Epilogue
epilogue
Penelope-5 Years Later
A lot can happen in five years’ time. I just never imagined it could be this wonderful.
Quitting teaching was the best decision I could have made. I won’t say that I miss it, but I do get a little wistful from time to time, when all of my friends work at the same place and have shared experiences. But I know I’m not on the outside. I’m the farthest thing from it. Not knowing makes the stories that they share more exciting, in a way. It also makes dinner and bedtime conversation with my husband more attentive. I hang on his every word, because I’m not there to live them beside him.
When my book contract was up for renewal, we had a little reconfiguration to do. While book tours with toddlers were doable, I hated being away from my babies, if only for a few days at a time. Even with Super Dad at home, and Grandma Deb holding down the fort so Ant could come with me, we decided as a family that, while the kids are little, I want to be closer to home. Especially with a third on the way.
We decided early on that December would be our month—for family, for friends, and for us. On top of Anthony having a full two weeks off from school, I always plan my writing calendar to be blank. Books with the editor, no socials, no press, no tours. My readers have come to expect it. And because they’ve been so good to us, I’ve tried to drop in surprise holiday novellas to hold them over. It’s kind of fun to drop a book and then shut off the rest of the world.
Now that the Christmas holiday has passed, our annual friends holiday party is about to begin. As I do the last tidying before our guests arrive, the flick of my duster over the living room reminds me of just how lucky I am.
Our home is filled with memories. The ones I just dusted are displayed on canvases, moments frozen in time that we swap out for new ones every once in a while. There are several from our wedding on the beach—not in Florida, but in Aruba, where PJ Layne was generous enough to fly out all of our friends and family for the week. I think back on that day—the red in my toenails matching my husband’s tie, the pastel pinks of my bridesmaids, and the pocket squares of the men; how my tribe had stepped behind me to give me away, all six of their hands somewhere on my shoulders as they told Anthony to be good to me.
There’s a photo of our first kiss as husband and wife, and one that our photographer snuck of us walking down the hotel hallway toward the vending machines; me, wearing nothing but an oversized tee with Wifey along the shoulders; Ant in nothing but his dress pants, suspenders hanging loose by his thighs; our clenched hands between us held high in the air.
Of course, no one could have predicted that one of our wedding photos would have our three month old son in them. Did I expect my own son to be the ring bearer at my wedding? No. But when your fiancé is as gorgeous as Anthony Ellis, and when you frequently need his help with the mechanics of writing sex scenes, and when you’re both working so super hard, sometimes you can’t help it.
Sometimes, I forgot to take my birth control. Sometimes, I did it on purpose. Sometimes, the sweet nothings Ant whispered in my ear were about how much he wanted to get me pregnant. We were not at all upset that Claire and Nathan walked down the aisle holding our baby boy so that Theo could be our ring bearer. The photo of us holding him between us, squishing kisses to his once chubby cheeks, his red hair sticking up at odd angles, is one of my favorites—right beside the one of our newborn boy wearing the blue hat his dad knitted together with his own fingers.
Of course, his sister was nearly his Irish twin—again, we can blame my husband and his constant inspiration for the spicy scenes in my books. Piper came in thirteen months later as the absolute “second child” to Theo’s quiet mild-mannered demeanor. There’s a photo of her with underwear on her head and a popsicle in each hand standing on the bathroom counter next to one of Theo wearing a toy hard hat, holding a Little Tykes hammer, cheesing in front of the treehouse he “helped” Daddy and Pop Pop build.
Quite possibly my favorite part of the whole picture walk that encompasses our living room, though, is on our mantle. In the center of preschool photos and our latest family Christmas card, along with the sonogram of the little guy currently stepping on my kidneys, sit two frames. One is Anthony and I as toddlers. Him in a swim diaper. Me sticking out my tongue. His lips planted on my cheek in a pudgy kiss. Beside is the recreation from our wedding day. Only this time, my husband isn’t wearing a diaper. And, there’s no denying the love in my eyes. Beside that frame is the moment captured immediately after, when I’d tugged him by the collar of his dress shirt and planted a big one on him.
“You getting sentimental there, boss?”
He has snuck up behind me. His chin rests on my shoulder, hands coming to clasp possessively around my belly where they are ninety-nine percent of the time nowadays.
“Always,” I say, wiping my eyes. I pluck the frame—of us as toddlers—from the mantle and hold it up for both of us to see. “Do you think they knew what they had in store?”
“Absolutely not. My only focus at that age was eating popsicles for lunch.”
I elbow him in the ribs, but he smiles, nuzzles my neck, and holds me tightly.
The doorbell rings, and I dust the frame one more time for good measure before Ant kisses my cheek and snags a tissue from the box on the coffee table.
“Thanks, but I’m sure this will be the first of many. Lucy’s as far along as I am.”
“I’ll be sure to keep ‘em coming.”
He winks, then chases behind Theo and Piper to answer the door.
Everyone arrives at the same time.
Sam, Juliet, Mason, Hope, Lincoln, and their newly adopted daughter, Rowan.
Lucy, Aaron, and their toddling twins, Luca and Cece.
Nathan and Claire, looking as sun-tanned as ever, after spending the first week of Christmas in Bora Bora. They take their two dogs, Bilbo and Hedwig, to the yard, where they immediately start playing snow tug-of-war with our German shepherd, Fenway.
Once everyone gets bags and shoes and coats settled in our overflowing mudroom, and all of the kids are happily set up with toys in the living room, we make our way to the kitchen.
