Epilogue Two - Annie - Five Years Later
Fall in Pine Hollow wraps around you like a quilt. Crisp mountain air laced with woodsmoke and cider. Lanterns strung across the square, their glow warm against the early dark. Music spilling from the stage at the edge of the festival.
And here we are in the middle of it—me, Cal, and the family we built out of love.
Jack tugs at my hand, practically vibrating. At five, he’s all long legs and endless questions, hair messy like his daddy’s, eyes sparkling like mine. “Come on, Mama, the pumpkins will be gone!”
“Pumpkins don’t have legs,” I tease, squeezing his hand. “They’ll wait.”
“Reid’s boy’s got a wheelbarrow,” Cal mutters behind me, voice low and gravelly. He’s carrying a diaper bag and two caramel apples like it’s nothing. “Jack might be right.”
I glance back at him and swat his chest. He grins that crooked grin that still wrecks me after all these years. My moody mountain man—husband, father, protector, pain in the ass. Mine.
On my hip, Molly, two years old and sugar-sweet trouble, presses sticky lips to my neck. She smells like cider donuts and caramel. Her pigtails are lopsided, cheeks pink. “Mine,” she says, patting my chest like she owns me.
Cal leans in, kissing her temple. “She’s not wrong.”
She obviously takes after her father.
At the pumpkin patch, Jack makes a beeline for the biggest pumpkin he can find, nearly toppling himself over trying to lift it. Cal crouches beside him, steadying the stem, voice low and patient.
“It’s not about the biggest. You want solid with no soft spots. Strong enough to carve, strong enough to last.”
Jack frowns, considering. Then he grins, gap-toothed. “Like you?”
Cal looks up at me, and in his eyes I see it all—the man he was, the man he’s become. His jaw works before he says, steady, “Exactly like me.”
My throat tightens.
Meanwhile, Molly toddles over to the mini pumpkins, plops onto the ground, and hugs one to her chest. “Mine,” she declares again.
Cal scoops her up, pumpkin and all, kissing her chubby cheek. “Yeah, princess. Yours.”
The festival hums around us. Hayrides rattling past, booths steaming with cider, fiddles carrying across the square. Dottie intercepts us near the cider stand, orange vest flapping, cheeks red from the cold. She slips a bag of kettle corn into our stroller basket with a wink.
“For the road,” she says, eyes twinkling. “And don’t argue, Annie girl, I’ll just sneak it in later if you try.”
Then she studies us—me, belly round with baby number three; Cal, steady as a rock with Molly on his shoulder; Jack grinning with pumpkin pride. Her smile softens, goes wet at the edges.
“Well,” she says, clearing her throat, “this is the best thing I’ve seen all day.”
She pats Cal’s arm, pats my cheek, then waves us off with a loud, “Don’t forget to stop by the pie contest! And bring those babies to see me before you head home!”
“Always,” I call after her, heart swelling.
By the time we head home, the air’s colder, sharp with smoke from the bonfire. Jack is slumped asleep in the stroller, his precious pumpkin rolling at his feet. Molly is passed out on Cal’s shoulder, thumb in her mouth, still clutching her little pumpkin like it’s a treasure.
I watch him carry her, big hands impossibly gentle, and my chest aches.
Five years ago, he tried to hide from this. From me. From love. Now he’s the center of it all—the man who steadies pumpkins, carries babies, builds tables strong enough to last, and keeps his promises.
I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “I love you,” I whisper.
His eyes soften, steady and sure. “Always, Annie. Forever.”
And I believe him. With every sleepy sigh from Jack, with every giggle from Molly, with every kick from the little one growing inside me, with every tomorrow lit up by lanterns and love—I believe him.
Forever.