EPILOGUE
A week later
BILLIE
September in Balsam Bay can’t make up its mind.
The morning is warm enough for bare feet on the deck.
By the time I’m hauling chairs out of Peter’s garage, there’s a bite in the air that smells like woodsmoke and turning leaves.
The hydrangeas along the front of the cottage are still blooming—big, stubborn, blue-purple heads that refuse to acknowledge summer is ending—and I relate to them on a spiritual level.
“Those go by the firepit,” I tell Amanda, who is carrying two Adirondack chairs like they weigh nothing, because my crew is made up of women who could bench-press most of the men in this town.
“You got it, boss.” She sets them down and surveys the yard. “Place looks good. Like, really good. Hard to believe it’s the same house.”
She’s right. The cottage Peter bought as a half-gutted impulse decision is unrecognizable.
New siding, new roof, Leo’s cabinetry throughout, and Neve’s interior design tying it all together and making every room feel like it’s been lived in for decades.
It’s the best work my company has ever done, and I’m not being modest—I’m being accurate.
The guesthouse is perfect. Dana and Rob are going to love it when they come to visit, and I’m going to love not having to refrain from sex with my boyfriend because they’re across the hall. Everyone wins.
Peter comes out the back door carrying a cooler. The sight of him sends a full-body shiver through me. He’s perfect, with the sun on his face, sleeves rolled up, completely at ease in a place that’s so thoroughly his.
“Where do you want this?” he asks.
“By the stairs. And the ice is in the chest freezer in the garage.”
“Already got it.”
“And the—”
“Glasses are on the table, napkins are in the basket, and I texted Leo about bringing bread.” He sets the cooler down and grins at me. “I’ve done this before, darling.”
“You’ve hosted one actual party here, and Tammy crashed it.”
“Tammy was an uninvited guest on the drive here, and you’re the only one who was affected by her presence.
That’s different from crashing.” He crosses to me and kisses my temple, his hand finding the small of my back with the ease of someone who’s been doing it for years rather than months. “Relax. It’s going to be great.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You’ve reorganized the drinks table three times.”
“It wasn’t optimized.”
He laughs, and I lean into him for a second—only for a second, because Steph is right there, and my crew already gives me enough grief about the dopey expression I apparently get when Peter’s around—before pulling away to check on the food situation.
The party is to celebrate two things: the cottage renovation being officially, finally, completely done, inside and out, and Peter’s interim appointment as the new head of the Balsam Bay Business Bureau.
The vote was unanimous, which I still can’t quite wrap my head around.
He’s happy, though, and this likely means he’ll be appointed permanently soon.
Mere weeks ago, my father was sitting in that chair, using it to push storage units that lined his own pockets.
Now, Peter—the “Toronto fella” my father dismissed as a tourist playing savior, and whom he thought would be all over an easy, money-making investment like storage units—is leading the bureau.
The marina project is breaking ground in the spring, and Tim is under investigation.
I don’t know how to feel about any of it, except I’m glad Peter is here, and I’m glad my father isn’t.
I haven’t spoken to him since the bureau findings came out. He hasn’t called, either. I thought that would hurt more than it does. But the truth is, the absence feels a lot like the absence of a headache. You don’t miss the pain, you just notice the quiet.
People start arriving around four.
Neve and Leo come first, because Neve is constitutionally incapable of arriving anywhere on time—she’s always early, always prepared, always carrying something she baked or organized or color-coded.
Today, it’s a charcuterie board that looks like it belongs in a magazine and a bottle of wine she sets on the table with a firm, “This one’s for us. Not for sharing.”
Leo has bread. Three loaves, because he can’t help himself, and a quiet smile that still catches me off guard sometimes.
The man I met at the beginning of this year was anxious, guarded, and folding in on himself.
That is not the man currently kissing his girlfriend’s hair while she rearranges the charcuterie.
He’s settled. Present. Calm in a way that comes from finally being in the right place with the right person.
I know what that looks like because I see it in my own mirror now.
“The place looks incredible, Billie.” Leo sets the bread down and takes in the yard—the finished exterior, the new landscaping, the guesthouse, and the firepit area, including the benches my crew finished last week. “Seriously. You should be proud.”
“I am.” And I mean it. Not just about the house.
He gives me a nod—the kind Leo gives when he understands something without needing it to be explained—and goes to find Peter.
Jonas, Neve’s older brother, and his wife, Jackie, pull in shortly after with their girls—Willow immediately finding a corner to read in, her younger sister June immediately finding something to climb on.
Neve’s parents, Michael and Michelle, arrive next.
Michelle hugs me with the warmth she’s always shown me, which I appreciate more than she knows.
Michael shakes Peter’s hand with the firm, genuine grip of a man who has decided this is a good person and doesn’t require any additional evidence.
They have their faults, but they love their kids and grandkids and anyone who comes as an extension of them.
Even if that love is sometimes a little misguided.
The afternoon settles into the easy rhythm of a group of people who’ve become more than friends.
Neve is giving Leo a tour of the finished guesthouse, like he hasn’t seen it already, pointing out details with the pride of a designer seeing her vision fully realized.
Leo follows her through each room. His hand stays on her lower back, nodding at her explanations, and every so often, she looks up at him with an expression so nakedly in love that I have to look away because it feels too private to witness.
