Epilogue
CLARISSA
I’m in London for the decade’s biggest conference on cave art, organized by the Royal Archaeological Society.
If I don’t get up, I’ll risk being late for my own presentation. Yep, Dr. Penelope Muller Girault is slated to open the conference with a talk on the educational function of upper Paleolithic cave paintings.
Luckily, I don’t need to take the Tube to get to the conference held at the British Museum. All I need to do is cross Russell Square.
Problem is, it feels too good to be in bed—and in Nathan’s arms.
Around this time three years ago, we walked out of the Darcy Grotto into the sunlight and said goodbye to each other.
I thought that was it.
Boy, was I off the mark.
A lot happened in the months that followed the “cave incident.” I moved to Paris and started a new job at the Museum of Archeology.
Celine, who’s my BFF now, fell madly in love with Nathan’s cousin Thomas.
I knew he’d felt the same way about her when a week before her first visit, he bought hundreds of books and ditched the home cinema in his Paris apartment to install a wall-to-wall library.
They married five months later.
In July that year, after a cathartic conversation with his mom, Nathan had an epiphany. He realized life didn’t have to be black or white. And, as far as his farm was concerned, it didn’t have to be all or nothing.
He and Brigitte sold half of their land, which fetched them a small fortune.
To increase their profit margin from what was left, they converted his cottage into a second guesthouse and transitioned to organic farming.
It was a relatively easy switch, what with the herd being a grazing one to start with.
Nathan hired a manager to help Brigitte operate the farm. He partnered with Thomas, and together they opened a fancy store in Auxerre. The store sells mouthwatering yogurts, cheese, ice cream, and other premium dairy products in funky packaging.
When he called me in September to ask if I was still interested in him, my “Yes, I am!” tumbled out in a rush of mad joy before he’d finished his question.
The truth was, I’d been borderline suicidal all summer, and I was seriously considering an unsolicited relocation to the village of Verlezy. And, possibly, a hunger strike.
Good thing he’d announced he was moving to Paris before I had a chance to say that.
Nathan and Thomas are now proud owners of three Girault’s Finest stores in Paris and five in Burgundy. The plan is to expand into Belgium next.
With an effort, I roll off my husband’s chest and head to the bathroom. “Call Brigitte!”
“Why, do you doubt my mother’s capacity to look after a garden gnome?”
“May I remind you the garden gnome in question is now superfast and primed for mischief?”
“I’ll call her,” he says.
In fact, I don’t doubt Brigitte’s skills as a grandmother for a second, but I know how much she enjoys early morning briefings with her son. He enjoys them, too, but he gets sloppy when traveling abroad.
I can’t believe it’s been three years!
Three years, one kid, seven articles, one monograph, two hundred new cows, eight Girault’s Finest stores. And counting.
“What about the Tokyo job offer?” Nathan asks when I come out of the shower.
I glance at my watch, which says I need to be out the door within the next five minutes. “I wrote them yesterday with a ‘very honored but can’t.’ ”
“Rissa, you said it was a fantastic opportunity when they’d reached out to you. I don’t want you to sacrifice your career—”
“Nobody’s sacrificing anything,” I declare. “I have an excellent job in Paris. Tokyo will wait.”
He draws his eyebrows together in confusion. “Until when?”
“Until you’re ready to open stores in Asia.”
“You think Thomas and I can pull that off—stores in Asia?” he asks, grinning.
I bend down and kiss the top of his head. “I think the sky is your limit, Cowboy.”
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