Epilogue
Walker and Emily couldn’t have hoped for a more beautiful late August evening for their wedding.
And their brewery resort on quaint Hornby Island, just off Cape Cod, has been decked out like the most spectacular garden party.
A couple dozen round tables are set out on the central lawn, where we’ve all enjoyed a fabulous dinner of local seafood and locally grown produce, rounded off with the most delicious wedding cake I’ve ever tasted. It was made by a baker in the small town at the other end of the island, and I’m definitely going to see if they can make a chocolate one for Tom and me.
Yes. A chocolate wedding cake. No dicks in sight. But definitely a chocolate cake.
Beyond the tables, strings of lights crisscross above a driftwood dance floor that looks out to the ocean and, currently, has a stunning pinky-peach backdrop of the setting sun. Posts at the four corners are wrapped with spirals of wildflowers, and a band plays on a raised area at one side.
The band is a mishmash of people I was worried would never work well together. But after just two rehearsals, you’d think the guitarist and vocalist from Walker and Emily’s favorite local island pub band, the drummer from Jane Doe and the Stags, and Emily’s concert pianist sister had been playing together for a lifetime.
The nerve-racking job of kicking off the entertainment for the evening fell to me.
Walker and Emily wanted Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend”—a terrifyingly difficult song—for their first dance. So I came over earlier in the week, and the singer from the pub band and I practiced the ever-loving crap out of it. And tonight, with her as my backing—yes, someone singing backup for me!—we totally pulled it off and everyone loved it.
I couldn’t have been more honored and touched that they asked me to perform their first dance song as well as an old boyband hit—a standing joke between Walker and Emily—that got everyone smiling and dancing.
Not that everyone wasn’t already beyond happy. After an emotional ceremony, the delicious dinner, Tom’s fabulously hilarious and tear-jerky best man speech, and more Toasted Tomato craft beer than any of us should probably have had, the air could not be more alive with joy.
And sitting here at an otherwise empty table in the back corner is the perfect spot to soak it all up.
Tom’s dancing with a barefoot Maggie—she gave up on her heels a while ago—while Dylan bops carefully with Max’s heavily pregnant wife, Polly, who’s due any day now. The whole family is bursting with anticipation, awaiting the imminent arrival of the first Dashwood grandchild.
“This knee has done all the dancing it can manage for one evening,” Hugo says, taking the seat next to me.
Walker suggested Tom invite him over from London for the weekend because Tom’s been increasingly worried about how well Hugo’s been coping, or rather not coping, these last few months since the end of his soccer career. And Tom feels guilty for no longer being in London to offer moral support.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask.
“Not all the time now. Only if I overdo it. This helps.” He raises his beer glass and drains it. “I always thought American beer was total crap. But I have to say, Walker makes a fine pint.”
“You were chatting for quite a while there with Chase Cooper.” I nod toward Hollywood’s favorite good-guy movie star, who’s a big investor in the resort. “Did you already know him?”
“Only met him recently,” Hugo says. “It’s a bit of a story.”
“Good God.” Tom flops down beside me and drapes his arm around the back of my chair. “Maggie could dance me under the table.”
“Now you’re both here and we have a quiet moment…” Hugo casts his eyes around the area. There’s no one at the tables anywhere near us. Everyone else is either sitting closer to the action, dancing, or at the outdoor bar. “I have some news.”
There’s a glint in his eye.
“Finally met the woman of your dreams?” Tom asks, as if it’s as inconceivable as him meeting Elvis. He gives me a quick peck on the temple.
“Yeah, that’s likely.” Hugo rolls his eyes. “I can’t ever imagine being like you guys. Or them.” He nods toward the happy couple, who’re attempting some sort of dramatic tango surrounded by a circle of guests clapping and cheering them on.
“Maybe a new job?” I suggest.
Hugo looks at Tom. “She reads minds?”
“Definitely mine,” Tom says, tickling the back of my neck and sending a shiver down my spine that makes me look forward to heading back to our room later. “But since no club will touch you with a ten-foot pole for a coaching job, given your…er…reputation…then what is it? Is it with a sports gear company or something?”
“Nope.” He smiles a satisfied smile. “It is a coaching job.”
Tom leans forward. “I thought you were a pariah and no European club would touch you because you’ve either offended, thumped, or shagged everyone they know.”
“Who said it was for a European club?” Hugo drums his fingertips together under his chin, like a Bond villain.
“Oh, interesting.” Tom says. “Where then? Brazil?”
The band segues almost seamlessly from whatever the tango thing was to a conga.
“Nope.” Hugo taps the table to the beat.
“But it must be South America somewhere, right?” Tom tries. “I can’t imagine there’s anywhere else in the world that has clubs you’d be interested in working for.”
A beaming Dylan takes hold of Polly’s waist as they join the conga line circling the dance floor.
“Nope,” Hugo says.
This could go on forever. “Could you maybe just tell us?” I ask. “Or Tom’s going to be sitting here trying to name countries outside Europe and South America for the rest of the night.”
Emily, who’s at the head of the conga, leads everyone onto the lawn, holding up her dress to keep it off the grass.
“Well,” Hugo mirrors Tom and leans on the table toward us, lowering his voice. “Remember that meeting I had when I came to visit you in February?”
“Um.” Tom looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “My mind was on other things at the time.”
I pinch his chin. “It all worked out okay in the end though, didn’t it?”
“Sure did.” He takes my fingers from his face and kisses my hand.
“Okay, okay, love’s young dream,” Hugo says.
The conga train heads toward the lookout over the ocean.
