Epilogue
Cora and I are woken up at five o’clock in the morning by Pearl with Winnie on her hip. Pearl is a skinny kid, and at almost a year old, Winnie is a chunker, so it’s a real balancing act.
“Daddy! Mommy! Time to get up! It’s puppy day!” she stage-whispers. I’m not sure why she’s keeping her voice down. All four of us are awake now.
Cora scrubs her eyes, struggling to sit up in bed. She’s been sleeping deeper since Winnie has given up her night feed.
“What time is it?” she grumbles.
“Puppy time,” I say, grinning at Pearl and grabbing Winnie, who’s starting to slip.
“Come on, Mommy.” Pearl circles to Cora’s side of the bed to grab her hand and urge her out. “We have to get ready. Our appointment is at ten o’clock on the dot.”
I don’t know where she’s getting that “on the dot” business. The foster family told us anytime today would work for them. Let’s hope seven o’clock in the morning counts as “anytime.”
Cora wanted to adopt from the county shelter, but I ruled that out pretty much immediately after my reconnaissance mission. The concrete, the noise, the animal control officers in uniform. There were too many potential triggers for Cora. Maybe for our next animal.
I had Michelle contact the person in charge of the shelter to connect them with the company’s philanthropic arm. Hiring people to foster all the dogs really isn’t feasible. Michelle’s idea to fund a new facility is much better.
Plan B is a beagle rescue organization. We’ve completed the home visit and the paperwork.
The only thing left is to meet Gonzo, the two-year-old male that Pearl picked from the website.
We were advised not to adopt an actual puppy with a baby in the house because of the breed’s tendency to nip.
All dogs are puppies to Cora and Pearl, though.
I’m not sure who is more excited. She might have been slow to wake, but Cora’s in high gear now. She’s already in the shower, leaving me to give Winnie a bottle for her morning feed. It’s no problem. A key aspect of our new relationship is that Cora doesn’t soft-pedal anything with me anymore.
One morning, Cora got hung up with something in the bathroom, and Winnie was fussing by the time she made it to the nursery.
I was trying to comfort her—I think I was stroking her head—but I was obviously doing it wrong.
Cora grabbed a bag of breast milk from the fridge, slapped it into my palm, handed me a bottle, and said, “If I die or get sick, you are not letting our baby starve because you’re scared of your emotions. ”
And then she took Pearl by the hand and marched her out of the room.
I figured it out.
Thankfully, Cora takes over once she’s dressed. We have breakfast, and then, under Cora’s orders, we conduct a thorough inspection of our new backyard fence and all the dog gear. We’re able to hold off leaving the house until nine o’clock.
The foster family is about an hour away. We’re meeting Gonzo in their backyard. They have several animals, so it’s easier for us to come to them than vice versa. Johnson drives. The family seems nice, and they checked out fine, but it’s too unknown a situation not to bring some backup.
Cora and Pearl chat the whole way. When Pearl asks Cora if she had a dog when she was little, Cora says, “I never had one of my own, but there was a dog I really loved.”
“What was his name?” Pearl asks.
“Ellis.”
Pearl nods in approval. “Like the island.”
“Exactly,” Cora agrees. “Do you think we’ll want to change Gonzo’s name once we meet him?”
“Even if we change it, he’ll still be him,” Pearl observes. “We’ll love him no matter what.”
I’m careful not to catch Cora’s eye. I’m not letting anything heavy touch this day if I can help it. But I do grab her hand and pull it onto my lap. She twines her fingers with mine. I relax in my seat.
Not everything is good now. Even though I’ve had the pre-nup rescinded, rehired Schmidt, fired the man Cora refers to as the “bitchy” cook, and moved her money to a brokerage of her choosing which I—at the time—did not own, Cora refuses to marry me for real.
She says she doesn’t want to rush into anything serious.
She thinks she’s funny, and frankly, she’s right.
She jokes more now, or maybe I laugh more. Maybe both.
She still sees Deborah twice a week, and often, she’s totally drained when she comes out of the office. She’ll sleep on my shoulder all the way back to the house.
Several times, Deborah has recommended to Cora that she start an SSRI. Cora refuses. She says she wants to be angry when she’s angry, that she’s earned it.
I don’t argue. I turn all the frustrated energy from being unable to fix things for her into rowing. And revenge.
I started with Brian McDonough. I considered having him disbarred.
No one asked him to steamroll Cora into signing the prenup.
He took that upon himself. But then I talked to Nicolet and Burgess.
