21. Epilogue Lena #2
I found Dale behind the counter of his store, his glasses perched on his nose as he sorted through a box of washers. He looked up when the bell above the door jingled, breaking into a smile when he saw me.
“Lena! Perfect timing. Those brackets for your bathroom shelves came in yesterday.” He reached beneath the counter, producing a small paper bag. “Got em’ all here.”
“Thanks,” I said, tucking the bag into my purse. “Actually, I’m here about ice. Ethan said you might have some?”
“Emergency freezer in the back,” he confirmed. “Help yourself. Consider it a housewarming gift, even if it’s a year late.”
By the time I’d extracted four bags of ice, my shoulder sported a smear of sawdust from squeezing past the woodpile, and my hair had come loose from its ponytail.
I thanked Dale again and headed back to the square, ice bags tucked under each arm, already mentally calculating how many cups of lemonade each would make.
The food tent had transformed in my absence, folding tables now covered with red-checked cloths, serving stations laid out from appetizers to desserts.
Marianne waved from behind a mountain of potato salad, pointing me toward the lemonade stand where Mrs. Alvarez waited with empty coolers and a look of quiet desperation.
“Four bags,” I said, setting my burden down. “Should get us through the first rush at least.”
Mrs. Alvarez’s face lit with relief. “Bless you, ni?a. I was about to send my grandson to the gas station in Riverton.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Dale. And Ethan, of course.”
She nodded knowingly. “That man. Always knowing exactly what’s needed.”
Speaking of Ethan, I spotted him across the square, heading toward the food tent with the purposeful stride that meant a problem solved.
His forearms were streaked with grease, a dark smudge on one cheekbone that he was unaware of.
Our eyes met across the crowded space, and something warm settled in my chest. The satisfaction of being exactly where I was supposed to be, with exactly who I was supposed to be with.
We met behind the tent, where the noise of setup was slightly muted.
Up close, I could see the line of sweat along his hairline, the way his t-shirt stuck to his shoulders in the growing heat.
He reached for me without hesitation, brushing two fingers along my temple where sawdust had caught in my hair.
“Dale’s lumber pile?” he asked, voice soft with amusement.
I nodded. “Worth it for the ice.”
“Generator’s running,” he said. “Just needed a new gasket and some creative wiring.”
We stood for a moment in comfortable silence.
Then Mrs. Alvarez appeared with a cup of lemonade, pressing it into Ethan’s hands before shuffling away.
Ethan took a long drink from his cup, then passed it to me without comment.
I took a sip, the tart-sweetness cool against my throat, before handing it back.
We passed it between us, sharing the same cup without discussion, a small intimacy that felt more significant than it should.
“The pie contest,” I said suddenly, remembering my conversation with Marianne. “It should start at four, not four-thirty. The light’s better for photographs then, and we’ll have everything cleaned up before the band starts at six.”
“Four’s pushing it,” he said finally. “Judges need time to sample everything properly.”
“They only need five minutes per pie, and there are three judges. That’s...” I did the quick math. “Twenty-five minutes for eight pies, plus ten minutes to deliberate. We could start at four-fifteen and still finish with good light.”
He sighed, the sound fond rather than frustrated. “Fine. Four-fifteen. But you’re the one who tells Mrs. Wheeler. She’s been coordinating the dessert contest since before I was born.”
“I’ll handle Mrs. Wheeler,” I promised. I would snag her with a carefully placed compliment about her rhubarb crumble, a strategy I’d developed through months of small-town diplomacy.
“You two have become the town’s unofficial power couple,” said a voice behind us. We turned to find Carol standing there, her pen poised above what looked like a checklist. “Making executive decisions about festival scheduling now?”
“Just suggestions,” I said quickly. “The light’s better at four-fifteen for the pie judging photos, that’s all.”
Carol made a note on her clipboard. “Four-fifteen it is. Mrs. Wheeler will understand when she sees the difference in the historical society’s album.” She tapped her pen against the clipboard once, decisively. “The things you notice, Lena. It’s why we kept you.”
Before I could respond, she was walking away, clipboard tucked under her arm, already calling instructions to the teenagers setting up the volleyball net. I turned to Ethan, finding him watching me with an expression that made my stomach flip despite the year we’d spent together.