“Yeah. You were meeting someone in Boston about something,” Tom says. “Oh! Fuck.” I can almost see the lightbulb illuminate his brain. “You got a coaching job in Boston?”
Hugo nods with a satisfied smile.
“For the Massachusetts Maritimers then.” Tom punches the air in victory. “Must be.”
“Nope.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Tom deflates and despair spreads across his face. “You’re not going to work for the god-awful Boston Commoners?”
“No need to say their name like they’re something you’ve scraped off your shoe.” Hugo shoves Tom so hard his chair tips onto two legs. “They have potential.”
“About as much potential as a fish flapping around on dry land. Last season was their first in the MLS and they didn’t score a single goal. They’re not doing much better so far in this one. And from what I’ve heard, they’re not exactly rolling in cash to shake up the team.”
The smiling and whooping conga line loops around the lookout then heads back across the lawn toward us, the low sunlight glinting off the water behind it.
“Then the only way is up, my friend,” Hugo says. “You know I love a challenge.”
“Maybe with women. But not with footy. You don’t know anything other than being at the top of the game in the world’s most glamorous clubs. And now you’re going to coach a ragtag bottom-of-the-league team?”
“They won’t be ragtag or bottom of the league for long. Cash is on its way. It’s just been bought by an A-list consortium. All still hush-hush because it’s not been announced yet, but your man Chase Cooper over there is one of them.” He nods toward where the actor voted Sexiest Man on Earth for the last three years running is currently dancing with an elderly woman and a small child, neither of whom could possibly look more delighted.
“Wow,” Tom and I say together.
“Who’re the others?” he asks.
“Leo Johanssen, one of the investors on that Lion’s Den TV show.” Hugo checks them off on his fingers. “Some squillionaire property developer I’ve never heard of. And Prince Oliver, the king’s grandson—the disgraced Scottish one who lives somewhere over here now.”
My and Tom’s eyes get wider with every name.
“That is quite the bizarre collection of people,” I say.
“Yeah, how the hell do those guys even know each other?” Tom asks.
“Oh, I dunno. There was a story about a weird coincidence or something, but I don’t recall.” Hugo looks like he also couldn’t give a damn. “All I know is they have cash to pump into the club, they love football, and want to win. And they believe I”—he puffs out his chest and taps it with his empty beer glass—“am the man to make all their dreams come true.”
“Whoa. No pressure then,” Tom says.
I kick him under the table. The last thing Hugo needs right now is another blow to his confidence. He might be most likely to be voted Cockiest Man on Earth, but he’s had a tough time since the injury.
“When do you start?” I ask.
“Monday.”
“Shit,” Tom and I say together.
“Like I say, all been very hush-hush. After that meeting at the end of February, I heard nothing. So I figured that was that. Then, out of nowhere, it happened all of a sudden in the last few days. They’ll announce my appointment at a press conference right after I’ve met the players first thing Monday.”
“It seems like you’re raring to get back at it. So that’s perfect timing,” I tell him. “It’s obviously meant to be.”
“Like Hugo’s ever believed in omens or fate,” Tom says.
“Nope.” Hugo says. “But I know it’s the right decision because I know how to make right decisions.”
Tom stifles a laugh.
“Okay, okay.” Hugo folds his arms. “It’s the right decision because it’s my only option other than lying on my sofa watching black-and-white movies while drinking beer all day. And since, contrary to public opinion, I don’t have a self-destruct button, I thought I’d take a job that keeps me out of trouble. Plus, it might, you know, be fun helping to revive the team, dragging them up from the bottom of the league, and all that. It’ll be good to have something to fight for.”
The conga snakes its way between the round dining tables, each with a beer bottle at its center holding an arrangement of local wildflowers. Most are now also littered with streamers, empty glasses, and plates of half-eaten cake.
“Well, I guess you can always quit if you hate it,” Tom says.
The line of cheering dancers approaches us, the only people left sitting.
“Quit?” Hugo’s voice is rich with irony. “You have met me, right?”
The conga passes behind us.
“God, help?—”
“Come on!” Walker cries, grabbing Tom by the arm and yanking him into position behind him at the end of the line.
His more knowledgeable audience gone, Hugo turns to me. “I can totally turn the Commoners around.”
There’s something about his tone that suggests he might be trying to convince himself as much as me.
“Well, it’ll definitely be a great challenge and something to focus your energy on.” Knowing as much about playing soccer as I do about playing a didgeridoo, I’ll leave my sports career advice there. “You stay here and rest your knee. I need to conga with my soon-to-be-official family.”
I catch up with the back of the line and grab Tom’s waist. He jumps with surprise, takes one of my hands, gives it a quick kiss, and then turns back to hang onto Walker again.
The long line ahead of us curves back toward the band, and everyone comes into view. The whole family. Emily is at the front, followed by Jim, then Maggie. Then between other family and friends I don’t know, there’s Connor and Rose, Elliot and Charlotte, Max and the pregnant Polly, with Dylan behind her. And here at the back there’s Walker with his big brother, Tom, holding on behind. Bringing up the rear is me. The newest Dashwood partner.
I might be the newest, but I was also the first.
And I might have lost my own family long ago, but I could not be luckier than to have been welcomed as part of this one. They say you don’t get to pick your family. But I kind of did. And I could not have made a better choice.
The whole Dashwood clan and one yet to be born into this big, loving, fabulous family step-kick our way back to the dance floor.
Hugo’s new coaching job at the completely useless Boston Commoners soccer team sounds interesting, right?! I wonder who he might meet there…