Epilogue #2
“You learned from both of us.” He looks away, then back. “I taught you to be tough. To survive. That’s not nothing.”
“No. It’s not.”
We’re quiet for a moment, swaying to the music.
“I’m not going to apologize again,” he says finally. “I’ve done that. And you were right, an apology is a start, not an ending.” He meets my eyes. “But I want you to know that I’m trying. I’m trying to be the father you deserve, even if I don’t know how. Even if I get it wrong.”
“I know you’re trying.”
“Is that enough?”
I consider the question. Consider the man in front of me, flawed, limited, so different from the father I wished I had, but still here. Still trying. Still showing up.
“It’s a start,” I say. “We can build from there.”
He nods, and the tension in his posture releases.
“I’d like that.”
“Don’t get emotional. I can only handle so many crying men at my wedding.”
He actually laughs, a surprised sound, rusty with disuse, and for a moment he looks like the father I remember from before my mother died. The one who used to spin me around the living room while she clapped and laughed.
“I do love you, Lucille. I know I’ve done a terrible job of showing it. But I do.”
“I know, Dad.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m learning to believe it.”
The song ends, and he releases me, and Hugo is there to take his place, sliding his arm around my waist, pulling me close, murmuring “okay?” against my hair.
“Okay,” I confirm. “Better than okay.”
“Good.” He spins me gently. “Because I have plans for you later, Mrs. Kensington, and I’d hate for family drama to get in the way.”
“Plans?”
“Many plans. Elaborate plans. Plans involving that dress and what’s underneath it.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“You married me anyway.”
“Twice now.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He laughs and dips me again, and I shriek with surprise, and somewhere in the crowd Alice is taking photos and Florence is crying and my father is watching with an expression I’ve never seen before.
It looks almost like hope.
***
Midnight comes in a blur.
The guests are gone. The caterers have packed up. The vineyard is quiet except for the distant sound of crickets and the soft rustle of wind through the olive trees.
I’m standing at the window of our bedroom, looking out at the valley below.
The moon is full, painting everything silver, and I can see the remnants of the ceremony still visible on the lawn, the arbor draped in flowers, the chairs that haven’t been collected yet, the evidence of the best day of my life.
I’m still wearing the dress.
I haven’t been able to take it off. It took six months to make, every pearl button hand-sewn, every seam reinforced, every inch of lace carefully placed, and wearing it feels like wearing my mother’s love, my own dreams, everything I hoped for and finally have.
“You’re still dressed.”
Hugo’s voice comes from the doorway. He’s shed his jacket and tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair mussed from dancing. He looks relaxed in a way I’ve rarely seen, happy and loose and completely, utterly present.
“I don’t want to take it off,” I admit. “It took me six months to make.”
He crosses the room and wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder as he looks at our reflection in the window.
“I could enjoy taking it off for you.”
Heat blooms in my stomach.
“Could you?”
“Mmm.” His lips brush my neck. “Very slowly. Very thoroughly. With appropriate appreciation for the craftsmanship involved.”
“There are a lot of buttons.”
“I noticed.” His fingers trace down my spine, finding the first of the tiny pearl closures. “How many, exactly?”
“Forty-seven.”
“Forty-seven.” He laughs softly against my skin. “You did this on purpose.”
“Maybe I wanted to make you work for it.”
“I don’t mind working for it.” He unfastens the first button, then the second, his fingers warm against my bare back. “I don’t mind anything when it comes to you.”
“Smooth talker.”
“Honest talker.” Third button. Fourth. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, you know. Watching you in this dress, knowing what was underneath, counting the hours until I could get you alone.”
My breath catches. “What were you thinking?”
“Inappropriate things.” Fifth button. Sixth. “Very inappropriate things, especially for a church ceremony.”
“It wasn’t a church ceremony. It was a lawn.”
“Same spiritual energy.” He’s worked his way down to my mid-back now, the fabric parting to reveal more skin with each released closure. “I was thinking about how beautiful you looked walking toward me. How I almost forgot my vows because I couldn’t remember how to form words.”
“You remembered eventually.”
“Eventually.” His mouth presses warm against my shoulder blade. “I was thinking about how much I love you. How lucky I am that you gave me another chance. How I’m never going to waste a single day of the rest of our lives.”
I turn in his arms, the partially unfastened dress slipping down my shoulders.
“Stop talking and finish what you started.”
His smile is devastating.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He guides me toward the bed, turning me so he can access the remaining buttons. His progress is torturously slow, each closure releasing with a soft pop, each inch of exposed skin receiving attention from his lips, his fingers, his warm breath.
“Twenty-three,” he murmurs against my lower back. “Twenty-four.”
“You’re counting?”
“I’m savoring.” Twenty-five. Twenty-six. “This dress is a masterpiece. It deserves to be appreciated.”
“You’re appreciating me, not the dress.”
“I’m appreciating both.” Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. “The woman and the art she creates. They’re inseparable.”
The last button releases, and the dress falls away.
I’m standing in moonlight in nothing but silk undergarments, a bridal set I made myself, white lace and delicate ribbon, the kind of thing meant to be seen and then discarded.
Hugo’s sudden intake of breath is gratifying.
“Jesus, Lucille.”
“Do you like it?”
“I think like is a massive understatement.” His hands span my waist, pulling me back against him. “I think you’re trying to kill me.”
“Death by lingerie. What a way to go.”
“Worth it.” He turns me to face him, his eyes moving over me with an intensity that makes me shiver. “Completely worth it.”
He kneels to help me step out of the dress, lifting each foot carefully, laying the gown aside with reverence. And then, still on his knees, he looks up at me with an expression that makes my heart stutter.
“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “Every word. I’m never going to stop showing up for you.”
“I know.”
“I’m never going to stop noticing you.”
“I know.”
“I’m never going to stop…”
“Hugo.” I thread my fingers through his hair. “I know. Now stop talking and show me.”
He presses a kiss to my stomach. Then my hip. Then my thigh.
Then he stands, lifting me with him, and carries me to the bed.
This is different from the times before.
The first time was desperate, angry and hungry and full of all the things we couldn’t say. The second was healing, reconciliation, the slow rebuild of trust, the careful relearning of each other’s bodies.
This time is celebration.
Hugo lays me on the bed with reverence, like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
He undresses slowly, letting me watch, and I do watch, the lines of his body that I’ve come to know so well, the way he moves with confident grace, the evidence of his desire clear and unashamed.
“I love you,” he says as he settles over me.
“I love you too.”
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it.”
“You’ve already proven it.”
“Then I’m going to spend the rest of my life celebrating it.”
He enters me slowly, and we both gasp, not from surprise but from the rightness of it. The feeling of finally being exactly where we’re supposed to be.
We move together in the moonlight, unhurried and tender, speaking without words. His hands learn me again, reverent and thorough. My legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, deeper, until there’s no space between us at all.
“Look at me,” he whispers.
I open my eyes.
His face is silver-lit and beautiful, his expression one of such pure love that it takes my breath away.
“I see you,” he says. “I see everything.”
“I know.”
“I’m never going to look away again.”
The pleasure builds slowly, wave upon wave, cresting higher each time. He watches my face as I climb, adjusting his rhythm to match what I need, giving me everything and asking nothing except that I stay here, with him, in this moment.
“Hugo…”
“I’ve got you.” He increases his pace, his control slipping as my body tightens around him. “I’ve got you. Let go.”
I shatter with his name on my lips.
He follows moments later, his face buried in my neck, my name spoken like a prayer.