Epilogue – Bailey
The first cool snap of fall tastes like apple pie and sea salt, and Coral Bell Cove dresses for it—jack-o’-lanterns on every stoop, mums the color of sunsets, scarves that exist mostly for attitude.
The lighthouse gleams like it knows it’s pretty.
New flashing, fresh paint, that quiet creak a building makes when it’s satisfied.
I turn the OPEN sign at A Page in Time and step onto the porch with two mugs.
Crew’s at the rail fixing a stubborn shutter hook with the reverence of a man who worships at the altar of things-that-click.
He wears a faded Stallions hoodie because irony is a love language, and a ball cap that’s survived more weather than the rest of us.
“Report,” I say, handing him coffee.
“Hook defeated. Porch secure. Cat judging.” He nods at the windowsill, where the cat blinks like we’re late for his nap.
The town hums behind us: Rowan’s goats arguing with a bale of hay on the back of his truck, Ivy rehearsing a chorus over by the gazebo, Lila directing volunteers with a clipboard and the subtle authority of a benevolent pirate.
The Fall Read-In blossoms at noon—blankets, cider, story time under strings of lights we’ll pretend we hung straight.
“Happy anniversary,” Crew says casually.
I blink. “Of what?”
He bumps my shoulder. “Of the first day you let me behind the counter without a background check.”
“That was a lapse in judgment.”
“Best lapse you’ve ever had,” he says, sipping. “Top three, at least.”
He spends his mornings coaching quarterbacks at the high school, his afternoons here or at Otter Creek Farms, his evenings being the kind of neighbor who moves porch furniture before storms. It’s the time of year when he’ll jet across the country for broadcasting gigs on the weekends.
I follow along because I’m always up for a new adventure like the ones I read about.
He said no to the word brand and yes to a life that smells like coffee and grass.
Harris took an early retirement that was neither early nor voluntary.
The league apologized in beige and donated to the foundation in a shade of contrition I accepted because money for historic buildings doesn’t have a conscience.
“Come on,” Crew says, eyes bright. “Lantern room.”
“We have, like, twelve minutes until children descend.”
“Twelve is so many.” He laces his fingers with mine and tows me up the spiral, the familiar, loved climb. The glass is newly polished for the evening tours; the brass gleams; the beam naps until dusk.
He stops where the light makes a perfect square on the floorboards. “Right here.”
I squint at him. “Are we… having a feelings meeting?”
“Possibly.” He pats his hoodie pocket. “But with props.”
“Dear God.”
He takes out a paperback. The Outsiders. My copy—the one with the soft, wrecked spine, the one that hid a note once, the one that changed the weather of my life.
My throat goes tight. “Crew—”
“It’s not the old note,” he says quickly, all dimples and nerves. “That one did its job. This is an update.”
He opens to the middle. A new card peeks out—cream, edges deckled like it belongs in a better century. His handwriting, reckless and neat all at once:
Stay, Gold—C.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “That’s not how the quote goes.”
“I took liberties. I’m a local now.”
He goes to one knee. Not dramatic; not performative. Just a man kneeling in a lighthouse because that’s where his light is.
The ring is simple—thin gold, a single solitaire larger than I’d ever seen. When it hits the glass glow, it throws a small, stubborn flare.
“Bailey Hart,” he says, voice low and steady, “be the chapter after every cliffhanger with me. Marry me. Let’s keep the light, together.”
There are a hundred ways I could make a joke right now, a thousand ways to buy myself a second with humor. But we’ve done enough stalling. The cat isn’t here to judge; the beam’s off; the day holds its breath.
“Yes,” I say, and it’s easy. “Obviously.”
He laughs—relief and joy in one sound—and slides the ring onto my finger. He stands and kisses me, slow and sure, and the room drops away until all that’s left is breath and the taste of apple and the feeling of choosing the same future at the same time.
Below, the doorbell jingles and a little voice shouts, “Is story time now?” We break apart, foreheads touching, grinning like teenagers with good secrets.
“Later, we tell everyone?” he whispers.
“After story hour, if it hasn’t already started spreading,” I confirm, because priorities.
We take the stairs hand-in-hand, and when we step onto the porch, the town looks brighter—as if it was waiting to exhale with us.
Crew squeezes my fingers once, then peels off to help Rowan rig the microphone while I set out the picture books.
Mrs. Winthrop appears at my elbow as if conjured, eyes suspiciously glossy when she spots the ring.
“About time,” she murmurs, pressing a tissue into my palm and a lemon bar into my other.
Ivy starts the set with a soft verse that sounds like a blessing. Lila cues me with a nod. The kids swarm the rug, knees banged, smiles wide, the future noisy and unafraid.
I open The Day the Crayons Came Home and sit.
Crew drops to the floor across from me, long legs folding into kid-shape without complaint, a quarterback among crayons.
He winks when Green complains about dinosaur duty; he growls dramatically for Beige; he leans in when I read the last lines about belonging and coming back.
The beam will wake at dusk, and when it does, it will sweep the bay like always, catching windows and waves and the corner of a brass ring that promises the steadiness we built the long way.
Tomorrow, I’ll order more copies of my favorite books, and he’ll fix another hinge that we both will pretend squeaks.
We’ll fight about who takes out the recycling and who gets the hot water.
We’ll count donations for a new railing and argue over paint chips named after the weather. We’ll keep showing up.
“Again!” Henry shouts when I close the book.
“Twice is the legal limit,” Crew tells him solemnly. “It’s in the bylaws.”
The crowd groans. I sigh theatrically, flip back to page one, and start again—because that’s what you do when something good ends. You begin it, and then you begin it again.
Crew catches my eye over a sea of knees and crayons. He taps his chest once. Home.
I nod—one beat, then two. Home.
THE END