Epilogue
CHARLIE
Libby was double-fisting chunks of her smash cake and showing no signs of slowing down.
She sat in the grass under the playground shade structure, a paper crown crooked on her head, cheeks flushed pink from the heat and attention, hot pink frosting smeared in the crevices of her neck and the chubby little folds of her arms.
It’s not every day that the princess of the family turns one year old, and Liberty Savannah Pruitt was making quite the show of it.
Tally hovered nearby, chatting with a group of moms she’d met through the inn’s new community brunch series, one hand holding a half-eaten mini quiche, the other clutching Nancy’s leash, the leash getting yanked and jerked every time she lunged for the discarded pieces of cake being flung in the grass.
Dig crouched down in front of Libby, snapping a thousand photos of her dressed in tulle, frosting, and pearls.
“Smile for your favorite uncle, my little star,” he cooed.
Libby paid him no mind as she kept digging her fingers into the soft sponge of the cake and squealing from the excitement, or the sugar.
Across the lawn, Sutton finally let herself collapse into a folding chair, heels kicked off, a glass of champagne in one hand and a plastic tiara perched firmly on her head.
“I am officially off-duty,” she announced.
“If anyone even whispers about cheese boards, I’m throwing myself into the fountain. ”
Lee raised his glass in salute. “To Sutton. Patron saint of baked goods and breakdowns.” He crossed the grassy patch and leaned down to wipe frosting off of Libby’s cheeks. “Our beautiful girl, look at you go.”
“Back off, Lee,” Dig said, hopping up and elbowing between Jordan and Doyle. “It’s clear I’m already the favorite uncle. I already have her listening to Funny Girl and learning stage cues. She’ll want to move to New York City with Uncle Diggy in no time.”
Doyle rolled his eyes. “Please, she’s wearing a Tiffany bracelet that I bought her. If anyone’s winning this, it’s me.”
Jordan, watching the exchange from a patch of shade near the tree line, barely looked up from his drink. “They’re both idiots. I’m the cool one,” he said loud enough for me to hear. “Who do you think she’s going to call when all of you drive her out of her mind?”
I gave a quiet nod, adjusting Libby’s paper crown where it had slipped down over her eyes. “Noted.”
Vivianne and Hollis Aden lingered on the edge of the lawn with Eunice and Vance, their voices soft over the hum of distant laughter and the clink of dessert plates.
I gave Vivi a small wave, and she returned it with a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She’d warm up to me eventually, and I’d do whatever it took—especially knowing how desperately she was trying to repair things with her daughter. With the woman I loved.
Hollis, on the other hand, looked like he’d stumbled into a candy shop and refused to leave. Wide grin, frosting smeared across his cheeks, a half-eaten cupcake in one hand and a chocolate-dusted cookie in the other. Eunice gave a slight wince, and I had to fight the urge to grin at the scene.
Maybe the four socialites weren’t destined for bridge marathons or polite tea parties, but it was a start.
Magnolia was stretched out on a picnic blanket near the food table, one hand resting lightly on her belly. Lee hovered close, trying to pretend he wasn’t checking her water bottle every five minutes.
“You’re worse than my doctor,” she muttered without looking up. “I’m already peeing every thirty seconds as is.”
“And yet you married me,” he replied, popping a grape in his mouth.
“Regret is a slow burn.”
Ryan stood off to the side with a cupcake in hand, smiling faintly but not saying much. He caught my eye, nodded once, then looked away.
I settled onto the grass beside Libby, who handed me a soggy piece of cake like it was a priceless artifact, eyes full of joy and wonder.
I took it without a word, heart full in a way I hadn’t expected.
I used to think happiness was loud. Something that crashed in with fireworks and confessions. But today felt quiet. Steady. Real.
Libby looked up at me with her mother’s hazel eyes and said, clear as day, “Dada.”
The entire group turned.
Tally froze, her hand mid-air as she wildly gestured during her conversation.
I blinked, unsure I’d heard her right.
Libby, proud and sticky, said it again.
