Epilogue
Emmaline Logan lived to be just shy of eighty-four. She lived to meet her second great grandson—my second, completely perfect, exceptional nephew, Arlo Logan Pruitt—and to share two Thanksgivings, two Christmases, and two New Years with all of us.
She even lived to see Henry go on to start a program at the Range for foster teens. During this highly regarded program, the kids spend a month over summer learning everything there is to learn about the ranching and farming factions here. In addition to that, those interested are able to learn about TV and film production. There’s a little something for everyone this way.
Henry and Jake are currently working together to form an internship program under the umbrella of Jake’s production company. Lucy is planning the first fundraising event, for which I’ve provided a few photography pieces for auction. There will be plenty of Dollar Mountain -related merchandise, and she’s even convinced Duke to be auctioned off for a date.
Grandma passed away in her sleep, on the night of Henry’s and my engagement party, after a particularly raucous celebration. She defied the odds in almost every way in life, even in disease and death, having far outlived her doctors’ expectations.
The entire cast and crew for Dollar Mountain attended her memorial, and even some from Deacon Publishing came in support.
We spread her ashes over the mountainside where she and her husband were married.
Henry and I made it all of a month in our pseudo-neighbor situation before I gave up the ghost and moved in permanently. Belle tolerated Fen for the first few months, but he won her over like the rest of us, and they’ve been inseparable since.
What’s been done in terms of wedding planning has been a breeze. Neither of us even wanted one, but when Lucy found out about our courthouse plan she staged a coup. Still, we want a day for and about ourselves, so we’re in talks over destination spots. Henry is the most entertaining and thoughtful travel companion… in quite unexpected ways. Everything is a new wonder, and seeing the world through his eyes will never get old. He spends weeks learning key phrases in the appropriate languages before we go anywhere, then proceeds to charm cultures across the globe. I always notice how his smile relaxes and settles to its permanent, natural place each time we fly home, though.
Today is the beginning of our big move, and I can’t help but feel suspicious over how smooth it’s been. Our things are all boxed up, ready to go. We’ve admittedly been putting off clearing out Em’s, however.
She’s left her house to Henry and me, even going so far as to state in her will, “If I’m still alive, this part can be ignored, since they’ll be getting my house as a wedding gift. Hopefully I’m dead so that they can’t argue with me about taking it, though.”
Henry and Charlie plan to add more cabins around the pond for the summer program’s use. We’ll have plenty of excuses to visit there, frequently.
We pull up to Emmaline’s place, and I laugh because of course she’s had the best views all to herself all of these years. It’s been maintained since she moved in with Grace and Charlie, so even the landscaping looks quaint and tidy. Henry holds my hand up the porch steps, like he always does, and he pulls me to a stop, kissing me sweetly before we head inside.
It’s simple and tasteful, a mostly open floorplan with a giant dining room and wet bar area. I don’t worry about anything being old or outdated, anyway, because my guy loves a project.
The hallways are lined with shelves of pictures… so many pictures. A full and beautiful life reflected on every free surface.
I pause when I come to one of my mom and me, she with a heavily pregnant belly, smiling softly into the camera, crouched behind a dirty-faced, tiny me… I’ve got pigtails and am holding a giant toad, grinning from ear to ear .
“Tait?” Henry calls to me from somewhere in the house, and I set out to find him.
Toward the back of the house, through a pair of glass French doors, is what appears to be an office. The entire room is wrapped in windows, aside from one wall above a desk and a surprisingly high-end computer.
Henry wraps me up and says something about the view, but it’s lost on me because I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing on that wall…
My photograph, blown up to poster size, the one that got me my big break, the only copy this size in existence… the one I had sent to Gemma Nola when her book hit the NYT Bestseller’s List. The handwritten poem, there, in my handwriting, that I wrote in the corner.
Why does a fire move with more speed uphill?
Because it craves only light, only air.
Is my land, my soul, the parts of me only good when they feed your blaze?
I can’t fuel your flame nor build you a bridge to cross over my depths,
so you move on to higher ground, destruction in your wake.
But, I will face the sun on my own, having traveled and climbed.
There are parts of me that are safe.
Untouched, wild, and free.
And it will be that much more beautiful.
My mouth remains suspended open when Henry walks over to the picture, plucking down the envelope with “Tait” written across the front.…
I open it with trembling hands, bursting into a sob the moment I open it and recognize my mother’s handwriting. I ask Henry to read it to me when it’s clear that I won’t be able to.
Tait,
I am sick, and the doctors now say I’ve only got a few months, at most.
If you’re reading this, then I can only assume I am long since gone, and you’ve been back home (because let’s face it, that IS your home), and I’m guessing that you’ve learned all that you needed to about me.
You, however, are so very full of life, baby. More so than I have seen you in so many years.
A mother, even a very average one like myself, can see it when their child is struggling. You’ve struggled to settle, love.
For a while, I probably would have thought that settling was a great thing to try to force yourself into, honestly. After all, I couldn’t seem to settle in my life, couldn’t manage to feel happy when I tried to. Instead, I lashed out at those around me, expecting them to fix it for me, to be my answer. And look where that landed me. I still ended up brokenhearted, and lonely.
Maybe I wanted to ruin that life so we could have an excuse to start a new one. I truly don’t know. And instead of looking into myself and ever finding that answer, I lived in perpetual distrust. I can’t trust myself, Tait, so why trust anything else? I didn’t have to be so lonely. I had you guys. Too often I forgot that.
I’ve been selfish, though, and now it’s almost too late. You, my beautiful girl, are bursting at the seams with excitement, for something new for yourself. And God, I am so in awe of you.
Did you know that your grandma was a writer? You must have inherited some of that artistic soul from her, because your passion is already contagious.
I want you to keep that zest for life, Tait. I want you to see things that I’d never even have dreamt of seeing. I pray you are still taking pictures of it all.
I have no way of knowing if this will all work, but there is one thing I can do to try.
I have written to your grandmother, and, sparing her the unnecessary details and trusting her to use her own artistic license for panache, have asked her to write something based on this poem you’ve written & this picture you’ve taken.
It reminded me so much of… well, me. Of the destruction I have caused .
I wrote to her about a story of a young woman who loved two young men, in very different ways and for different reasons, and the lives affected by her choices.
She has agreed to try, and to make sure you get the recognition you deserve. I pray she can help make your dreams come true.
I won’t go on and on about how sad I am that I won’t get to see you and your sister become mothers one day, because even though I’ll be sad to miss it, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that both of you will be wonderful. I will leave a separate letter for Ava.
I love you,
Mom
P.S. If Emma’s there with you now, ask her to forgive me for not telling you that your wedding gift came from them. I was in the beginning stages of sickness then, and already desperate to feel like I was giving you something from me, in a way, and felt helpless in that respect. You made an assumption and I couldn’t bring myself to correct you, for which I am sorry. I desperately hope that this all somehow leads to something beautiful for you, and that I make it up to you.
Henry holds me as I sob, for what surely must be hours, until that sob turns to a hysterical laugh when I realize something…
“Oh my god. Henry, her name… Gemma Nola.”
“Oh.” I see it in his face when he realizes it, too .
“It’s fucking Emma Logan with the letters rearranged! She goddamn Tom Riddled me!”
“She goddamn Tom Riddled you.”
And that, I think, is how you make an exit.