EPILOGUE — All In （Joy）
Wesley takes my tote, threads his fingers through mine, and strolls on, absurdly relaxed.
The bracelet glints at my wrist as we walk—ballroom shoe, tiny camera, and now another charm he added last week, a little gold snowflake. Alaska and New York on the same chain. “For what comes next,” he said the night he fastened it. I told him that was cheesy. I wore it to bed anyway.
“Your parents ready?” I ask.
“Probably been in the lobby since ten.” He checks his phone. “Yeah. Mom texted. They’re leaving now.”
“Your dad?”
“Quiet. Which means he’s either planning his escape route or composing a speech.” He grins, but there’s tension under it. “He asked three times if he needed a tie.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“That he looks fine. That my future in-laws won’t judge him. That it’s just brunch.”
“Lies,” I say. “Mother will absolutely judge him. She judges everyone. It’s her love language.”
He laughs, but his hand tightens around mine.
“They’re really here,” I say softly. “For this.”
“And for Game One,” he says. “Mom cried when I told her we open playoffs at home.”
I bump his shoulder. “Where’d you put them?”
“The Loews. Classy but not pretentious.” He squeezes my hand. “Dad saw the nightly rate and nearly had a heart attack. Tried to book a Holiday Inn. I reminded him I’m a professional athlete, not a grad student, and said he’s sleeping somewhere with a decent thread count.”
“How’d that go?”
“He muttered something about ‘fancy pillows’ and let Mom handle the rest.”
We slow as we reach the block, the townhouse rising ahead. Brass gleaming, planters blooming, windows reflecting spring light.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods once, breath easing out. “Yeah. Just reminding myself I don’t have to win in there. Just…show up.”
His voice is steady—none of the armor, only calm. The man who braces for every hit lets the city move around him.
“That’s new,” I say.
“That’s peace,” he answers simply, and I fall a little more in love with him.
A town car pulls up to the curb. The back door opens and his parents emerge—his mom in a floral dress with a cream cardigan, pearls at her throat, her version of formal. His dad in a navy blazer that’s seen weddings and funerals but probably not a townhouse on the Upper East Side.
“There they are,” Wesley says, relief flooding his voice.
His mom spots us and waves, beaming. His dad tugs at his collar, looking like a man approaching his own execution with dignity.
We meet them on the sidewalk.
“You look beautiful, Anne,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“Oh, Joy, sweetheart.” She pulls me into a hug that smells of lavender. “I’m so nervous. Tom kept saying it’s just breakfast, but I know better.”
“It is just breakfast,” I lie.
“With people who have more forks than we have plates.”
Wesley groans. “Mom.”
“I’m just being realistic.”
His dad shakes my hand, formal but warm. “Good to see you again, Joy.”
“You too, Tom.”
He eyes the townhouse suspiciously. “That’s where we’re going?”
“That’s it.”
“Jesus.” He adjusts his blazer. “Looks like a museum.”
“It kind of is,” Wesley admits. “But with judgmental relatives instead of docents.”
“Great.”
His mom swats his arm. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice. I wore the good blazer.”
We climb the steps together. The brass knocker gleams in the sun, the planters explode with cultivated spring.
I breathe. “Ready?”
Anne straightens her dress. Tom tugs his collar one more time. Wesley grins at me, steady and sure despite the chaos.
“Let’s do this,” he says.
Gideon opens the door before we knock. He’s been doing this for twenty years and can smell nervous guests from three blocks away.
“Miss Preston. Mr. Kane.” His gaze shifts, assessing and welcoming in equal measure. “And Mr. and Mrs. Kane. Welcome.”
Wesley’s dad mutters under his breath, “Does he live here?”
“Tom,” his mom hisses.
“Just asking.”
We step into cool stone, curated art, and an elaborate orchid arrangement. A piano playlist drifts from hidden speakers—precise, expensive, the kind of classical that makes you stand up straighter without meaning to.
Wesley’s mom stares at the ceiling, the chandelier, the marble staircase curving upward. “Oh my.”
“It’s just a house,” I murmur.
“It’s the Met,” she breathes.
“With worse lighting,” Wesley adds, trying to be helpful.
His dad stops in front of a painting—abstract, enormous, probably worth six figures. He tilts his head. “What is that supposed to be?”
“Art,” Wesley chuckles.
“Looks like someone spilled.”
“Expensive spill.”
“Jesus.”
The dining room gleams ahead: one wall of windows drinking in spring light, a lacquered table that seats twelve without effort, heavy silver that’s been polished to a mirror shine, bone-colored linens that have never seen a coffee stain.
Staff move like ghosts, lifting lids, pouring water, existing and not existing in the way only truly excellent household staff can pull off.
