34. Wade
— ? —
Wade
The first permission was the hardest.
Not because I was nervous about asking, though I was, but because the person I needed to ask was four years old and had very strong opinions about everything.
“Poppy, can I talk to you about something?”
She looked up from the dollhouse, where she was carefully repositioning the Sparklebottoms’ bedroom furniture for the third time that morning. “Is it about the bunk bed?”
“No.”
“Then okay.”
I lowered myself to the floor beside her, my knees protesting in ways that reminded me I was definitely closer to forty than thirty.
The dollhouse looked different than when I’d first brought it, repaired, yes, but also personalized.
Poppy had added tiny paper curtains to the windows and drawn a rug on the bedroom floor with crayons.
“I want to ask you about something important,” I said. “About your mom and me.”
“Are you going away again?”
The question dropped through me like a stone.
“No.” I kept my voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
She turned to face me fully, her expression serious in that way only children can manage, total attention, no social masks, just honest assessment.
“I love your mom very much,” I said. “And I love you. And I want us to be a family. A real family, who lives together and takes care of each other.”
“We already do that.”
“We do. But there’s something else. Something I want to ask your mom, but I wanted to check with you first.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I want to marry her. Again. To have a wedding and make promises that mean we’re together forever.”
Poppy considered this the way she considered all binding contracts.
“Will there be cake?” she asked finally.
“Definitely cake.”
“Will I get a fancy dress?”
“The fanciest dress you want.”
“Will I-” She paused, clearly building to her main point. “Will I get a bunk bed?”
I bit back a smile. “Is that your condition?”
“The Sparklebottoms need a proper sleeping arrangement.”
“The Sparklebottoms are dolls.”
“The Sparklebottoms have NEEDS, Daddy.”
The word hit me just as hard as it had the first time. Daddy. She said it so casually now, like it had always been there, like there hadn’t been four years of absence between us.
“If I get you a bunk bed,” I said carefully, “then you’re okay with me marrying your mom?”
Poppy stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
We shook on it.
“But,” she added, “I want to help pick out the ring.”
“I already have the ring.”
“Then I want to approve the ring.”
I pulled the small box from my pocket, I’d started carrying it everywhere, unable to leave it behind, and opened it for her inspection.
The ring was simple. A band of hammered silver holding a piece of sea glass, soft green and tumbled smooth by decades in the water.
The jeweler on Old South Wharf had looked at me like I was crazy when I’d brought him the sea glass and asked him to set it, but he’d done beautiful work.
The glass caught the light and glowed as if lit from within.
Poppy studied it with intense concentration.
“It’s not sparkly,” she said.
“No.”
“Most rings are sparkly.”
“Most rings are. But this one is special.”
“Why?”
“Because this glass comes from the ocean near the place where I first met your mom. It spent years being tumbled by the waves, getting smoother and softer, until it became something beautiful. Like how your mom and I had to go through hard things before we could become something beautiful together.”
Poppy looked at the ring, then at me, then at the ring again.
“Okay,” she said finally. “You may proceed.”
“Thank you for your blessing.”
“You’re welcome.” She turned back to her dollhouse. “Don’t forget about the bunk bed.”
***
The second permission came via video call.
Harlan and Sue Erickson appeared on my laptop screen looking tanned and healthy from the Arizona sun. Sue was smiling warmly. Harlan was not.
“Buckley,” he said.
“Mr. Erickson. Mrs. Erickson. Thank you for making time to talk with me.”
“Sue is fine, honey.” She nudged her husband. “And he’s just being dramatic. Go ahead.”
I’d rehearsed this speech more times than I’d ever admit. I’d written notes. I’d practiced in front of a mirror. None of that preparation seemed to matter now, facing the man whose daughter I’d broken.
“I’m calling to ask for your blessing,” I said. “To marry Luisa.”
Harlan’s expression didn’t change. “You already married her once.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t end well.”
“No, sir. It didn’t.”
“And now you want to do it again.”
“I do.”
Silence stretched between us. Sue was watching her husband with a look that suggested she knew exactly what he was doing and was willing to let it play out.
“Why?” Harlan asked finally.
“Because I love her. Because I’ve spent four years becoming someone worthy of her. Because I will never stop proving that I’ve changed.”
“That’s a pretty speech.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You said pretty things before. Made promises. Broke them.”
“You’re right.” I met his eyes through the screen. “I was selfish and thoughtless and so caught up in my own pain that I couldn’t see what I was doing to the people I loved. I left when I should have stayed. I shut down when I should have opened up. I failed her in every way a husband can fail.”
Harlan leaned back. “So why should I believe you won’t do it again?”
“Because I’ve done the work. Therapy. Self-reflection.
Actual, genuine change that my actions have demonstrated over time.
