EPILOGUE — All In （Joy） #2
I inhale to answer, but she pauses. Her eyes meet mine, and her expression shifts, softness cracking the porcelain.
“—Joy,” she corrects herself, deliberate and clear. “How was class, Joy?”
The room tilts. Heat floods my chest. Under the table, Wesley’s hand tightens around mine, and I know he heard it too. Knows what it cost her. What it means to me.
“Good,” I manage, voice thick. “We’re getting ready for the end-of-year recital. The girls voted for glitter, I countered with sequins, so we compromised and used both. Democracy in motion.”
Mother’s mouth twitches, almost a laugh. “And this performance is where?”
“Hunter College Theater. The Harlem studio does its spring showcase there every May. It’s chaos, but the good kind.”
“I’d like to come.” She says it simply, like it’s obvious. “If you’ll have me.”
My throat closes. “You want to come to the recital?”
“I want to see your girls.” Her gaze holds steady. “What you’re doing matters, Joy. I should have said that sooner.”
Tears sting. I blink them back and nod. Under the table, Wesley’s thumb strokes over the bracelet on my wrist, slow and certain, like he knew this was always the ending.
Across the table, Anne is dabbing her eyes with her napkin. Tom looks uncomfortable but not unkind. Wesley’s thumb traces circles on my knee.
Uncle Julian lifts his glass. “To family. And to Joy, who somehow wrangled both a Kane and a Preston showcase in the same season. We’re all very proud.”
“To Joy,” everyone echoes.
Glass taps glass. Mother’s eyes hold mine, warm and certain. Wesley’s grip tightens. His mom beams through tears. Tom nods once, gruff but approving.
We made it.
Food disappears. Conversation flows easier now—Uncle Julian and Tom talk fishing regulations, Mother and Anne discover a shared love of mystery novels, Lila makes everyone laugh with a story about a disastrous rehearsal.
Then Father stands, stretching. “Tom, can I show you the study? I’ve got a bottle of Scotch that’s older than both our kids.”
Tom’s eyes light up. “Now you’re talking.”
They disappear down the hall. Wesley watches them go, tension radiating off him.
I squeeze his hand. “It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t look convinced.
Mother turns her attention to me. “So. The wedding.”
Oh no.
“We should discuss logistics,” she continues, as if we’re negotiating a corporate merger. “I’m thinking September. The Pierre, perhaps. Or the Botanical Gardens if we want outdoor.”
“Mother—”
“Five hundred guests, minimum. The Whitmore family alone is sixty. Then there’s the foundation board, your father’s business contacts—”
“Mother.”
She pauses, teacup halfway to her lips. “Yes?”
“We’re thinking small.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but I see the gears turning. “How small?”
“Very.”
“Define very.”
Wesley’s hand finds mine under the table. Reinforcements.
“Immediate family,” I say. “Close friends. Intimate.”
“Fifty people,” Mother translates, which in her world is a board meeting.
“Try twenty,” Wesley says.
She sets down her cup with precision. “Twenty.”
“Give or take.”
Lila’s watching this like it’s Wimbledon. Anne looks delighted. Uncle Julian hides a smile behind his coffee.
Mother studies Wesley, reassessing. Then she does something I’ve never seen: she smiles. Not her social smile, her real one.
“Serena,” Wesley says at that moment, and Mother’s eyes spark—mirth, of all things. She tips her head, pearls catching light.
Her tone stays light; the pause lands heavy. One lifted brow, a hint of a smile. “Then let me plan the engagement party.” Her eyes cut to me, daring a protest. “The whole thing.”
I groan. “Mother.”
Wesley’s grip firms around my hand. “How about this,” he says, mild as ever. “You get the engagement weekend. Welcome dinner, the party itself, farewell brunch—the full Preston experience. But we keep the wedding: the vows, the ceremony, the reception. Small. Ours.”
She holds his gaze—amused, calculating, not ready to surrender without negotiation. “The whole engagement weekend?”
“Guest list, venue, menu, entertainment—all yours.”
“And the wedding?”
“Ours. Twenty people. Maybe a cabin in Alaska. Maybe City Hall. We haven’t decided yet.”
Mother considers this, swirling her tea like it’s a fifty-year Scotch. Then she glances at me. “City Hall?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“A cabin in Alaska.”
“It’s on the table.”
She looks back at Wesley, and I see the moment she decides he’s worth the compromise. “You drive a hard bargain, Wesley Kane.”
