Epilogue
“How do you think it went?” Graham asked.
I smiled down to the dog at the end of the leash I was holding. He looked very handsome with his new collar, bought for the occasion, and sporting a black bandana around his neck.
“He did very well,” I said, stopping to give our boy a pet. He immediately jumped up on me.
“Fitzwilliam,” Graham said, his voice a gentle warning. “Down.”
The puppy ignored his dad and I laughed as Graham made a face.
The three of us were walking down Alki Avenue, me in a stained white Nike tracksuit, a gift from the company after a photo shoot I’d done for them two weeks before, and Graham sporting the purple UW sweatshirt he’d bought for the last football game we’d attended with Marley.
Our new puppy – brushed and primped – was prancing ahead of us, proud of his own first modeling moment today.
We’d adopted Fitzwilliam, named after none other than Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Austen’s most adored male lead, three months ago from an adoption event put on by Addie’s veterinary clinic.
He was a purebred Bernese Mountain Dog that had been given up because the previous owner was allergic.
The dog was gorgeous, with tan and black around his eyes and a white stripe down his nose.
He was also one hundred percent dork. He suited us perfectly.
As part of Graham’s local column in the Seattle Post, Seattle Big and Small, he’d recently interviewed Fitzwilliam about his adoption experience.
A local magazine, inspired by the sweet and silly column, asked for an expanded version…
and a photo shoot with the “aspiring model, who is following in his mother’s footsteps”.
We’d just finished the shoot, which had included stoic poses with the Puget Sound and Cascade Mountains as a backdrop, and some racier photos of him frolicking on the beach.
“You’re going to be a star!” the photographer assured him afterwards, giving him a mom-and dad-approved treat.
“Dammit,” I said suddenly, stopping and staring down at the front of my sweatsuit jacket where I’d just spilled coffee. Again.
Graham laughed. “Why you wear anything but black I’ll never know.
” He lifted my hand, my fingers interlaced with his, and kissed the back of it, ignoring the two teenage girls walking by, their phones lifted as they took pictures or perhaps even videoed us.
It rarely happened in Seattle, but when it did, we didn’t care where it ended up. We had nothing to hide.
Since seeing that shoe and the little Space Needle statue beside my laptop in the Ampersand Cafe two years ago, we’d experienced a lot together.
My shock that he’d really come was quickly replaced by elation.
I’d slid from my stool, as if in slow motion, and sank into his arms, fitting against him just like I’d remembered… perfectly.
He rented a cottage five blocks from my house and for six months we dated.
There were long walks along Alki, cozy evenings at both his house and mine, books discussed – both his and ones we purchased from local indie stores like Paper Boat Booksellers and Edmonds Bookshop – and road trips up and down the coast, something neither of us had ever done but found we loved.
We discussed buying a camper and seeing more of the country. Maybe we’d even get a dog.
Addie and Marley were frequent visitors to our homes, the two getting along so well, their smug smiles at being right about us so annoying that we threatened to disown the pair of them if they didn’t tone it down.
They promised to give us a break, so long as they both were named maids of honor at the wedding they knew was in our future.
A few months later we made good on that promise in a small ceremony in Tuscany, a place we’d both always longed to see properly.
It was a family affair, with our parents, Marley, and just a few close friends joining us for big Italian style dinners at the villa we’d rented.
There were morning cappuccinos on our private balcony, and long walks through the countryside and neighboring towns.
We returned home tanned, happy, and excited to begin our life together.
Graham was working on his ninth novel by then, a love story that moved through different times and worlds, and I was working on my own book.
After being hired by Vogue to write a monthly column the year before, as well as keeping up with my job for Avery in Seattle, I was approached by one of the big five publishers to write a book about my time as the world’s leading fashion model.
It was to include the good, the bad, and the ugly.
There would be photos and, adjoining them, my memories surrounding the photo shoot.
Like the time I was straight up told I was too fat and put in a girdle beneath the clothing.
At the time, I was five eleven and one hundred and twenty pounds.
I looked malnourished because I was. The book would debut later this year.
Graham was already planning a party for when it hit number one on the New York Times Bestseller List.
“Because it will,” he kept saying with confidence.
Life had slowed again since finishing the book, and I was happy to have my time back as I considered what I wanted to do next. Graham was encouraging me to try my hand at fiction.
“Maybe something dramatic?” he’d asked the other night when the subject had come up again.
“I’ve had enough drama,” I said.
“A thriller? A murder mystery?”
I peered at him. “I might need to do some research for the latter.”
He made a scared face.
“How about a happy little romcom then?” he offered up next. “About a sloppy model and the sexy novelist she meets while stepping in poo?”
I laughed. “No one wants to read a book that starts with poo, my love.”
“You never know. I’d be into it.”
I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. “Toilet humor is gross, babe. Try again.”
But the idea was intriguing. Maybe I would write a novel one day. And maybe it would be a love story after all.
“Grocery shopping after we get home?” Graham asked now, giving my hand a little squeeze and pulling me from my thoughts.
My parents were coming for dinner tonight, a monthly routine that had started after I’d finished the first draft of my book and shyly, with Graham and Cal’s encouragement, asked my mother to read it.
She showed up on our doorstep a few days later with tears in her eyes.
She hadn’t changed much since then, but she’d changed a little…
and that was a start. The dinners were helping.
Surprisingly, I looked forward to them. But maybe that was because of the pitchers of sangria or margaritas Cal was always bringing.
I nodded and squeezed Graham’s hand back, only to be distracted by Fitzwilliam who had paused in front of me. Oh come on, I thought, as he suddenly squatted in the middle of the walkway.
“Fitzwilliam,” Graham groaned.
As I pulled on the leash to try and shuffle the offending pooper away from the pedestrian traffic and onto the grass, I looked to my husband in desperation.
“Please tell me you remembered to bring the bags?”
He frantically patted his pockets.
“Ah shi—”