Epilogue—Christa #2
He rubs the back of his neck. “I heard she got out, but I didn’t know she’d delivered.”
“She’s been busy.”
“Is Evan around?”
I shrug. “He’s trying. Dad says he works full-time and spends most nights at the house. Apparently, he and Charla are figuring out whether they’re better at parenting together than they were at making decisions separately.”
Tate grimaces. “That’s one way to put it.”
“He’s twenty-eight, employed, and hasn’t committed identity theft. Dad’s standards have adjusted.”
Simon looks away, but I catch the smile before he hides it.
Tate exhales through his nose. “She called me after she got out.”
I wait.
“She wanted money.”
“That sounds like Charla.”
“I said no.” Tate shifts his attention to the floor. “She told me Scott had sold the condo and bought her some little house.”
“She hates the kitchen counters.”
He looks at me.
“They’re laminate.”
Tate almost smiles. “She said he’s making her go to school.”
“He isn’t making her do anything. He’s offering two years of support if she gets trained for a job.”
“Dental something?”
“Dental assisting.” I adjust my purse higher on my shoulder. “Apparently, she picked it because the program is short enough to finish before Dad’s deadline, and the schedule can eventually work around childcare.”
Tate absorbs that. “Charla working in a dental office.”
“I’ve paid good money for entertainment that wasn’t half as promising.”
Simon makes another suspicious coughing noise beside me.
Tate stares at us for a second before shaking his head. Then he sighs. “Maybe it’ll be good for her.”
“Maybe.” I mean that too. Whatever I think of Charla, I don’t need her destroyed forever.
I wanted consequences. She got them. Four months in jail, a criminal record, restitution, the loss of her luxury lifestyle, and a father who finally understands that saving her from every mistake only taught her to make bigger ones.
Now she gets to find out who she is when nobody pays her to be decorative, and I hope she figures it out. For my nephew’s sake, I especially hope she does.
Tate nods slowly.
He looks older than he did six months ago. He isn’t ruined physically. He’s simply reduced to the size he always should’ve been. He’s a man, not an heir, a future chairman, legacy, or proof of a bloodline.
Just Tate.
The revolving door turns behind him as two people enter laughing, and Tate glances over his shoulder. “I should go.”
“Probably.”
His mouth almost curves.
Then he looks at Simon. “Take care of her.”
I open my mouth, but Simon beats me to it. “She takes care of herself.”
That sends warmth through me.
Tate absorbs that answer, then gives a short nod. “Right.” He walks toward the elevators, and I watch him go.
Simon waits until Tate disappears around the corner before looking down at me. “You were remarkably restrained.”
I chuckle softly. “I told him we’re having a boy.”
“After he asked.” Simon’s mouth twitches.
“I could’ve lied.”
“You could have.”
I adjust my purse strap. “I didn’t mention the infertility.”
“You mentioned it without using the word.”
“Subtlety.”
Simon laughs and steers me toward the revolving doors. “You’ve developed an interesting definition.”
Outside, the afternoon sun flashes off the windows across the street. Simon’s driver is waiting at the curb, but I stop before we reach the car.
He looks down at me. “What?”
“You really said she takes care of herself.”
“You do.” His expression turns puzzled.
“Most men would’ve said I will.”
“I’m not most men.”
“No.” I slide my hand into his.
Simon studies my face. “Was that the correct answer?”
“It was.”
“Good.”
The diamond on my ring finger catches the light as he opens the car door. Simon notices me looking at it. “Rejected three times,” he says.
“I accepted the fourth.”
“Because I improved the proposal.”
I give him a look. “You waited until I wasn’t vomiting.”
“I learn.”
I laugh and let him help me into the car. His proposal happened two weeks ago in the conservation room at his house, with the escritoire finally standing finished near the windows. No restaurant. No crowd. No photographer hiding behind furniture.
He’d waited until I finished waxing the last restored panel, brought me peppermint tea, and asked if I would make an honest man out of him. I said yes before he finished the question. Then I made him finish anyway.
We aren’t marrying until after the baby comes, so he won’t be an honest man just yet.
Simon claims this is because I enjoy denying him things, and he’s not entirely wrong.
Misty will be my maid-of-honor. Last time, Charla was, but I want nothing to be at all like it was with my first wedding to Tate.
THE ESCRITOIRE IS OPEN when I walk into the conservation room that evening. Simon has moved my peppermint tea away from the edge of the worktable because he’s learned to be more careful.
I set my bag beside the door. “You touched my tea.”
“I protected French decorative arts.”
“You moved it six inches.”
Simon leans one shoulder against the worktable. “History thanks me.”
He’s standing near the window with his sleeves rolled up, exactly as he was the first afternoon I met him. The difference is everything else. The room isn’t temporary anymore, and neither am I.
A small upholstered chair sits near the worktable because standing too long makes my back ache.
There are prenatal vitamins beside the lamp, a sonogram picture tucked into the frame of a photograph of Grandma Torkelson, and a stack of nursery fabric samples Simon is still perusing to give his input.
I cross the room and stop in front of the escritoire. The wood glows beneath the lamps. The marquetry is stable, the gilt bronze cleaned without being stripped of age, and the drawers run smoothly. The peppermint drawer still smells faintly sweet when I open it.
Simon comes up behind me. “You do that every time.”
“I like it.”
“I know.” He settles his hands at my waist when I close the drawer and turn toward him, careful around the baby without treating me as fragile.
I loop my arms around his neck.
Simon studies my face. “How are you?”
It’s not about my back. He means Tate. “I enjoyed it.”
“I noticed.” He runs his thumbs lightly over my sides.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“I didn’t ask you to be.”
I kiss him, and his mouth curves beneath mine.
When I pull away, he brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Did seeing him hurt?”
I think about it. “No.”
Simon waits because he knows I sometimes find the rest of the answer after the first one.
“It was strange,” I say. “I used to measure everything against him. Whether Tate would approve. Whether Tate would notice. Whether Tate would be embarrassed. Whether Tate would finally understand.”
Simon rubs his thumb lightly over my side.
“I don’t care anymore.”
“That sounds inconvenient for Tate.”
“Terrible for him.”
He smiles.
The baby kicks.
Simon stops immediately and looks down. “He did it again.”
“He does that several times a day.”
“Yes, but I was here for this one.” His whole face changes with the ridiculous delight he shows every time our son moves.
I take his hand and place it against the spot. Our son kicks again, and Simon grins. He never looks dignified when the baby moves. I adore that about him.
“There,” he murmurs.
I watch his face instead of my stomach.
Six months ago, I wanted Tate ruined and Charla to be punished for what she’d done.
He is, and Charla finally met consequences Dad wouldn’t buy away. The Meade trust didn’t get its precious succession plan.
I got my name back, my studio, my work, and the knowledge that my body never betrayed me. Those things matter far more than the transient joy of seeing them get their comeuppance. Not that I don’t still appreciate that too.
Simon looks up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s suspicious.”
I smile and rise on my toes to kiss him. He meets me halfway. Some things are simply worth keeping, and Simon is one of them.