“Dada.”
The world didn’t stop. Music still played. Glasses still clinked. A dog barked somewhere behind us.
But something in me did.
I was a dad.
And this was my family.
***
After packing up the mess from Libby’s first birthday and sending everyone back to Maggie O’Malley’s—the inn and public house my sister now owned outright—we loaded up the stroller.
Tally and I had spent the last year renting a room in the back carriage house of the inn, saving every penny, dodging a very pregnant Magnolia’s hormonal outbursts, and quietly building something that felt a lot like a life.
Tally had worked her ass off. Long days, late nights, camera always slung over her shoulder.
And after enough courthouse ceremonies, pop-up weddings in the squares, and one memorable beach elopement where the ring bearer dropped the rings in the ocean, she’d finally done it.
She’d saved enough to launch her own company: Marry Me, Savannah—a one-stop shop for wildly romantic, slightly chaotic, deeply heartfelt elopements.
She ran it out of the inn, of course, alongside my sister, who helped with the lodging accommodations, and Sutton, who baked all the wedding cakes.
We were still Pruitts at heart, never quite able to spend that much time apart from one another.
We were walking Libby through Lafayette Square, her legs kicking under a pink blanket, Nancy Reagan trotting beside us in a rhinestone leash Sutton had insisted on buying her, when we passed a house with wraparound porch, the railing lined with flowering vines in soft bloom.
A single, swinging sign hung from the side of the staircase.
Open House.
“Wanna check it out?”
Tally blinked at me. “Charlie. I just opened a business. We can’t afford a house.”
But we could.
Because that steel drum she threw up in the night we met? It led to thirty commissions. Apparently, divorced women love cathartic art. Their friends did too. And their lawyers. And their therapists. Word spread, and I’d worked steadily ever since. I hadn’t just scraped by. I’d saved. I’d planned.
“I wanna peek inside,” I said casually, pushing the stroller toward the steps. “Libby’s fighting her nap anyway. No idea where she gets this stubborn streak from.”
“Probably her auntie Magnolia,” Tally muttered, but she followed me up the porch.
Inside, the air carried the sharp tang of fresh paint, mingling with the faint, comforting scent of old wood.
The fireplace looked as if it had always belonged here, framed by built-in bookshelves that held nothing yet promised everything.
Tall windows let in a soft, golden light that pooled across the wide-plank floors, which groaned softly under her weight as she moved through the space.
She lingered in the kitchen, letting her fingers brush over the smooth marble counters, then leaned slightly toward the window, watching the backyard stretch out beyond the glass.
“There’s a swing set,” she whispered. Then, “Wow—look. A carriage house.”
“It would make a great studio,” I said, already picturing where I’d put my tools.
She wandered deeper into the house, her eyes tracing the way the old-world details met modern touches—the carved trim running into sleek door frames, the soft light catching on brass fixtures.
The air seemed to hum with quiet possibility.
But when she stepped into the primary bedroom at the back, something about the space made her pause, rooted to the spot.
There, leaning against the wall, was the sketch.
The twin to the one she kept beside her rocking chair.
Her silhouette stretched against the river, her bump rounded beneath a flowy dress, the Waving Girl statue standing quietly in the distance.
She reached out, fingers brushing the edge with care.
“Oh my god, Charlie,” she whispered. “You finished it… wait, what did you do?”
“It needs a frame,” I said, bouncing Libby on my hip as she grabbed a handful of my hair, tiny fingers tugging and pulling with all the determination only a toddler could manage. “But we can handle that once we get the rest of our stuff in here.”
Tally turned to me, her eyes soft and shining, reflecting every late night, every fight, every storm we’d weathered that brought us to this shore. Together. The room felt impossibly still around us, like the house itself was holding its breath.
I kissed Libby’s cheek, inhaling the faint scent of her baby shampoo and cake frosting, then met my wife’s gaze.
“I love you girls,” I whispered, my chest full, the words small but heavy with everything we’d endured to get here. “Welcome home.”
THE END