Chapter Fifteen
Kelsey
Marc texts when he reaches Denver. He texts again when he discovers that his apartment contains six coffee mugs, two forks, and no box large enough for his work boots.
On Monday morning, he sends me a photograph of the moving boxes stacked beside his door.
Proof, the message beneath it reads. I stare at the photograph for a long time.
Marc loves me.
He said it before driving away, and I have carried the words through every cabin since.
I carried them while stripping Fletcher beds, balancing Nolan’s invoice, and paying the plumber for replacing the failed supply line in Cabin Three.
I carried them into my empty bedroom Sunday night, where the space beside me felt larger than it had before Marc slept there.
Nolan’s bill is fair. More than fair, despite my warning not to give me a charity rate.
He charged for his permit responsibility, materials, and every hour he spent at Eight Pines, then reduced the labor because Marc and I had handled much of the physical work beside him.
I pay it before he can reconsider the amount.
At noon, Millie arrives with a paper bag containing two sandwiches, one slice of pie, and enough curiosity to qualify as a public nuisance.
She claims the food is left over from a catering order.
I know better, but I let her place it on my desk because she is right about my habit of forgetting lunch.
“Where is the electrician?” she asks.
“Denver.”
Her expression becomes cautious. “For good?”
“For his belongings. He rented Cabin Seven by the month and says he’s returning tonight.”
“Says?”
I give her a look. “He is returning tonight.”
“Better.”
I unwrap one sandwich and discover turkey, cranberry sauce, and the good cheese she pretends is too expensive to use outside the café. “He told me he loves me.”
Millie sits in the chair across from my desk without asking. “What did you say?”
“Nothing useful. He said it immediately before driving away.”
“That was poor timing.”
“He thought it was honest timing.”
“Well, that’s possible. Do you love him?”
I expect the answer to catch somewhere between my heart and my mouth. It comes out naturally.
“Yes.”
Millie smiles, but she does not squeal, clap, or demand details. She reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand once. “Then eat your sandwich. You can tell him when he gets home.”
When he gets home.
The phrase feels surprisingly easy.
The reunion is complete, all seven rental cabins are operating, and the emergency reserve still contains enough to survive the next surprise. For the first time since the lights flickered in Cabin Seven, I can look beyond Friday.
Beyond Friday is winter.
I walk the property Monday afternoon with next season’s maintenance list open on my tablet.
The lake reflects a high blue sky, but the air has changed.
Gold is beginning to touch the aspen leaves across the water.
In another month, the mountains will blaze with color.
After that, snow will soften the roofs and turn the gravel paths into white curves beneath the pines.
Marc wants to see it.
He wants frozen pipes, difficult guests, slow winter weekdays, and me when I am too tired to be charming. He did not offer to save Eight Pines from any of it. He asked for the chance to learn.
I have spent years believing that protecting this place required keeping every hand but mine away from the controls.
Marc has shown me another possibility. He can stand beside me without standing over me.
He can be wrong, listen when I tell him, and remain.
The last part is the one I am still learning.
At five twenty Monday evening, a truck turns beneath the Eight Pines sign.
I am cleaning the porch of Cabin Six. The broom falls from my hand before I can pretend composure. Marc’s dark gray pickup rolls down the gravel drive with boxes visible through the back window and two large tool cases strapped beneath a cover in the bed.
He came back.
I reach Cabin Seven before he finishes parking. Marc barely gets one boot onto the gravel before I throw myself into his arms. He catches me with a startled laugh, lifting me completely off the ground while I lock my legs around his hips.
“You were supposed to arrive at seven,” I say against his mouth.
“The meeting ended early.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Grandma Ruth said to make sure you saw me return.”
I lean back enough to look at him. “Grandma Ruth gave you relationship advice?”
“She ordered me not to explain women to her. I decided to follow all subsequent instructions.”
My laugh breaks into something close to a sob. Marc sets me on my feet but does not release me.
“I’m here,” he says.
“I can see that.”
“Are you all right?”
“No.” I press both hands against his chest. His heart beats steadily beneath them. “You left me with something yesterday.”
Marc’s expression becomes careful. “I told you there was no deadline.”
“There isn’t. I didn’t need two days. I needed to stop being afraid of saying it first.”
“Saying what?”
The man knows exactly what. I can see hope fighting with restraint in his face, and suddenly I love him even more for making me choose the words myself.
“I love you, Marc.”
His eyes close for one brief second. When they open, the control in them is gone.
“Say it again.”
“I love you. I love that you ask. I love that you came back. I even love how bossy you are when you think I haven’t eaten.”
“You usually haven’t.”
“This is not the time to prove my point.”
“What point?”
“That loving you does not mean surrendering authority.”
“I would never make that mistake.”
He kisses me before I can answer. Marc’s arms close around me with enough force to make my feet leave the ground again, and I hold on while relief, desire, and joy rush through me so quickly I cannot separate one from another.
When the kiss finally slows, he rests his forehead against mine. “I thought I was prepared to wait.”
“You waited almost thirty hours. Very noble.”
“It was hell.”
“Then I should probably show you the compensation package for your unpaid work.”
His hands move lower on my hips. “Now?”
“After you sign your rental agreement.”
Marc groans. “Cruel woman.”
“Strict policies.”
We unload his truck. He signs at the small table in Cabin Seven and transfers the first month’s rent before I can tell him tomorrow would be soon enough.
Then he looks around the cabin. Boxes crowd the wall.
His shoulders nearly span the narrow kitchen, and the bathroom remains several inches too small for the rest of him.
“This may not work for long,” I admit.
“I can find an apartment in town.”
I take a breath. “Or Cabin Seven can be your office and official address while we determine how often you actually sleep here.”
Marc goes still. “Where else would I sleep?”
“Cabin Eight has a larger bed.”
“And a slightly larger shower.”
“Still not large enough, huh?”
“No. We should remodel it.”
I narrow my eyes.
“With the owner’s permission,” he adds. “After obtaining estimates, agreeing on a budget, and discussing every tile.”
“Better.”
We carry his duffel across the lawn together. I give him one empty dresser drawer, half the bathroom cabinet, and a new code to my front door. They are small spaces. They feel enormous.
Marc places his toothbrush beside mine and looks at our reflections in the mirror. “This is more unpacking than I have done in three years.”
“Don’t become reckless. You still have six boxes next door.”
“Mostly tools.”
“Naturally.”
He turns me into his arms. Outside, the porch lights come on one by one as dusk arrives. Marc glances toward the window.
“Everything working?” he asks.
I listen to the quiet hum of my home and feel the stronger current moving through me.
“Everything important,” I say.
Then I lead the electrician who’s supposed to be living next door toward my bedroom and let him prove it.