Lidded dishes breathe steam and butter. A pastry tower rises beside smoked salmon arranged like art. Fresh fruit glistens. There’s something green in a crystal pitcher that looks both virtuous and punishing.
Wesley’s dad stops in the doorway. Stares. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Tom,” his mom warns.
“Josephine.” Mother rises from her seat at the head of the table—pale blue silk, pearls, hair swept into an elegant knot that looks effortless but I know took at least thirty minutes. She crosses to us with the grace of a woman who’s done this a thousand times and could do it in her sleep.
She air-kisses my cheek with GPS precision, then turns to Wesley. “Glad you could make it.”
“Serena,” he says, careful and respectful, because we drilled this.
Her mouth twitches—almost a smile. Progress. Then she extends her hand to his parents, and her voice warms by half a degree. “Mr. and Mrs. Kane. Welcome. I’m Serena Preston.”
Wesley’s mom takes her hand. “Thank you so much for having us. Your home is absolutely beautiful.”
“You’re very kind.” Mother’s smile is genuine, or as genuine as she gets before noon. “It’s far too big, honestly. My grandmother refused to downsize. Please, sit. I hope you’re hungry.”
We settle around the table. My father appears from the study, phone buzzing in his pocket but bravely ignored for the moment. “Welcome, welcome!” He shakes hands with Wesley’s parents, warm and genuine. “Robert Preston. It’s wonderful to finally meet you both.”
“Likewise,” Tom says, relaxing a fraction.
Uncle Julian glides in next—trim as a fencer, cashmere sweater, tie slightly loosened in that expensive I-didn’t-try way. “Ah, the Kanes.” He shakes hands, his grip firm. “Julian Rothschild. I believe you’ve raised quite the defenseman.”
“He’s all right,” Tom says, deadpan.
Wesley grins.
“More than all right,” Julian says. “He’s the reason we’ve made the playoffs.”
“He does his job,” Tom allows, and I catch the pride buried under the gruffness.
Lila arrives last, ballerina bun and soft wrap sweater, grace layered over exhaustion. She kisses my cheek, nods at Wesley, then smiles at his parents. “I’m Lila. The sister who doesn’t cause as much trouble.”
“Lies,” I mutter. “She causes all the trouble.”
“Only the fun kind,” Lila says, settling into her seat.
Staff pour coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and that ominous green liquid.
“What is that?” Tom whispers to Wesley.
“Kale. Spirulina. Chlorophyll. Regret.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m not drinking it either.”
“Smart man.”
Lids lift with coordinated precision: quiche Lorraine, delicate and perfect; smoked trout with crème fra?che and capers; greens so tender they probably had a therapist; pastries that look hand-painted by someone with a degree.
Wesley’s mom studies her plate—artfully arranged, portions that suggest food is more concept than sustenance. “This is…beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Mother says. “Our chef is from Lyon.”
“Of course he is,” Tom mutters into his coffee.
His wife kicks him under the table.
Conversation starts cautiously—weather, travel, how the flight was. Mother asks polite questions. Wesley’s mom answers, nervous but warm. Tom remains quiet, sipping coffee, assessing the room.
Then my father, bless his oblivious heart, tries to bridge the gap. “So, Tom, Wesley mentioned you’re in commercial fishing?”
“Started that way,” Tom says. “We’ve expanded since. Processing, distribution, direct sales. Run a small operation, Bristol Bay Provisions.”
Robert’s eyes light up with genuine interest. “You’re cutting out the middleman. Smart.”
“Has to be,” Tom says, relaxing slightly. “You sell to the canneries, you’re giving away half your margin. We freeze on-site, package, ship direct. Subscription model for consumers, supply contracts with restaurants.”
“Direct-to-consumer,” Robert says, nodding. “That’s the future. What kind of volume are you doing?”
“Couple hundred thousand pounds a year. Small fleet—three boats. My wife runs fulfillment.”
Wesley’s mom smiles. “Someone has to answer the emails.”
“I’d be lost without her,” Tom admits. “She’s the brains. I’m just the guy on the boat.”
“That’s not true,” she says. “He built this. Boat to business. I just keep the lights on.”
Julian leans forward, interested. “That’s impressive. Vertical integration at that scale, it’s not easy.”
“No,” Tom agrees. “It’s been good for our family.”
Mother listens, and I see her recalibrating. This isn’t the image she had. Tom Kane isn’t some grizzled fisherman scraping by. He’s a businessman. Self-made, yes, but successful.
The conversation shifts—Lila mentions Giselle, Wesley’s mom admits she’s never seen ballet, Lila offers tickets. Mother asks about Alaska, and Wesley’s mom tells a story about a bear in their backyard getting into the salmon cooler that has everyone laughing.
The ice breaks. Not completely, but enough.
Then Mother does something that stops my heart.
She folds her napkin, sets it down, and looks at me. “How was class, Josephine?”