Epilogue
The Adaptation
“What’s something that surprised you about the release of Proud ?” a young woman in the crowd asked.
Mo paused, considering the wide range of answers.
“I’m always amazed at the hunger that we have to reimagine familiar stories.
Look at how many books and movies we have every year that are remakes, or even retellings of folktales.
We have an endless need to know again and again that happy endings are possible or that we really shouldn’t trust wolves we meet in the woods.
But I am most happy that my ending, my open-ended version, has been accepted so much by the public.
I think having a happy ending doesn’t mean that a book doesn’t have literary merit.
If fiction is meant to explore the human condition, which I think is its purpose, it’s okay to tell a story that ends with joy.
We experience joy too. We experience freedom from bad relationships and the hope for better ones. ”
There was some applause in the audience, and Mo smiled, then continued. “And I can’t promise that every book I’ll write will be joyful. Or a retelling. But I believe readers latch on to books they love and make them a success. I am so grateful to all of you for helping to do that for Proud .”
More applause, then another hand in the audience. She pointed at the man, who cleared his throat and asked. “And what do you say about the rumors that the estate is allowing another adaptation to move forward?”
“Oh, well, I cannot comment on news that hasn’t yet been made official, but if there were to be another adaptation, I would fully welcome it. Morgan’s work is resilient, and I can’t see it being dimmed by more retellings.”
The same man spoke again, adjusting his glasses. “And your work? You’re not worried about the direct competition of your book against another adaptation?”
“A little competition never hurt anyone,” she said, eyes twinkling.
After the event, Wes took Mo’s hand and they walked through the outer gardens of the Hill.
It was their first time returning to the estate since their weekend together.
In the meantime, the peonies had been manicured into a more formal garden and the fenced-in hot tub had been removed from the property.
They walked past the place where it formerly had been, hand in hand.
“Too bad,” Wes said, “I would have liked a second shot at it now that I always carry condoms on me.”
Mo laughed and shushed him, looking around to make sure no one had overheard.
They’d been living together for two years in his brownstone.
Perkins’s cage had a window view of the park, and when they let him loose in the evenings, he snuffled around and cozied up on the couch next to them as if he had had the long day of work, not them.
Perkins didn’t mind their new housemate either.
After spending a year looking at local shelters, they had adopted a rescue chocolate Labrador retriever named Cookie, who ran with Wes in the mornings and cuddled with Mo all afternoon as she wrote.
It was surreal to be back here where everything had started.
This time, Mo hadn’t brought any edibles with her, and her outfit wasn’t from Target.
When she read her book now, it was to crowds at bookstores and auditoriums, not to just Wes or Estelle.
And soon they could share the news of Wes’s novel.
The break of a few years between their release dates, plus the demonstration of market interest, had given Elena enough leverage to purchase Wes’s project, but this wouldn’t technically be his debut.
He’d self-published his romance novel under a pen name last year, his passion project, and found a healthy demand for his work.
Romance agreed with him, and writing stories with happy endings seemed to make him happy too.
Still, Mo knew he was nervous and excited to have the clout of literary fiction behind The Lost .
And she felt a little lost, this far back in the formal gardens.
The other meandering visitors had disappeared from around them as they wandered deeper into the roses.
The smell of them draped around them, floral and heady under the bright June sunshine.
A stone fountain jutted out in front of them from the middle of a paved circle, and Mo took a seat on its ledge to get her bearings and her breath back.
The next moment, Wes was kneeling in front of her.
“Oh,” she said, all other words gone.
He smiled at her. “Maureen Denton, I am lucky to know you and love you. These past three years have been the most wonderful of my life. I will root for you until the end of the known universe, no matter what you aim for and who you want to be. I am so lucky to have you as my partner in love, literature, and life.”
She felt a flush creep up her breastbone, heart thrumming madly.
Wes cleared his throat. “And knowing that, all that, Mo, I have to ask …”
Could she even hear him over the blood rushing in her ears? “Yes?”
“Would you do me the honor of blurbing my book?”
She laughed so hard she coughed, and he sat on the fountain next to her.
When he did, she couldn’t resist shoving him backward to splash into it.
The movement made her lose her own balance too, and she ended up sopping wet next to him.
They were both laughing now. Wes wiped his face with his soaked shirt, realizing it was making no impact at all.
“You absolute asshole,” she said, splashing him.
“Does that mean you wouldn’t marry me either?” He reached into the damp back pocket of his slacks and brought out a small square box. “I didn’t want to romantic-gesture you at a work event or anything, but I thought it would be nice to do it here.”
It took a lot of faith to believe in love that lasts, but Mo Denton was starting to have that faith.
It was the same kind of daily effort that writing took—that attention to the small things, that push to move forward, even when it was hard.
It was knowing what you had was good and working to make it better. “I will,” she said, kissing him.
And she knew they were ready for the adaptations they would make together for the rest of their lives.