21. Epilogue Lena
EPILOGUE: LENA
Iwoke to the sound of Ethan moving around downstairs, his footsteps steady on the wooden stairs that led to the shop.
Morning light cut through the gap in our curtains, painting a golden line across the quilt we’d had since February.
Mrs. Donnelly had given it to us as a housewarming gift, with patches from each shop in town.
The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but my body knew it was time to get up.
I threw on jeans and a light sweater, practical for the Fourth of July festival setup later that day.
The floor was cool beneath my feet as I crossed to the window, pushing the curtain aside to look down at the shop.
Ethan’s truck was parked in its usual spot, the engine compartment open because he’d already started tinkering that morning.
The bedroom door creaked open behind me. Ethan stepped in, two mugs of coffee in his hands, steam rising from the dark surface of each. “Thought you might still be asleep,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
I took the mug he offered, letting my fingers brush his gently. “I was already up. Getting ready for the festival.”
He nodded, taking a sip from his own mug. His hair was still damp from a quick shower. Heat moved through me as I watched a drop of water race down the line of his neck. “Weather should be good today. Hot, but clear.”
Yep. Hot was the word I’d have used too.
Ethan found his keys on the dresser. I checked my phone for any messages about the festival setup, soaking in the comfortable silence between us.
The apartment wasn’t much, just the upper floor of what had once been the workshop’s storage area before Ethan had converted it, but it was ours in a way that still melted me.
The walls we had painted together. The bookshelf we had built from scrap wood.
The piano that sat in the corner then, no longer hidden away but part of the space we shared together.
“Breakfast?” Ethan asks, already moving toward the door.
I nodded, following him down the narrow stairs and out to the small patio he had built last spring.
The space was just big enough for the metal table we had found at the flea market, a Blackstone, and six terra cotta pots of tomato plants that Ethan tended with the same careful attention he gave me.
I set my coffee down and reached for the bowl of eggs on the table. “Two?”
“Three,” he said, already pulling bread from the bag. “Long day ahead.”
We moved around each other with the ease of practice, me cracking eggs into the pan, him buttering bread, both of us avoiding the spots where the patio stones weren’t quite level. The morning air was cool against my skin, but the sun was already strong enough to promise heat by midday.
“The volunteer schedule is on the counter,” I said, turning the eggs with a practiced flip. “I printed it last night. We need about ten people to finish setting up the square before noon.”
He nodded, slicing an orange into perfect quarters. “I’ll be done with Mrs. Keller’s car by then. Should only take an hour if the part fits.”
“It should,” I say. “I triple-checked the model number.”
He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting in the way that still made my stomach flip. “I know you did.”
We ate at the small table, our knees touching beneath it.
The conversation moved through the day’s logistics, who was bringing tables from the church basement, whether the sound system for the main stage needed a backup generator, whose turn it was to call the plumber about our slow-draining kitchen sink.
It was his, and he knew it, which was why he kept changing the subject.
After a kiss that made my knees a little weak, I headed out to run my errands for the day.
The Cedar Hills Community Living Center sat at the edge of town, a low, rambling building surrounded by gardens that the residents helped tend. I parked in my usual spot, not the visitor’s lot but the staff area where Carol had told me I could leave my car because I’m “practically family now.”
The phrase still sent a small thrill through me each time I thought of it.
Hal’s room was at the end of the east wing, with a view of the hills beyond town.
I knocked softly on the open door, waiting for him to turn from the window.
The room smelled of cedar shavings. Hal’s hands were too unsteady for woodworking now, but the staff let him keep the small pieces he’d made over the years.
On the windowsill, a framed photograph showed a younger Hal with his arm around a teenage Ethan, both of them sitting on the overlook bench, the town spread out behind them.
“Lena,” Hal said, his voice sounding stronger than his body looked. “Right on time.”
I stepped into the room, setting the small bag of lemon drops I brought on his bedside table. “Happy Fourth,” I said. “Big festival in town today.”
He nodded, his eyes, so like Ethan’s, bright with interest. “They setting up the fireworks at the lake again?”
“Behind the school this year. Better view for everyone.”
