.
"The paperwork was completed yesterday," she says, grinning. "I wanted to surprise you, but I'm terrible at surprises, and—"
"Move in with me," I interrupt.
"What?" she blinks.
"Move in with me. Upstairs. We'll renovate the apartment and make it bigger by adding the apartment I’ve been staying in. We’ll make it ours," I say, the words tumbling out. "I mean, if you want. We could—"
Now she's the one cutting me off with a kiss.
"Yes," she says against my lips.
"Really?" I ask.
"To everything. Moving in, renovating. All of it," she confirms.
"Get a room," Giuseppe says, then pauses. "Oh wait, you own the entire building now. Get several rooms."
"That's the plan," I tell him, not taking my eyes off Wren.
The morning continues with its usual chaos. Finn stops by to inform us that Mr. Jackson has indeed taught the Border Collie to run a meeting. Delia arrives with new committee assignments that nobody asked for. June documents everything for what she's calling "The Snowfall Chronicles: Volume Seven."
But through it all, I keep catching Wren's eye across the shop, and she keeps smiling that smile that made me fall in love with her in the first place. The one that says she knows exactly how ridiculous our life is and chooses it, anyway.
By noon, we've sold three vintage toys, prevented Giuseppe from starting a revolution against non-organic pasta, and received two more corporate offers.
"We should close for lunch," Wren suggests, flipping the sign on the door.
"It's twelve-fifteen," I point out. "Lunch isn't until—"
She pulls me toward the stairs. "Lunch is whenever we say it is. We own the building and the business, remember?"
"Excellent point, partner," I agree, following her up to what will soon be our apartment.
The space is dusty and needs work, but Wren's already pointing out where things will go.
"Kitchen there, reading nook by that window, and maybe a music room for Helena's boxes?" she suggests.
"Sounds right," I say, watching her spin through the rooms with her arms spread wide.
"We'll need better furniture in our home," she notes. "Our home. That sounds..."
"Right," I finish. "It sounds right."
She crosses to where I'm standing, taking my hands. "Six months ago, you were Holden Pierce, corporate raider."
"Six months ago, you were about to lose everything," I remind her.
"Instead, I gained everything," she says softly. "A saved shop, a reformed corporate spy, a town full of lunatics who'll defend us with pasta and binders."
"Don't forget Mr. Jackson dog army," I add.
"How could I forget the dog army?" she laughs.
"Plus, you gained one more thing," I say, pulling her closer.
"What's that?" she asks.
"A partner with one very impressive callus who can almost change oil correctly," I say proudly.
"Almost correctly is generous," she teases. "Finn says you're successfully wrong now instead of dangerously wrong."
"That’s progress," I insist.
"Definitely progress," she agrees, then her expression turns serious. "Holden?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you," she says simply. "I love this ridiculous life we've built. I love that you gave up everything for a town that weaponizes baked goods. I love that you can't fix cars but try, anyway. I love that you make charts about us when you think I'm not looking."
"You know about the charts?" I ask, embarrassed.
"I know everything," she says. "Including the ring you've been hiding in the old music box downstairs."
I freeze. "How did you—"
"It's my grandmother's music box. I wind it every morning, remember?" She says, grinning. "Not the best hiding spot."
"I was going to wait for the right moment," I admit.
"Right moments don't exist in Snowfall Creek," she reminds me. "We have only beautiful disasters."
"Then let's have one now," I say, dropping to one knee right there in the dusty apartment.
"You don't have the ring," she points out.
"I'll owe you one," I say. "Wren Holloway, will you—"
"Yes," she interrupts, laughing.
"I haven't asked yet," I point out.
"Doesn't matter. Whatever you're asking, whatever we're doing, wherever this chaos takes us—I'm in. Completely," she says, pulling me to my feet.
"Even with all this chaos that is our life?" I ask.
"Especially that," she promises, kissing me thoroughly.
Downstairs, I can hear the committee arriving for their emergency meeting about Mr. Jackson’s dogs. Giuseppe's definitely cooking something that shouldn't exist. Delia's probably making new bylaws. And somewhere, Malcolm is taking photos of his rental yacht from strategic angles.
This is our life now. Not the one I planned when I arrived in Snowfall Creek as a corporate spy. Not the one Wren imagined when she was fighting to save her grandmother's shop. But somehow, it's exactly the one we were meant to have.
"Come on," Wren says, taking my hand. "Let's go tell the committee. Delia probably has a rubric for proposals."
"She definitely has a rubric," I agree.
"With subsections," Wren adds.
"And appendices," I confirm.
We head back down to our shop, our town, our beautiful chaos. The Swiss music box is playing, the melody Helena loved carrying through the air like a blessing on everything we've built from the ruins of my old life.
"Hey," she says as we reach the door.
"Yeah?"
"We're going to be terrible at being married," she informs me.
"The absolute worst," I agree.
"Good," she says, squeezing my hand.
We open the door to face the committee, who've somehow already heard about the engagement despite us not telling anyone yet. Delia's got evaluation forms ready. Teddy's crying into his braided beard. Mrs. Patterson's passing out celebration chocolate flasks.
"How did you already know?" Wren asks.
"We have our ways," Delia says mysteriously, then holds up her phone showing a text from Giuseppe who somehow got a photo of the proposal through the upstairs window.
"We need better blinds. That's creepy," I observe.
"That's love," Giuseppe corrects, wiping his eyes. "Also, I was checking for fire safety."
"From outside?" Wren asks.
"Fire safety has no boundaries," he says seriously.
The Swiss music box plays on, its tune following us into whatever comes next. The committee begins planning our wedding with the efficiency of people who've been preparing for this moment since we first kissed at Giuseppe's.
"Ready?" Wren asks, her hand still in mine as chaos swirls around us.
"For the committee or the rest of our lives?" I ask.
"Both," she says. "All of it. Every single beautiful disaster."
And with her hand in mine and chaos calling our names, I know I am.