They were ready to fire him, of course, but they were genuinely disappointed.
Apparently, McDonough has become a highly effective courtroom litigator. I had an idea.
If McDonough wants to keep his license and reputation, half of his hours have to be pro bono work for juvenile offenders and kids in the foster system. He hates it—his dreams of partnership have evaporated—but damned if he isn’t good in family court, too.
Gideon’s connections have helped make Cora’s foster parents’ lives a little more miserable in lockup. His connections also ensured that all copies of the CCTV tape have been destroyed, and Delaney fully understands the cost of going to the press.
It is widely understood that the Maddox companies will not do business with anyone employing her.
The last I heard, she was working for a credit union based in Salt Lake City.
I’ll let her get comfortable for a few months before I make a phone call.
No one who threatens my children is enjoying a life of peace, not for long.
For once, no one has to pee or have their diaper changed before we arrive at the Muncie’s, the beagle’s foster family.
After we get all that settled, and I’ve taken Mr. Muncie aside to personally thank him for hosting us, Mrs. Muncie leads us into the fenced backyard.
There’s a weathered picnic table, a rickety playset, and plastic toys—for both animals and children—strewn about like this was the scene of a great battle.
“I’ll be right back with Gonzo,” Mrs. Muncie says. Apparently, in anticipation of our visit, the animals are in their crates in the basement.
Cora and Pearl nervously take a seat on the picnic table bench, facing the house. Winnie sits in Cora’s lap. They’re all vibrating with excitement. Winnie has no idea what’s happening, but she’s feeling the vibes.
It’s still terrifying, if I stop to think about it, how everything that matters to me in the world, my entire reason for living, is just sitting there, the three of them crowded together, squirming and kicking their feet and smiling at me in anticipation, as if I’m the man about to make their dreams come true.
It’s still terrifying how close I came to successfully throwing it all away.
I go take a seat next to my family, scooping Winnie onto my lap. She squeals with delight. I think it’s because of me, but then I see the adorable dog bounding up the basement steps, floppy ears flying. He makes a beeline for us, his paws swallowing up the distance between us.
Pearl opens her arms.
“Gonzo! Gonzo, sit!” Mrs. Muncie calls, and at the very last second, Gonzo, with more self-control than I’ve ever seen exhibited by any living thing in my life, pulls himself up short and plants his butt on the ground between Pearl’s feet, huffing and puffing like he ran a mile, not a yard.
“Shake,” Mrs. Muncie says, coming up behind him.
Gonzo raises a paw. Pearl’s eyes light up like Christmas. “Mommy?”
“Go ahead,” Cora says.
Pearl shakes.
“Gonzo is a very well-behaved gentleman. Aren’t you, Gonzo?” Mrs. Muncie asks.
I don’t know. Gonzo looks to me like a guy just waiting for the boss to leave. I’m proven right, when a few minutes later, Mrs. Muncie excuses herself to move a load of laundry to the dryer.
I couldn’t say who starts it, but as soon as she disappears into the basement, Pearl and Gonzo are rolling around on the ground together.
He’s slurping her face, and she’s squealing with pure delight.
Winnie bends as far forward on my lap as she can, wiggling her fingers, trying to get a piece of the action.
Cora and I are watching, bemused, when another floppy-eared fellow struggles up the stairs from the basement. This time, Mrs. Muncie doesn’t follow. Did she accidentally leave the door open? I can’t imagine this creaky old guy executed any kind of daring escape plan.
For starters, he’s not a runner. His muzzle is grizzled, and his eyes are cloudy.
He has more than a few extra pounds on him.
He steadfastly trots our way, snuffling the ground as he comes.
When he arrives, he sniffs our shoes and pant legs and Cora’s crotch, then decides upon his preference, setting his chin on Cora’s knee and closing his eyes.
Cora immediately begins scratching behind his ears. “Where did you come from? I don’t think you’re supposed to be out here, are you? Did you escape?”
The fugitive has nothing to say for himself. He accepts a few more minutes of attention and then pads off to continue his sniffing mission.
“Should we tell Mrs. Muncie?” Cora asks.
“He’s okay. The yard is fenced.”
We both watch him wander from tuft of grass to tree trunk while Pearl tries to get Gonzo to shake again. Gonzo is no longer familiar with the term.
I’ve turned my attention to the two of them when the fugitive returns, carrying a sun-bleached bone made of frayed rope in his mouth. He drops it at Cora’s feet and plops his head back on her thigh for his reward.