Epilogue
Seymour
Four months later
Christmas. That’s how long she makes me wait to tie the knot.
Which is fine because the rules are gone.
I catch myself smiling more than I ever have in my life.
At work, at home, even when I’m alone thinking about her.
The warmth in my chest has become a constant companion.
I try to be alone with her as much as possible, savoring every moment.
Coffee dates at Beachside Java? We’re there several times a week, the rich scent of coffee between us all as she leans close to Grace and Barrie, pouring over wedding magazines spread across their usual corner table.
I’ve even embraced texting, sending her random thoughts throughout the day, wanting to know every detail about her life. The soft ping of my phone making my heart leap each time she responds. It’s a new kind of intimacy. This constant connection with someone you love.
We only argued for about three minutes about where to live. The moment I showed her the room in my house that could be converted into a studio—high ceilings, walls of windows flooding the space with natural light—her eyes lit up and she nearly suggested we get married the next day.
I can wait. Really, I would wait a year if that’s what she wanted.
Even so, I had a temporary studio built for her in place of the shed.
The new structure gleams in the winter sunlight, its fresh wood and clean lines a promise of new beginnings.
It will increase the value of her home, but more importantly, I see the spark in her eyes every time she looks at it, knowing she’s ready to start her new concept.
Now, it’s two days away from our wedding.
The plans are set. My heart feels full to bursting every time I think about it, about her walking down the aisle toward me. The way her blue hair will look against the white of her dress.
You might be wondering what happened with Lakeside Gallery.
First, both Diana and Jack, real name John Walters, will be in prison.
Eugene and Darren Meade, and the other artists they murdered will have justice.
It doesn’t give them back their life, but their families can hopefully find a measure of peace in knowing the truth.
As a board member, I had several long conversations with Stephen.
When Mandy shared her vision of making art accessible to everyone—not just the upper crust of society looking to add a piece to their collection or the wall in their second or third home—I watched her eyes dance with passion, as she outlined her plans.
Stephen loved it. The energy in the room was electric as we spent that entire night planning.
He’s going to run a small restaurant adjoining the gallery, making it a destination place.
Lilly’s enthusiasm matched ours when she heard the concept, and she wants to remain on the board.
Mandy and Julie will manage it together, though I see Mandy gradually stepping back from that role to focus on her art.
She’s an artist at her core. That’s what she needs to be doing.
She insists on waiting until she’s earning it though, not just because I can pay the bills. Her independence means everything to her, and I respect that.
That’s what tonight is all about.
Mandy has planned a combined event, and the gallery buzzes with excitement.
Children’s artwork hangs alongside pieces from local struggling artists, creating a vibrant tapestry of community creativity.
And there, on the feature wall, her Night Sky series takes center stage.
I love them all, but the one that will hang next to Blackbeard still captures me completely.
I could lose myself in those swirls of color for hours.
No surprises. That’s one thing I’ve learned about her.
But I try to sneak in small ones, like unexpected dates down at the dock even when the air bites with cold.
We sit and talk, her hands wrapped around steaming mugs of hot cocoa, until our noses turn red and our breath forms clouds in the air.
Eventually, she’ll learn to love surprises, because she’ll associate them with us, with our love.
“You look ravishing,” I whisper in her ear, breathing in the light floral scent of her perfume. The gallery lights catch the subtle highlights in her blue hair. “In two nights, you’re all mine.”
She turns, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You don’t look bad yourself.” That sly smile I’ve come to love curves her lips. “Yes, and in two nights you’re all mine, too.”
I could spend the entire evening whispering sweet nothings in her ear, watching the blush spread across her cheeks, but the patter of running feet breaks through the crowd.
Jerry bursts through, his face lit with pure joy as he throws himself at me for a hug.
His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself grinning just as widely.
What can I say? The attachment is mutual.
I try to attend all of Mandy’s art classes now, watching from the corner as she nurtures young talents like his.
His painting will be the second I buy tonight.
The first one, well, that will be one of Mandy’s.
The night unfolds exactly as she planned it. Perfectly.
Proud parents arrive with grandparents and friends in tow, their voices filling the space with warmth and excitement.
The aroma of burgers and hot dogs—our family-friendly menu choice—mingles with the buzz of conversation.