He patted the chair beside him, and I sat, careful not to bump his walker. His hands trembled more than they had last month, the tremor visible as he reached for the cup of water on the table. I steadied it for him without comment, and he nodded his thanks.
“Ethan coming by later?” he asked.
“After the festival. He’s helping Mrs. Keller first.”
Hal smiled, the expression transforming his weathered face.
“Always fixing things, that boy. Been that way since he was small. Always taking care of everyone.” He shifted in his chair, leaning forward slightly.
“You know he was only twelve when he restored that bench the first time? Stripped three screws before I showed him how to do it right.” His voice took on the cadence of a story he’d told many times.
“Had to sand the whole thing twice because he kept pressing too hard with the orbital. Left swirl marks all over the seat.”
I’d heard this before, many times in the last year actually, but I listened anyway. These stories were Hal’s treasures, the pieces of himself he was passing on.
“Good wood, though,” he continued. “White oak from the north forty.” His hand moved to the drawer of his bedside table, fingers searching until they found what they were looking for. “Speaking of good things...”
He pulled out a worn book, its cover soft with handling, the edges rounded from years of use. Hal held it out, his trembling hands making the offering both vulnerable and determined.
“It was Ethan’s mother’s. She would have liked you,” he said simply. “Had a good sense for people, Margaret did. Knew right away who belonged and who didn’t.”
I took the book with both hands, feeling the weight of it. “Thank you,” I said, my voice catching slightly. “I’ll take good care of it.”
He nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the window. “Going to be a good sunset tonight,” he said. “Clear like this. Fireworks’ll show up nice against the dark.”
I didn’t say much after that. We sat in comfortable silence, watching clouds drift across the blue summer sky. When it was time for me to go, Hal patted my wrist once, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“Tell Ethan I’ll see him later,” he said. “And save me a piece of that blueberry pie Marianne makes. The one with the crumble top.”
I promised I would, tucking Margaret’s book carefully into my bag.
“And Lena?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad he found you. Glad he’s got someone to take care of him for a change.”
I gave him a soft smile. “He made it easy on me.”
“Somehow, I doubt that. But I’m thankful nonetheless. You deserve each other. Thanks for keeping me company sweetheart.”
“Anytime,” I said. And I meant it. These visits had become a routine for me since we had first met a year ago, and I cherished them.
I sat in my car for a moment in the parking lot, feeling the weight of the morning’s gifts.
Small moments that marked the distance I had traveled from the woman who arrived in Cedar Hills with a clipboard and an exit strategy, to a woman who found home.
The town square pulsed with activity as I arrived, red, white, and blue bunting strung between lampposts, folding tables going up along the perimeter.
The smell of Marianne’s pulled pork drifted from the food tent, mingling with the scent of fresh-cut grass and mountain air.
I spotted Mark on a ladder, hanging strings of lights from the branches of the old oak, and waved as I wove between volunteers carrying chairs and extension cords.
Mrs. Donnelly called my name from the dessert table, holding up a plate of cookies shaped like stars, but I pointed toward the main stage where the real work waited.
I had the volunteer schedule tucked under my arm and though a lot had changed since my arrival at Cedar Hills, my need to keep to a schedule hadn’t.
Ethan was exactly where I’d expected, elbow-deep in the generator housing behind the main stage, his forehead creased in concentration.
The sound system for that night’s band sat beside him, wires trailing across the grass.
He didn’t look up when I approached, but his shoulders relaxed slightly, the way they always did when I was near.
Just one of the small ways that he told me he loved me, without even having to look at me.
“Problem,” I said, squatting beside him. “Ice delivery came up short. Four bags missing.”
He nodded, fingers still working at something inside the generator. “Hardware store,” he said without looking up. “Dale keeps a chest freezer in the back for emergencies.”
“Just another reason to adore that man.” I stood, brushing grass from my knees. “How long for the generator?”
“Fifteen minutes, if this gasket seals.” He finally glanced up, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You look beautiful today, you know?”
Heat rose in my cheeks at his compliment. “All that sweet talk isn’t going to get you anywhere if we don’t have music tonight mister.”
He chuckled softly before getting back to work.