Epilogue
Summer
Eleven months later …
Ihaven’t been able to come here until now. And I think that’s largely due to Chase.
I’ve been back in Ocean Grove for eleven months, and I’ve driven past the cemetery gates more times than I can count.
I always slow down when I pass, telling myself today is the day, but I always keep driving.
I always come up with an excuse. Always something easier to do than face what’s waiting on the other side of those gates.
I haven’t been here since Felicity’s funeral. And before that—not since I was fourteen. The day we buried my mother.
Chase has never pushed. Whenever he’s come to lay flowers on Felicity’s grave, he’s come alone or with his dad and said nothing about it when he returned. He’s just waited until I was ready.
Today he’s beside me as we walk down the gravel path lined with colorful blooms. One hand linked with mine, the other carrying two bouquets of flowers—white camellias for Mom, yellow roses for Felicity.
The morning is still and clear. The sky is vibrant blue, and the wind carries the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
We stop by Felicity’s plot first.
It’s simple and well kept. Dan comes by every week without fail. Chase tells me he brings a little dust pan and brush to ensure her final resting place is immaculate, just the way she would have wanted it. Knowing that fact makes my chest ache in the best way.
Moisture pricks my eyes as Chase releases my hand and crouches to rest the roses at the base of the stone. His palm settles over the granite for a moment. I place my hand on his shoulder, and he covers it with his without looking up.
Felicity Jean Whitmore. Beloved wife, mother, and friend. She loved and lived fiercely and well.
“Hey, Ma,” Chase says quietly.
He presses a kiss to his fingertips before touching them gently against the cold stone. A sharp breath breaks his silence before he straightens, forcing himself to stand.
“You okay?” I whisper, resting my head against his shoulder.
“Yeah, baby,” he says, his lips meeting the crown of my head. “It never gets any easier, though.”
“No, it doesn’t. We were so lucky to know her,” I reply.
His hand moves to my stomach—four months along with our little girl now. His thumb brushes back and forth over my belly. “She would have made an incredible grandmother.”
My throat tightens. “She would have. She wouldn’t let her get away with anything.”
He lets out a short, soft laugh and we stand there a little longer.
Eventually, we move on to Mom’s plot three rows over.
When we reach it, I stop walking. Beside her rests my father.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times—what I’d feel and whether I’d fall apart. What I actually feel, with Chase’s arms around me from behind, is something I can’t pinpoint. Emotions roll through me like a riptide—grief and gratitude and sorrow.
I set the camellias down in front of Mom’s gravestone and read the final line: She carried beauty in everything she touched.
With Chase’s help, I sit with her. I tell her about the house I transformed, using it as an office where I spend most days throughout the week crafting songs and making music.
I tell her about the garden beds I’ve filled with her favorite flowers and assure here they’re being looked after.
About the baby girl growing inside me. About Chase and Addie and Felicity and Dan.
About my career, my decision to leave performing to start songwriting.
About the house we’ve built and moved into.
I have an inkling she probably already knows about Chase.
Finally, I reach for the folded letter in my handbag. The same letter I’ve carried for nearly three years. It visited Europe and Asia and North America in my suitcase; it’s lived in my pocket and in the top drawer in the kitchen.
It’s soft at the corners from all the handling.
When I stand to step toward my father’s plot, Chase hugs me from behind, his chin resting in the crook of my neck.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
I open it. His handwriting is hard to decipher, the scrawl unsteady, but I can make out most words.
Summer,
I don’t know how to start this, so I’ll just say what’s true.
I wasn’t a good father. I know that. I don’t think an apology comes close to covering it and I’m not going to insult you by pretending it does.
After your mother died, I stopped being able to see anything properly or positively. My world collapsed and turned to dust. Everything was gray.
I was so angry, Summer. At the world, at God, at the unfairness of it all—and you were there. You looked so much like her. You still do, from what I’ve seen on the internet, and I couldn’t stand it.
That’s the truth. I couldn’t stand to look at you because you were a reminder of everything I lost.
I realize that’s not your fault. It was never your fault, and my drinking clouded my judgment. You were a child and I was supposed to protect you.
Please know I think about that every day, and not a moment goes by where I don’t live in regret for the way I treated you.
I listened to a few of your songs. You sound like her.
I’m sorry, Summer. For all of it.
Dad
Chase’s arms tighten and neither of us speaks.
You looked so much like her.
I think about the photograph I found tucked behind my parents’ old dresser.
It captured my father and mother when they were young, laughing.
I could see them both so clearly—who they were before it happened.
I could see how the loss got in and found no way out.
And I came to understand it, how a person could be so thoroughly destroyed by love that they stop being capable of holding it. How grief can swallow you whole.
I don’t forgive my father. What he did is not undone because of a piece of paper. My teenage years were full of torment, fear, and bruises. A letter could never undo any of that.
But I realize he needed help he never got.
I got the help he didn’t. And that’s the difference.
I fold the letter and place it at the base of his headstone.
“What does it feel like, reading that letter?” Chase asks.
I turn around in his embrace. “It feels like closure.”
I reach up on my tiptoes, pressing my mouth to his.