Peter is at the grill next to Cole, who is telling a story about his young barista, Matt, that requires extensive hand gestures and sound effects. It’s surprising, seeing Cole so animated, but he’s not the one I’m paying attention to.
Peter is laughing—the loud, unguarded laugh I heard for the first time sitting on the grass in Halifax and have been addicted to ever since. I watch him from across the yard, holding a glass of wine in my hand, and think, this is what it looks like when you stop being afraid of the past.
DARCY
Cole tells me a story about how Matt tried to bake a cake and nearly blew up the place.
He seems like a great guy, normally pretty quiet and looks a little menacing, but he makes fantastic coffee, and he’s been a huge supporter of the town restoration project.
He thanks me for inviting him and compliments me on the cottage, saying it’s “Not bad,” delivered with the enthusiasm of a man being escorted to jury duty.
Truly high praise coming from the beast of a man who then claps me on the shoulder and excuses himself.
I invited him because, from my time here and talking to so many of the residents, it seems he’s become a fixture in this town.
He’s done so grudgingly, without fanfare, but so organically that it’s hard to imagine the place without him.
He supplies the coffee for every community event, he sponsors the kids’ rugby league, and once took a customer’s phone out of their hand when they held up other people to photograph their latte art and said, “It’s coffee, not content,” which somehow made people love him more.
Cole operates on a frequency that shouldn’t work but does.
The sun is starting its slow descent toward the water when I notice Georgia, Neve’s younger sister.
She’s been here for about an hour—arrived well after her parents, which I clocked because she usually shows up with them.
She hugged Beth, accepted a glass of wine, and has been doing a convincing impression of someone having a good time ever since.
But I’ve spent enough time around people who mask to recognize the effort behind it.
She’s sitting on the low stone wall by the garden, slightly apart from the main group, watching Neve explain something to Leo about the kitchen backsplash with an expression I can’t quite read. Pride, maybe. But something else, too. Something that looks like the beginning of a decision.
Beth appears at my elbow. “Georgia quit teaching,” she says quietly, following my gaze.
“What?”
“Neve told me this morning. Georgia put in her resignation last week. She told us weeks ago she wanted to quit, but something must have held her back. Finally did it, though. She’s going to keep working for Neve—project management, client coordination, that sort of thing.
” Beth takes a sip of her Caesar. “Michael and Michelle don’t know yet. They still think it’s temporary.”
I look at Georgia again—the set of her jaw, the white-knuckle grip she’s got on her wine glass—and I understand the distance from her parents. She’s carrying something she hasn’t put down yet.
“They’re not going to take it well?” It’s a question I already know the answer to, but I want to be sure anyway.
“Nope.” Beth’s answer is matter-of-fact, but there’s empathy in it.
She knows what it’s like to have a parent who can’t see past their own expectations.
“Four teachers and then Neve broke the mold. They’ve never really forgiven her for it.
Georgia following Neve out of teaching?” She shakes her head. “It’s going to be a thing.”
I’m about to respond when my gaze stops on Cole, scanning the yard with the expression of a man who would rather be anywhere else but came anyway.
His eyes find Georgia, and he stops.
It’s brief. A fraction of a second. If I’d blinked, I would have missed it. But I’m watching, and I see it. The way his entire body recalibrates when he registers where she is. Not a flinch, not a double take. Just stillness. Like the air around him remembers something his mouth won’t say.
Georgia looks up at the same moment. Their eye contact lasts exactly long enough to mean something before she looks away, takes a sip of wine, and refocuses on the conversation happening in front of her.
Beth catches my eye and raises an eyebrow—did you see that? I give the smallest nod. She presses her lips together and hums.
We don’t discuss it. We don’t need to. Some things you witness and hold on to, waiting for the story to unfold.
BILLIE
The party winds down as the best ones do: slowly, reluctantly, people lingering because leaving would mean admitting the evening is over.
Leo and Neve are the last to go. At the door, Neve hugs me. It’s tight and long, the hug she gives when she’s feeling something she doesn’t want to articulate, and whispers, “I’m happy for you, Billie.”
“Thanks. I’m happy for me, too.”
She laughs, and Leo waves from the truck, and then it’s just us. Peter and I, standing in the doorway of his finished cottage, looking out at a yard full of empty chairs and string lights and the remnants of a night that felt like the beginning of something.
“Good party,” I say.
“Great party.” He leans against the doorframe. “You reorganized the drinks table a fourth time when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
“It needed it.”
“It didn’t.”
“Agree to disagree.” I lean into him, and his arm comes around me. The night air is cool against my skin, but he’s warm. The season is confused about what it wants to be, and so was I for a long time, but I’m not anymore.
“Hey, Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“I love your house.”
He presses his mouth to my hair. “It’s our house.”
I don’t argue. I don’t deflect. I don’t make a joke, or change the subject, or find a reason to pull away.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess it is.”
The string lights sway in the September breeze.
Somewhere down the road, Tammy is probably plotting her next escape.
And somewhere in this town, two people who can’t stop not-looking at each other are driving home in separate cars, and somewhere inside this cottage is a purple toothbrush next to a blue one.
This is my life now.
This extraordinary, ordinary, unplanned life.
I wouldn’t trade a single piece of it.
THE END
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