EPILOGUE
July, Normandy
“She was literally wearing UGGs,” Ben says from across the table in the farmhouse kitchen he shares with Zack. “And, I mean, the rain was literally blowing sideways.”
“Literally,” Zack says.
Ben lifts his fork, letting it hang midair.
“And, as you discovered yesterday, these WWII tours are not for the faint of heart. Rain or shine, no accessible walkways or railings like you’d see in the States.
” He takes a bite of the tarte tatin he made for dessert.
“They were soaked—the boots, not the couple. They made this kind of shhlup-shhlup sound when she walked. All damn day.”
Holden adjusts his baseball cap. “I’d take sideways rain over that blaring sun any day.”
“Blaring sun?” Ben and I say in unison.
I laugh. “It was in the mid-seventies here yesterday. At home it hit a hundred and one.”
“At home, I wouldn’t be trekking through battlefields,” Holden says.
“Ugh, same. I really don’t want to do it here either. That took forever,” Hannah says, drawing out forever the way only a twelve-year-old can.
The three of us had been living as a family for a few months when Holden told me Reinhold wasn’t Hannah’s real dad. He knows he needs to tell her, but it’s only been a year since she lost her mom. And this kind of news wouldn’t just hurt—it could make her feel insecure about her place in his life.
Worse, it could threaten her place in his home if she were to repeat it.
But she’s been asking questions, and Holden would much rather she hear it from him than one of those DNA kits that’ve become so popular, or heaven forbid, Reinhold himself.
“I think you’ll like tomorrow’s itinerary better,” I tell her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “But you should probably get goin’ on that apple tart before your brother swipes it.”
“He can have it.” She pushes her plate toward Holden.
“What?” Ben says, looking personally offended. “You didn’t like my tour or my tart? C’est horrible.”
She smiles. “You make a mean tart, Uncle Ben. I’m just tired. Your horrible tour wore me out.”
We’re not sure where the uncle came from. She just started calling him that during one of our daily coffee Zooms. He teased that in France he should be Tonton Ben, but it didn’t stick.
“You all packed?” I ask her.
“I never unpacked.” She scoots back from the table and starts for her room, feet dragging behind her. “Night, family.”
My heart swells, the same way it does every time she calls us that. “Night, sweet girl.”
I slide my plate to Holden too. “It’s fantastique, Uncle Ben, but I’m stuffed.”
He reaches for the Calvados and tops off his glass. “She seems to be doing well.”
“She is. I mean, it hasn’t been easy, for sure,” Holden says, cutting into his sister’s dessert. “But I’ve seen such a difference since we moved to Texas. It definitely suits her.”
“And having Cade nearby has helped a lot,” I add. “They’ve gotten really close.”
“Two peas in a pod,” Holden says.
Ben holds up the bottle. “Anyone else?”
“Me, me, me.” Holden nudges his glass over.
I glance between them. “I’m not going to find you two drunk in the barn later, am I?”
“Who, us?” Holden says.
Ben frowns. “What? Pffft. No…”
“Oh, shit,” Zack says, shoulders shaking with laughter. “Ben tell you about the time he got into the raw stuff straight out of the still and decided he needed to ‘address his subjects’ from the top of a very wobbly stack of apple crates?”
My brother chimes in with his version and I check out for a moment, taking in the cozy home they’ve created.
Ben and I grew up in a farmhouse. I guess it makes sense he’d land in one again.
The longère and the orchard it sits on belong to a relative of Zack’s who got out of the Calvados game decades ago.
Now he and Ben make small batches as a hobby.
“Whatever, Zachariah,” Ben says, his smile so big his eyes are watering. “You’re the one who said I just had to try it fresh.”
I miss my brother something fierce, but it’s plain to see how happy he is here.
Zack snorts, then pours himself another. “Keep in mind, the raw stuff’s around 140 proof.”
“Damn,” Holden says. “Does it…taste good?”
“Oui,” Ben says, turning his glass in his hands. “If you like apple-flavored gasoline.”
Holden pushes his plate forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You got any? Of the raw stuff?”
I smack him with my napkin. “The apples aren’t even ripe yet.”
“Actually,” Zack says, “we have a couple jars left over from our spring distill in the barn fridge.”
Ben slowly shakes his head. “Non. Don’t do it.”
Holden grins. “I’m totally doing it.”
“That’s my cue,” I say, pushing my chair back. I kiss the top of Holden’s hat, arms looped around his neck. “Good night, gentlemen. Try not to burn the barn down.”
I sit on the edge of Hannah’s bed, the morning sun filtering through the small dormer window. “Hey, sleepyhead. Time to rise and shine.”