“Ready to go?” I ask.
“Whenever you are,” he says.
We drive through Main Street, turning onto the long stretch of road winding up through the hills where the trees get taller and the traffic gets quieter. After twenty minutes, Chase turns onto the dirt track that leads to the house.
Our home that Chase (mostly) built.
It’s visible through the dense trees. Dark timber and stone, a wide deck out the back looking over the garden Chase and I have been building in stages. The big windows and, of course, the bright red front door.
Chase helps me out of the passenger seat. When my feet hit the ground, he leads me inside.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
I pivot to face him. “What are you up to, Whitmore?”
“Just trust me.” I hear footsteps heading toward the kitchen.
I sigh, closing them. “Chase—”
“Keep them closed,” he calls out. “Are they still closed?”
I’m squeezing them as hard as I can. “They are.”
Soft thuds signal his return. His hands are warm on my bare shoulders. He lifts my hair, then the cool weight of a chain settles against my collarbone.
I suck in a breath.
“Open them.”
I look down and my knees almost buckle. I take the small, silver infinity pendant between my fingers, needing to feel it to believe it.
My mother’s necklace.
The one my father sold.
“How did you find it?” I ask, my eyes welling with tears.
“It took a while,” he replies. “I called every pawn and antique jewelry store in California. Located it in Mendocino.” He kisses my temple. “Happy birthday, baby.”
The sob that rips out of me is so unexpected, I press my face into his chest and he holds me tight, one hand at the back of my head. I cry in a way I haven’t in a long time. Not from pain, but from elation.
When I pull back, his shirt is damp below his left shoulder.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“Always,” he says.
Outside, a faint siren wails somewhere down in the valley.
“I better go get cleaned up before the others arrive.”
“I’ll get the food ready,” he replies.
* * *
I’m presentable as our guests arrive in waves.
Jasper and Steele are first. Dan, Simon, Candy, and Cody are next.
Cody kisses my cheek and thrusts a gift into my hands.
I haven’t seen Cody in years. He’s been buried in work in L.A.
He’s a sound producer for Paramount and barely comes up for air.
We keep in touch through texts and monthly FaceTimes but it’s not the same.
Having him here in person feels surreal and so special.
Xavier isn’t coming, which surprises no one.
Addie would have plenty to say about it if he did.
She’s barely spoken to him since he got Joanna pregnant and skipped town, his involvement in Mia’s like reduced to a monthly child support cheque and the occasional message in a group chat with Chase, Steele, and Jasper.
Chase lost all respect for hi the moment he failed to step up. He doesn’t say much about it, but he doesn’t need to. Chase is totally devoted to me and our baby. He can’t understand Xavier’s logic and I don’t think he ever will.
Addie pulls up last. I see her though the window as she gets out of the car. A man—tall, dark, broad, and handsome steps out with her. He comes around to her side and places his hand at the small of her back.
I catch Chase’s side-eye—he’s spotted them too.
Addie’s been dating Dean for close to seven months now, having met him after one of his football games in L.A. He’s a quarterback for the Rams.
Steele leans his hip against the kitchen counter with a drink in his hand. His expression doesn’t falter when they step through the front door, but something behind his eyes sure does.
“Everyone,” Addie announces. “This is Dean.” She then rushes forward to hug me, immediately rubbing my belly. “Happy birthday! Which vegetable is she this week?”
“She’s the size of an avocado.”
“Cute! You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” I beam.
Chase steps forward, shaking Dean’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Chase.” He gestures to me. “My partner, Summer.”
Dean nods and smiles politely. “It’s so great to meet you both. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He focuses on me. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” I grin. “I hear you play for the Rams. You’ll have to forgive me—I’m not a huge football fan. Do you know Steele?”
He hesitates before palming the nape of his neck. “Uh, yeah.”
Chase turns to point to the rest of the group one by one, naming everyone. When he lands on Steele, Steele scoffs, rolls his eyes and walks in the other direction, outside onto the deck.
Okay, then.
Addie warned me that these two have butted heads on the field. She waves him off. “Ignore him.”
Dean’s jaw tenses. “Sure.”
The conversation moves on and the afternoon unfolds with ease. Food appears, music plays, and Chase and Jasper man the grill, arguing over who cooks a steak better. I catch Jasper and Cody stealing glances across the room occasionally and smirk to myself.
Addie’s phone rings.
She glances at the screen, frowning slightly before stepping away from the group. I watch her move to the far end of the deck, pressing the cell to her ear.
Something in the way her shoulders tense and her spine locks up has me keeping an eye on her.
Her phone slips from her grip, landing on the deck with a loud bang. Everyone turns their head.
All the color drains from her face and her mouth opens slightly.
I’m already moving. “Addie. What happened?”
She looks at me, and I have never in my life seen that expression on Addie Walker’s face. Not ever in thirty-one years. Not through anything.
“It’s Joanna,” she says. Her voice is flat and void of emotion.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, panic rising inside me.
“She was in a car accident.”
“Oh my God. Is she all right?”
She shakes her head, eyes wide and wet. “No … she’s dead.”
THE END