Because I flew to Arizona to find my family when I realized what I’d lost. Because I’ve spent months earning back trust I destroyed.
Because I will keep earning it, today and every day after. ”
“And if things get hard again?”
“Then I’ll stay and face them. I’m not the man who runs anymore.”
We stared at each other through the screen. Harlan’s face was unreadable, and I understood suddenly that this was the test, not the words I said but whether I’d hold my ground under pressure. Whether I’d fight for his daughter or fold at the first sign of resistance.
I didn’t fold.
“You hurt her,” Harlan said quietly. “My baby girl. You hurt her worse than anyone ever has.”
“I know.”
“If you do it again-”
“I won’t.”
“If you do it again,” he continued, “there won’t be anywhere on this earth you can hide from me. I’m retired, but I still have friends. And a shotgun.”
“Understood.”
Sue rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Harlan, stop terrorizing the poor man.” She leaned toward the camera. “Wade, honey, you have my blessing. You’ve clearly done a lot of growing up, and anyone can see you love our daughter. Harlan?”
He grumbled an answer too low to catch.
“Harlan.”
“Fine.” He crossed his arms. “You can marry her. But I meant what I said about the shotgun.”
“I would expect nothing less, sir.”
“And call me Harlan. ‘Sir’ makes me feel old.”
I let out a long exhale, tension leaving with it. “Thank you. Both of you.”
“Just take care of her,” Sue said. “And that granddaughter of ours.”
“Always.”
***
The third permission was more like tribute.
“You want to marry our girl.” Birdie wiped down the counter at the diner, her movements precise and unhurried. “Again.”
“Yes.”
“And you want the town’s blessing.”
“I want… to do this right. Luisa loves this place. These people are her family. I want them to know I’m serious.”
Birdie studied me with the same expression she’d used when I’d first shown up in her diner, assessing, skeptical, not entirely convinced I wasn’t a threat to be neutralized.
“The town has conditions,” she said.
Of course it did.
“Name them.”
“The lobster-boat race. Every year. You enter, you participate, you lose gracefully.”
“I’ve never raced a lobster boat in my life.”
“That’s the point. Keeps you humble.”
I thought about arguing. Then I thought about Luisa’s face when she laughed, and the way Poppy called me daddy, and the life I was trying to build here.
“Done.”
Birdie’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” I was still a little stunned myself.
“Hm.” She set down her rag. Leaned on the counter. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve buried tourists, Buckley.” Her voice was pleasant, conversational, absolutely terrifying. “The tide does the paperwork.”
I believed her completely.
“Understood.”
“Good.” She straightened up, and suddenly she was just Birdie again, warm, welcoming, the heart of the town. “Welcome to the family, honey. You want pie?”
***
The grandmothers were sworn to secrecy.
“Absolutely,” Agnes said. “Our lips are sealed.”
“Completely confidential,” Doris agreed.
“We won’t tell a soul,” Fern promised.
“Mum’s the word,” Maude added.
I looked at them, four elderly women who had information networks that would make intelligence agencies weep with envy, and knew with absolute certainty that the entire town would know by Thursday.
That was fine.
Part of the plan, actually. The town knowing meant the town would help. And I wanted this proposal to be a memory Luisa would keep forever.
“The harvest festival,” I said. “That’s when I’m going to ask her.”
“Perfect,” Agnes breathed. “Romantic.”
“The whole town will be there,” Doris noted.
“Witnesses,” Fern said approvingly. “She can’t say no with witnesses.”
“She can absolutely say no whenever she wants,” I corrected. “But I’m hoping she won’t.”
“She won’t,” Maude said with certainty. “That girl has been in love with you since she threw you on the ground in Nantucket.”
“How do you know about that?”
“We know everything, dear.”
I didn’t doubt it.
***
The morning of the harvest festival dawned clear and bright.
I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, checking my appearance for the fourth time. The ring was in my pocket. The plan was in place. The entire town was performing elaborate ignorance about what was about to happen.
My phone buzzed. A text from Gus: Festival setup complete. The mat’s in position for the demo.
Another buzz. Birdie: She doesn’t suspect a thing. Told her people want a self-defense class instead of dance.
And another. Agnes: The fainting couch is ready. Doris is handling the champagne.
I dragged in air. Let it out slow.
This was it.
At the festival, I spotted Luisa near Birdie’s food booth, her brow furrowed in confusion. She was talking to Birdie, gesturing at the crowd, clearly suspicious.
I watched from a distance as she asked Birdie a question I couldn’t hear.
Birdie’s response was audible even from where I stood, her voice carrying with practiced innocence.
“Small towns, hon.”
Luisa didn’t look convinced.
But she also didn’t run.
It was time.