“Learned from the best,” he says, nodding at Tom, who’s just returning with my father.
“Deal accepted,” Mother announces, extending her hand like she’s closing a merger. “I get the engagement weekend. You get your intimate wedding. But—” she adds, because of course there’s a but, “I’m hosting a reception afterward. Nothing absurd. Just…a small celebration.”
“How small?” I ask suspiciously.
“Two hundred. Maybe two-fifty.”
“Mother!”
“That’s small!” she protests. “Your cousin Margot had four hundred at hers.”
Wesley laughs—actually laughs—and takes her hand. “Deal, Serena. Engagement weekend is yours. Wedding reception too. We’ll show up and smile for the cameras.”
“And dance,” she adds. “There will be dancing.”
“I’ll even wear a tux,” he promises.
“With a proper tie.”
“Clip-on.”
“Wesley Kane, so help me—”
“Kidding.” He grins. “Real tie. Scout’s honor.”
She lifts her glass again, triumphant. “Excellent. Engagement weekend, my small post-wedding reception, and your tiny ceremony. Everyone gets something.”
“Compromise,” Wesley says. “Miracles do happen.”
Tom clears his throat from the doorway, Scotch-warmed and looking lighter than he has all morning. “Did I just hear you negotiate a wedding deal?”
“Engagement party,” Wesley corrects. “She gets the party. We get the wedding.”
“Smart,” Tom says, nodding at Serena with new respect. “Divide the territory.”
“Exactly,” Mother says, pleased. Then to Anne, “We’ll need to coordinate on guest lists. I’ll have my assistant send you the spreadsheet.”
“Spreadsheet,” Anne repeats faintly.
“Color-coded by relationship tier.”
“Of course it is,” I mutter.
Lila leans close. “He’s fun. Too bad they don’t make them like that on the Upper East Side.”
I arch a brow. “Glad we could provide a show,” I whisper back.
“Oh, this isn’t a show,” Lila says, eyes twinkling. “This is Mother respecting someone enough to negotiate. That’s rare.”
She’s right. Mother doesn’t negotiate. She directs. The fact that she’s compromising with Wesley means she’s accepted him—not just as my fiancé, but as someone who can hold his own in our world.
“Excellent,” Mother says, satisfied. She lifts her glass. “To the engagement weekend that will be appropriately grand and to the wedding that will be inappropriately small.”
Everyone laughs. We raise our glasses.
“To family,” Mother adds, her gaze finding mine. “And to Wesley and Joy.”
No hesitation. No correction. Something in me that’s been clenched since childhood loosens—a knot untying itself from the inside.
Glass taps glass. Wesley laces our fingers together under the table and squeezes: See? We made it.
Later, in the foyer, coats and goodbyes in hand, Mother does that familiar fuss where she straightens Wesley’s collar even though it’s already perfect.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, then catches herself with a small, wry smile. “You aren’t one anymore.”
“Careful,” I murmur. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll bring glitter to your engagement party.”
“Absolutely not,” she says, scandalized, and then surprises both of us by pulling me into a real hug. Warm. Unstaged. “Joy,” she says into my hair, and the word sinks in, settles, roots.
We step out into tulip-scented air. Both sets of parents linger on the steps, already planning—Mother pulling out her phone to show Anne photos of venues, Tom and Robert discussing the Scotch brand, Lila making plans to take Anne to Giselle.
“How’d that feel?” Wesley asks, pulling me close at the bottom of the steps.
“Like spring actually arrived,” I say. “For both of us.”
He looks back at the townhouse—both families on the steps, laughing, planning, blending. “She called you Joy.”
“She did.” I lean into him. “And your dad said he’s proud.”
“Yeah.” His voice catches. “He did.”
His phone buzzes. He glances down; it’s Dmitri.
Big Russian: Playoff game tomorrow. You ready, Bear?
Wesley grins, types back:
Wesley: Ready. Got my good luck charm with me.
“Good luck charm?” I read over his shoulder.
“You.” He kisses my temple. “Always you.”
We start toward the corner where the light is green and the city just…goes. He’ll watch film later. I’ll finalize the recital lineup. Life resumes.
But for this block, it’s sun and tulips and the echo of Mother saying my name the way I’ve always wanted to hear it. Wesley’s hand warm in mine. His father’s pride still settling like snow. A wedding to plan—two of them apparently, because Mother always gets the last word.
And the uncomplicated, extraordinary quiet of being exactly where I belong.
THE END
Thanks for reading The Pucking Clause.