I never would have thought the combination would work, but like everything else about tonight, it just does.
Local artists move through the crowd with their friends and family, creating a wonderful mix of community and creativity.
The place is packed, the energy electric.
Of course, I think Mandy’s paintings shine brightest. From the murmurs and whispers around me, the appreciative gazes lingering on her work, everyone else thinks so too.
It’s toward the end of the night, when the crowd has thinned slightly and the excitement has settled into a comfortable hum, that Jerry’s dad approaches us.
We’re still glowing from the success of the night, from what it means for the future.
He coughs, clears his throat. Those classic signs of nerves or about-to-eat-humble-pie that I recognize from my own moments of vulnerability.
When his gaze meets mine, I see echoes of Jerry in his features. The same earnest expression, the same direct look.
“I wanted to thank both of you for the impact you’ve had on Jerry,” he says, his voice carrying genuine emotion. “He loves his art classes, and he’s really come out of his shell with his growing confidence.”
He extends his hand first to me, then to Mandy.
The handshakes are firm, sincere. I’m not typically sentimental, but my heart swells and my eyes burn with unexpected tears.
For a brief second, I catch glimpses of my own future as a father.
One who will be emotionally available, supportive, present in all the ways that matter.
“Thank you,” Mandy says beside me, her voice thick with emotion. I can feel her trembling slightly against my side. “I love the classes. Jerry is one special kid.”
Then he turns to Mandy, his expression shifting to something more focused, professional. “By the way, I’m a journalist. I work remotely. I’ve heard rumors about Alexander Silvano. That he stole the concept from a local artist. You wouldn’t happen to know a name, would you?”
Todd fled town after that night and hasn’t shown his face since. Probably afraid he’ll be arrested, though Harris’s investigation confirmed what we already knew. Stealing someone’s artistic concept isn’t technically a crime. Just deeply unethical.
Mandy’s sharp intake of breath echoes in my ears. “Yes, we have connections.”
“Why?” I ask, already sensing the opportunity unfolding before us.
“I’d like to do a story on the artist. Bring attention to his or her work.” His eyes gleam with professional interest.
I glance at Mandy, giving her a questioning look. We’ve discussed this possibility late into the night, talked about those original paintings she did, beyond Blackbeard. I’m never giving up that old pirate. He’s become a symbol of our beginning.
Oh, didn’t I tell you?
Before lighting the shed on fire, Todd stole those pieces and had them stored in his attic. Officer Pete found them, preserved and undamaged, like they were waiting to tell their story.
Mandy nods, a smile spreading across her face, giving me permission to speak.
I step closer to Jerry’s dad, lowering my voice. “What if I told you that I know the artist, and that her original paintings are much deeper and richer compared to Silvano’s watered-down versions. And, that she might be willing to sell them.”
Something ignites in his expression. That hunger for a story that could make a difference. He reaches into his coat pocket, movements quick with excitement, and produces his business card. “I’d say let’s plan an auction and see justice is done. When can I meet her?”
Mandy takes the card, then gives him that brilliant smile I fell in love with. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lincoln.”
“What?” His gaze bounces between us, mouth falling open. “It’s you?”
She nods, and I watch a single tear trace down her cheek.
He grasps her hand in both of his, pumping it enthusiastically. “We have a lot to talk about.”
I clear my throat softly. “After our honeymoon. We’ll contact you in the new year?”
“Sounds good.” His excitement is palpable as he and Jerry continue through the gallery. He stops to buy one of Mandy’s paintings, knowing what I already do. She’s about to become a name in the art world. Within a few years, she’ll be known in every circle that matters.
I draw her close, feeling her warmth against my side. “I guarantee those paintings will go for half a mil each.”
She shrugs, relaxing into my embrace. “I don’t care. I’ve let them go. Any money I earn from them, I’ll invest in the gallery and the local community.”
That right there. That generosity of spirit, that desire to give back. It’s one of the countless reasons I love her.
She rises on her tiptoes, her lips brushing my cheek. “Can we step outside? I need some fresh air.”
“You bet.”
That’s our code for sneaking away to steal kisses in private, away from the crowd and the lights and the noise. The winter air will be crisp against our skin, but I don’t care.
Hey, can you blame me?
Nope. I didn’t think so.