Epilogue – Nora
Three Years Later
The trouble with happy endings is that they're never really endings at all.
Three years after I chased my cat across Willowbrook Lane and into Devin Turner's life, I'm sitting on our porch swing, watching twilight settle over Whitetail Falls.
From the yard, I hear Devin's laughter mingling with children's voices as he helps set up the kids' football toss for tomorrow. The sunset light catches in his hair, now threaded with the faintest silver at his temples that I find ridiculously attractive.
"Higher, Coach Devin! Higher!" The children squeal as he adjusts the target, his smile wide and genuine.
This is his element now, not stadiums or television commentary, though ESPN still calls occasionally.
Instead, he runs the Whitetail Falls Youth Football League, a program that's grown from twelve hesitant kids to over sixty enthusiastic players.
Turns out, Devin Turner's greatest talent isn't throwing perfect spirals but making children believe they're capable of more than they imagined.
Pudding, now older and considerably plumper, snoozes in the wicker chair beside me. His orange fur has faded to a softer ginger, but his judgmental expression remains perfectly intact, especially when it's directed at—
"Mama! Look!"
A tiny figure toddles up the porch steps, her pumpkin costume slightly askew, dark curls escaping from beneath the green stem hat.
At twenty months old, Stella Eleanor Turner is a force of nature—headstrong, curious, and perpetually in motion.
Currently, her chubby hands clutch a caramel apple, most of which seems to have made its way onto her face.
"I see you, pumpkin," I laugh, setting aside my coffee mug to help her navigate the steps. "Did Daddy get you a treat?"
"Daddy said yes," she announces solemnly, as though this explains everything.
"Did he now?" I raise my voice just enough for Devin to hear. "And did Daddy remember we're having dinner in an hour?"
Devin glances over, expression comically guilty. "It's the Fall Festival! Festival rules are different."
He dismisses the children with high-fives and jogs over to join us, vaulting easily over the porch railing instead of using the steps.
"In my defense," he says, dropping a kiss on top of my head before collapsing beside me on the swing, "she gave me the eyes. You know the ones."
"I'm familiar," I concede, watching as Stella abandons her half-eaten apple to investigate a particularly crunchy-looking leaf.
Devin's arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me closer. "How's the book launch going? Any new reviews?"
My latest novel, Winning the Quarterback, hit shelves earlier this week. My editor calls it my "breakout book," the one that might finally push Eleanor Nightingale beyond my modest readership.
"Another starred review in Publishers Weekly," I admit, still not quite believing it. "And apparently we're trending on BookTok."
"Of course you are." His pride is palpable, warming me more than my quilt. "Though I still think you should have let me read it before publication. I could have fact-checked the football scenes."
I elbow him gently. "It's fiction, Turner. And you know my rule about you reading my work before it's published."
"It makes you nervous, I know." He kisses my temple. "But you do realize the entire town thinks it's just our love story with the names changed."
"Pure coincidence," I insist, though we both know better.
"Daddy! Up!" Stella demands, abandoning her leaf collection to toddle back to us, arms raised imperiously.
Devin scoops her up, tossing her gently into the air as she squeals with delight. "Higher, Daddy! Higher!"
"Just like her mother," he says with a wink. "Always pushing for more."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I reply primly, though the heat in my cheeks betrays me.
As dusk deepens, the festival lights flicker to life in Acorn Circle. Music drifts toward us, accompanied by laughter and the occasional cheer. Devin settles Stella on his lap, her pumpkin costume crinkling as she nestles against his chest, suddenly drowsy.
"We should probably head down there," I say, though I'm reluctant to leave the perfect tableau of my husband and daughter bathed in porch light. "Chief Hawkins will never forgive us if we miss the fireworks."
"We have time." Devin reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "I'm enjoying the view right here."
In the distance, the first boom of fireworks sounds. Stella stirs, blinking sleepily.
"Pretty lights, baby girl," Devin murmurs, shifting her so she can see the bursts of color above the treeline. Her eyes widen with wonder, tiny finger pointing skyward.
"Boom!" she exclaims, and we both laugh.
As red and gold sparks shower down, Devin turns to me. "Still think love at first sight isn't real, Nora Bell-Turner?"
I pretend to consider this, tapping my chin. "Well, the evidence is compelling. But as a novelist, I need more data points."
"Is that right?" His voice drops lower. "How many more years of research do you need?"
"At least fifty," I say, leaning into him. "Minimum."
"Challenge accepted." He kisses me softly as Stella giggles between us, patting our cheeks with sticky fingers.
Thank you for reading!