She squints against the light and rubs her eyes. “Is breakfast ready?”
“I don’t think Uncle Ben’s making breakfast this morning, but there’s some apple tart left. Or I can scramble some eggs.”
“No offense, Maggie, but your eggs aren’t that great.”
“That’s fair.” I brush a few strands of hair back from her forehead. “I have something for you,” I say, reaching for the package at my feet.
She settles against the headboard and peels back the paper, her smile blooming when she sees the lavender dress I got her. “What’s this?”
“You know the picture you have of your mom in the sunflowers?”
“The one on my nightstand? In the purple dress?”
I nod. “It was taken here when she was about your age.” I lift the locket at her neck, the one Cade gave her at the funeral. “Your uncle thinks this might be where her love of sunflowers started.”
“In France?”
“Yes, but specifically in that field.” I unfold the dress and shake it out, the jersey knit soft and unwrinkled. “There’s an old chapel in the background. I tracked down the caretaker, and she said we’re welcome to come by and take pictures.”
“Just like Mom.”
I smile. “Yeah. Just like your mom.”
Holden wasn’t wrong last night when he said Hannah’s doing well.
All things considered, she is. But I remember the quiet grief that lingered in me after my mother died, and I’m sure some version of that exists in Hannah too.
I don’t know what Holden experienced; he doesn’t go there often. But maybe it’s different for daughters.
We didn’t talk about Mama much after she passed. It was too hard on Aunt Z, and Ben kept to himself. But I needed to talk about her. I needed to keep her alive somehow.
So I clung to the things she loved: her favorite songs, her favorite movies. Patrick Swayze. I mimicked her southern drawl. I danced.
I don’t want Hannah to have to find ways to keep Cara alive, so I do it for her. Every chance I get.
I fold the dress and set it beside her. “It’s a few hours from here, so we should probably hit the road soon.”
“Hey, Maggie?”
“Yeah?”
“Does Holden have to go? I mean, can it maybe just be me and you?”
I blink hard. “I think I can arrange that.”
Hannah and I get back from the sunflower field to find Holden asleep on the couch.
She makes herself a grilled cheese sandwich (I offered, but she politely declined), then heads to her room to watch TV.
After changing out of my grass-stained jeans, I grab my laptop and barricade myself in the kitchen.
“Hey, Artie,” I say when he answers. “Sorry it’s so late.”
“It’s not late for me, kiddo. Let me find the part I called about.”
The refrigerator hums in the quiet as Artie looks over a scene from our adaptation.
Shortly after Gabi gave Holden my book, he gave it to Artie, and together, they approached me about optioning it. At first, I was hesitant. I thought Holden was biased—and he even admitted he might be. But Artie’s honest to a fault, so I trusted him.
It isn’t a lot of money, but paired with book sales, it’s allowed me to close the B&B so I can focus on writing.
“Okay, here it is. Page fifty-three.” Artie scratches the gray scruff on his jaw, then leans forward, his face filling the screen. “I don’t know. It’s just missing that Maggie spark. Whatever you did in your book isn’t translating.”
The Blue Hole scene. This one’s been bugging me too. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s not the dialogue. It’s what she’s not saying that’s falling flat.”
“Casting’s going to matter a lot here.”
I lean forward and rub my temples. “We need Gabi.”
Artie chuckles. “You know she’d do it in a heartbeat if she could. Timing’s just a bitch.”
By the time we’re ready to film, she’ll be deep in her new HBO series—which, as she puts it, “will own her forever.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “All right. I’ll keep messing with it.”
“Later, though,” Holden says, yawning behind me. “I have plans for her tonight.”
I glance over my shoulder and bite back a grin. His white T-shirt is twisted around his torso, and his hair looks like it’s trying to escape.
“Plans?” I ask. “I thought we were watching a movie.”
“That’s plans.”
“No,” Artie says. “He’s right. You’re in France, for God’s sake. Go have fun. We can pick this up tomorrow.”
Holden leans into the frame with a lazy smirk. “You’re aware she has a book to write too.”
Artie takes off his glasses and sits back in his chair. “How’s that going?”
“It’s coming along,” I say, my mouth curving into a smile.
My current novel is a romance about a masked man who crashes a wedding on New Year’s Eve. It’s practically writing itself.
The corners of Artie’s eyes crinkle. “You never know. Maybe we’ll film that one next.” He stands, his navy-blue shirt filling the frame. “You kids have a good night.”
“See ya, Artie,” Holden says, and I close my laptop.
“I’m all yours, mon amour. But are you sure about this?” I tuck a leg beneath me. “You were snoring pretty hard.”