“How are you feeling, Mama?” I ask Lucy. She rests a hand on her bump, that is about the size of mine, and puffs out her cheeks.
“The fact that my ankles made it through Disney for our babymoon trip a few weeks ago is a friggen miracle.”
“You did so well, baby. I told her I would’ve gotten her a scooter!” Aaron hollers.
“What about you?” Juliet asks. “Are you ready for three under five?”
“Absolutely not. I think I might just let Pipes take the reins and raise this one. She already thinks she knows everything.”
As if on cue, my mini-me cries out from the living room something to the tune of, You’re doing it wrong! If I give her five minutes, one of the boys will probably be in a head lock.
“I’ve got it,” Ant says.
“God forbid someone tells her the word no!” I shout after him.
“Not my baby girl!” he tosses back. I shake my head and rub my belly where my son kicks. “He is such a good dad.”
“Aaron, too. He’s been handling bedtime every night so I can put my feet up.”
“We’re just so glad to have Mason around again,” Juliet says, as their now twenty-two year old walks up with a beer in hand.
“No. Absolutely not,” I say, shaking my head. “I taught you.”
“Sure did, Ms. Barker .”
He winks, and wipes the shaggy dark hair from his eyes, then tips back his Sam Adams.
“How’s school?”
“Good. I’m finishing my Masters online, and Claire is going to plug me into some good social work programs. I want to specialize in kids who come from substance abuse homes.”
He has come such a long way. I tear up for probably the twelfth time today.
“Speaking of, where is Claire?” I ask.
“In the living room,” Nathan says. “The PJ Layne surprise book hit her Kindle this morning and she’s almost finished with it.”
Sure enough, completely unfazed in the middle of kid chaos, Claire is curled up on our large couch, Kindle in hand, blush on her cheeks. I laugh, shaking my head. By the time she joins us, I already know what she’s going to say.
“Okay. I didn’t think your books could get any dirtier, but when he decorated her like a gingerbread cookie? Penelope! You could’ve warned a girl!”
I lift my shoulder, smirk, toss her a “What can I say?” and take one of the pre-decorated cookies from the tray on the counter before turning to Nathan, pointing at him with the cookie, and saying, “You’re welcome.”
I don’t tell her that that particular scene was semi-real-life inspired.
The night wears on. We mingle. Eat take-out pizzas because we’re all too tired from our own family parties to cook. We move to the living room, ladies cuddled up on the oversized couch that we bought specifically for these occasions, guys standing like bros at a construction site with beer bottles and crossed arms. We cuddle each other’s babies and wrestle with each other’s dogs and compare birth plans. Claire shares her itinerary for the surprise trip she’s been planning for Nathan to take him to New Zealand for the ultimate Lord of the Rings getaway. Sam, Aaron, and Ant talk about the upcoming season of T-ball as if they’re drafting for the big leagues.
“Is this when I finally get inducted into the ‘last name on the back of my shirt’ club?” I ask. “Ant stopped coaching when he took on the AP role, so I never got to have one.”
“Trust me when I say, I’m pretty sure wearing that shirt is what conceived Linc,” Juliet says, blushing at the memory.
“Aaron hides it, because if he sees me in it, he, and I quote, Needs a solid seventy-two hours to get it out of his system. ”
“So, in other words, it comes out when we have three day weekends?” Claire asks, before sipping her wine.
“Yup.”
We all laugh, then eye Claire, whose husband’s preferred sport is chess, which doesn’t have a uniform. She shrugs.
“What? My man built me a custom shelf in our custom library specifically for sex. I’m good without the sports references.”
I think my favorite part about the home Anthony and I built is the way that laughter reverberates off the vaulted ceilings. He told me that when he built this house, he wanted it to be filled with the people he loves. I’m just so glad that we get to experience that together.
When the toddlers start to get too Christmas-cookie-tired to keep their eyes open, car seats are loaded, leftovers are divvied up, and my husband and I carry our own red-headed little sweethearts up the stairs.
Well. I follow. He has one on his back and one cradled to his front like a spider monkey.
We forego baths, brushing their teeth in their Avengers-themed bathroom before they collapse as soon as their heads hit the pillows. Ant and I don’t even make it back downstairs, retiring to our bedroom with both baby monitors stationed on our bedside tables. We’ll leave the cleanup for tomorrow, while our babies play with all of their new Christmas toys.
“Good day?”
“Mhm. Good day,” I agree as he starts to work the knots out of my ever-aching feet.
“Do you know what I like about this chapter?”
We’ve started doing that—talking about our stages of life as “chapters.”
“What’s that, baby?”
“Getting to see love in human form. Like, there’s a bunch of little versions of us and all our friends running around our house and eating our cheeseballs and drawing in Sharpie marker on the walls, but in the end, they’re just proof of the love we all have.”
“Asshole,” I chuckle, reaching for the tissue box I now keep on the bedside table.
He beats me to it, collecting my tears with his thumb before kissing the rest away.
“Let it out, Mama,” he soothes, cuddling up beside me where one hand tucks the hair around my ear, the other resting on my belly.
“What do you think, little guy?” I ask my belly, squeezing my husband’s hand. “Are you ready to join our story?”
We fall asleep on top of the covers, hand in hand, his head on my shoulder. And while this may be the end of the chapter on our family of four, we both know that there are so many more stories in our book just waiting to be written.