“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
He just shook his head, smile deepening. “Nothing. Just thinking Carol’s right. About the power couple thing.”
“We’re not?—”
“Aren’t we?” He took the empty lemonade cup from my hand, our fingers brushing. “Making decisions, solving problems, running this town between the two of us?” His voice was light, but his eyes were serious. “Sounds like a power couple to me.”
I wanted to argue, old habit, but the words didn’t come. Instead, I found myself nodding slightly, accepting the label with a mix of pride and wonder.
Ethan’s hand found mine, warm and sure. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a festival to finish setting up. And then,” His voice dropped lower, meant for my ears alone. “I’ve got plans for later that don’t involve folding chairs or extension cords.”
A small shiver ran through me as we headed back into the square together, hand in hand.
Late afternoon light stretched our shadows across the meadow as we climbed the footpath to the overlook.
Ethan’s hand was warm in mine, his calluses familiar against my palm as we navigated the rocky sections that always made me stumble.
We’d slipped away from the festival, just for an hour, we’d promised Marianne, leaving the square to Mark and Mrs. Alvarez while we stole this quiet moment together.
The path narrowed as we approached the ridge, pine branches brushing our shoulders, the air cooling as we got higher.
Below us, Cedar Hills spread out, the church steeple, the water tower, Main Street lined with festival booths and flags.
Beyond the town, the lake reflected the sinking sun, a mirror of molten gold.
The valley below was already dotted with people, families claiming spots for the fireworks, spreading blankets and setting up lawn chairs. From up here, they looked like colorful specks against the green. A child’s laugh carried up to us, clear and bright despite the distance.
“The Roberts family always camps out by the big oak,” Ethan said, pointing to a cluster of figures near the eastern edge of the field. “Been their spot since I was in diapers. Dad used to take me there when I was small. Best view of the fireworks from that angle.”
We reached the overlook clearing, and the view opened up.
Cedar Hills to the west, the lake to the north, forested hills rolling toward the horizon in every direction.
The bench sat where it always had, facing the town, its wood worn by years of visitors.
Ethan ran a finger along the edge of the seat, tracing a small notch carved into the underside.
“Dad’s,” he said when he saw me watching. “One for each significant moment. Mine, when I was born. Mom’s, when they got married. The town’s centennial. The day you arrived.” His smile turned wry. “He added that one after he met you the first time. Said Cedar Hills had found its guardian.”
The mention of Hal shifted our conversation to the past year, the unexpected path that brought me from outsider to someone the town counted on.
We talked about the week in March when we didn’t speak for three days after a disagreement about the kitchen renovation.
He wanted to gut it completely and start fresh, I wanted to preserve the original cabinets.
“I thought you were going to leave,” Ethan admitted, his voice low. “Pack your things while I was at the shop and just... go. It’s what you would have done before.”
He was right. A year ago, conflict meant exit. Clean break, fresh start, no messy emotional aftermath. “I thought about it,” I confessed. “Got as far as looking at apartments in Riverton online.”
“But you didn’t go.”
I shook my head. “Couldn’t. Not after I calmed down and realized how stupid it was. Not when walking away meant losing...” I paused, searching for the right word. “This. You. Everything we’ve built.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying my face with an intensity that made my chest tight. Then he asked, simply and directly: “Do you ever regret staying? Choosing Cedar Hills over your career?”
The question wasn’t unexpected—it was the one that had hovered between us since that night at the overlook when everything changed. I’d answered it in a hundred small ways over the past year, but I’d never put it into words quite this clearly.
“There was a project in Albany last month,” I said, watching a hawk circle above the lake. “Road corridor assessment. Good money, straightforward work. The kind of job I built my career on.”
Ethan’s body went very still beside me. “You didn’t mention it.”
“I turned it down in about ten minutes,” I continued. “Called them back before I’d even finished my coffee.” I turned to face him fully. “It wasn’t a hard decision, Ethan. Not even close.”
Something flickered across his face—relief, wonder, love. His hand found mine on the bench between us, fingers lacing through mine with gentle certainty.
“What about the house on Birch Street?” he asked, changing the subject with the careful tact that was so characteristic of him. “The Walkers are still interested in selling?”