Epilogue
Monique
It's a Tuesday afternoon in the B&B office, and I'm going over the week's bookings when I notice the cardigan on the chair.
I took it out of the bottom of the bag and put it on the office chair the way Diana used to drape hers over the kitchen chair, sleeves crossed, collar folded down.
The front door opens, and Weston comes in with two coffees from a café down the road.
He drives up from Newport on weekends now. Sometimes during the week, when the coastal property meetings run short or when he decides they've run long enough and he's leaving.
Driftline opened three months ago to a review in a hospitality trade publication that specifically mentioned the arrival sequence and the spa entrance orientation and called the guest flow instinctive in a way most new properties aren't.
The opening night materials listed my contribution as consulting design contributor, Monique Castellano.
He sets the coffees down on the desk and reads the schedule over my shoulder, which he always does, and I let him.
"Fully booked Thursday through Sunday," he says.
"Right. I just booked Thursday."
"The Hendersons are coming back."
"Yes. I'm looking at the same schedule you are."
He picks up his coffee and looks out the window at the garden, which has been properly tended since I got here. Now it looks the way it was probably supposed to look. "The Hendersons tipped well last time."
"Everyone tips well here, surprisingly," I say. "I trained the front desk staff too."
He puts his hand on the back of my chair and drinks his coffee.
Iris came up two weekends ago with clay-stained cuffs and a hoodie she appears to have borrowed from someone significantly taller than her.
She sat at the kitchen table and told me she got into a junior gallery showcase in Providence. Her eyes were bright, and she looked exactly like Weston looks when he's pleased about something.
The first time she came up after Beckett, she sat on the couch and told me about the parking lot, his hand on her arm, and driving home. She apologized for the night she stormed out — for the you're doing the same thing that had landed harder than she meant it to.
I held her hand and told her there was nothing to forgive.
Rosa sends voice notes from Newport every week.
The topics change from flour to her nephew to the fixed radiator.
Always checking on me: You eating? Are you taking care of yourself?
Relax and go easy. She always sends. Then something about the date with the widower.
Apparently it's no longer a date but dates.
Georgia drives up for brunch every six weeks by herself, every time.
The first time, she pulled into the parking lot and sat in her car for a moment before getting out — her hands on the wheel, her eyes on the windshield, taking one breath before she opened the door.
She never mentioned it. We had omelets and talked for three hours, and she drove herself home.
Adrian Reeve's name came off the Driftline documents in the spring.
Weston told me when it was done and not much about how.
Victor's debt went somewhere I don't ask about and doesn't sit on me anymore.
Some weight you put down yourself. Some you hand to someone who can carry it where you can't see, and the trusting is the part I had to learn.
Weston pulls me in one evening when the guests are settled, and the coast is clear, doing its low sound beyond the garden. We wander down to the pool and slip into the water.
"I can stay with you forever," he says, pulling me into the shallow end anyway.
We float on our backs side by side with our hands between us, fingers loosely linked so we don't drift. The sky above is going from gold to purple. His thumb moves across my knuckles once.
Then he says softly, "Marry me."
I stand and turn my head to look at him.
He's still looking at the sky, but follows me after a few seconds.
"You're asking in a pool?" I say.
"I think this is kind of romantic, no?"
"You own multiple hotels."
"I do."
"You have access to any number of — there are rooftops, there are — "
"I’m aware," he grins. "Do you want me to ask again on a rooftop?"
I look at him. His eyes are very steady. The water is warm, the sky is going purple, and his hand is still in mine.
"No," I say. "This is perfect. And yes."
He nods once and breaks into a wide grin. Like that's settled.
We’re closing the distance between us. My lips find his, soft and certain. He smiles into the kiss, one hand coming up to cradle my jaw as if he never wants to let me go.
When we climb out and sit on the edge with our feet still in, he reaches for his jacket pocket and takes a ring that is exactly the kind of ring I would have chosen myself.
"This is for you," he says, his voice quiet but steady. "I've spent my life building things that are supposed to last. I know what holds and what doesn't." He looks at me. "You hold."
His eyes never leave mine.
I hold my hand out and look at it. It’s beautiful, and I want this. Plain and certain and without the brace underneath.
I lean in and kiss him.
He lets out a quiet laugh against my mouth, one hand cupping my cheek while the other slips around my waist. The kiss is slow, carrying every promise neither of us has found words for yet.
When we finally part, our foreheads rest together.
"I'll take that as a yes," he whispers.
I laugh, blinking back tears.
"Yes," I say. "Always."
I stay.
Later, the office is quiet, the bookings are done, and the cardigan is still on the chair. I stand at the window of the room we share when he's here, and I look at the deck below where Weston is on a call, pacing the short length of it — two steps, turn, two steps.
I think about Diana. A woman who loved easily and didn’t get to choose what became of it. Who folded her cardigan over the chair every night and stayed in a room that kept getting smaller.
I loved easily too. That was always going to be true. The difference is not giving it all away.
Diana folded her cardigan and stayed small.
I folded mine into a bag and ran. Neither of us got it right the first time.
What I'm doing now is something neither of us tried — staying still, speaking plainly, building something with my own name on it, and letting someone love me while I was doing it without confusing the loving for the managing.
I kept the name I ran with. Monique Castellano. The name on the B&B staff roster, on the Driftline materials, on the inside of a ring box in the office drawer.
Below the window, Weston finishes the call and looks up.
He sees me in the window and smiles before he can stop himself. His hand goes to the back of his neck, and he looks back and blows me a kiss.
I catch it.
I don't let it pass this time.