Epilogue
Fran
Market Saturday arrives with the kind of pale spring sunshine that makes promises about warmer days to come.
I’m up before Maggie, which is a minor miracle given that she’s been sleeping through the night for exactly three days and I keep waking up anyway, convinced something’s wrong. Fourteen months of parenthood hasn’t cured me of that particular anxiety. Probably nothing ever will.
“You’re glued to that baby monitor again,” Logan says from the kitchen doorway.
“I’m checking.”
“You’ve checked four times in the last hour.”
“Babies need checking.”
“Babies need parents who sleep.” He crosses to take the monitor from my hands, setting it on the counter. “Come have tea. She’ll wake up when she wakes up.”
I let him guide me to the table, where he’s already set out mugs and the good pastries from the bakery in town. Saturday mornings have become this, slow and soft, full of good tea and easy conversation before the chaos of market day begins.
“Junie texted,” I say, reaching for a croissant. “We’re fully booked through June. The Henderson referral chain is apparently unstoppable.”
“The Henderson mother-of-the-bride tells everyone about you.”
“She tells everyone I talked her off the ledge three times. Apparently that’s a marketable skill.”
Logan grins over his tea. “You’re very good at talking people off ledges.”
“It’s my superpower. Flower arrangements and emotional crisis management.”
From the bedroom, a familiar babbling sound signals Maggie’s awakening. She’s not crying, she almost never cries when she wakes up anymore, just announcing her presence with the particular determination of a baby who knows the world revolves around her.
“I’ll get her,” Logan says, already moving.
“You got her yesterday.”
“I like getting her.”
I watch him go, this man who once couldn’t be present in daylight and now practically sprints to morning baby duty. Some changes are slow and hard. Others just happen, naturally, when you stop fighting against the person you’re meant to be.
He returns with Maggie on his hip, her dark hair sticking up in every direction, her fist clutching his shirt like she’s afraid he’ll disappear. She has my eyes, that clear blue, and my stubbornness, which is becoming increasingly apparent as she approaches toddlerhood.
“Da!” she announces, pointing at Logan.
“Yes, that’s Daddy,” I confirm. “Very good identification.”
“Ma!” She points at me, equally triumphant.
“And Mama. You’re getting very good at this.”
“She’s been practicing,” Logan says, settling her into the high chair. “Yesterday she said ‘goose’ at Gertrude.”
“Did she now?”
“It sounded more like ‘guh,’ but I’m counting it.”
I laugh, reaching over to smooth Maggie’s hair into something resembling order. “Your father is very generous with his interpretations.”
“Da!” Maggie agrees.
***
The market is already bustling when we arrive.
I’ve been doing this for years now, setting up my booth, arranging my flowers, chatting with the regulars who’ve been buying from me since I first started selling at farmer’s markets a lifetime ago.
But it’s different with Maggie here, strapped to Logan’s chest in the carrier, babbling commentary at everyone who passes.
“Your daughter is adorable,” Mrs. Patterson says, pausing at my booth. “She looks just like her father.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego’s already out of control.”
“I heard that,” Logan calls from where he’s helping unload the truck.
“You were meant to.”
Mrs. Patterson chuckles and selects a bouquet of early tulips, my first outdoor crop of the season, finally warm enough to bloom. “I heard about the conviction, by the way. That Vaughn woman. Twenty years, wasn’t it?”
“Fifteen to twenty.” The news came through six months ago, but it still catches me off guard sometimes, the reminder that it’s real, it’s over, she’s actually paying for what she did. “Attempted murder, arson, a few other charges.”
“Good. What she did to you-” Mrs. Patterson shakes her head. “Well. I’m glad it’s done.”
“Me too.”
She pays for her flowers and moves on, and I turn back to arranging the display, pushing the old heaviness aside. It’s done. She’s in prison. I’m here, alive, with a thriving business and a family I chose.
The rest doesn’t matter anymore.
“You okay?” Logan asks, appearing at my elbow with Maggie still attached to his chest.
“Fine. Just - Mrs. Patterson mentioned Sloane.”
“Ah.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You know you don’t have to talk about it with anyone. You can just smile and change the subject.”
“I know. But sometimes it helps.” I lean into him. “Reminds me it’s real. That she’s actually facing consequences.”
“She’s facing consequences. And we’re facing-” He gestures at the market, the flowers, the baby who’s currently trying to eat her own fist. “This. Which is considerably better.”
“Considerably.”
Maggie makes a demanding sound, reaching toward the flowers with grabby hands.
“No, sweetheart,” I tell her. “Those aren’t for eating.”
“Guh!” she protests.
“That’s not a goose. That’s a peony.”
“Guh!”
“We’re going to have to work on her vocabulary,” Logan observes.
“She’s fourteen months old. She has time.”
By mid-morning, the rush has died down enough that I can take a break.
I leave the booth with Junie, who’s been handling market days with her usual efficiency, and wander through the other stalls with Logan and Maggie. The baby has graduated from the carrier to Logan’s arms, where she’s surveying the world with the serious expression of someone taking mental notes.
“Wyatt’s got his spring stock in,” I observe, nodding toward the nursery booth a few stalls down.
“Should we say hi?”
“We should.” I steer us in that direction. “I need to talk to him about a bulk order anyway.”
Wyatt Brennan looks up from his display of seedlings as we approach, his face breaking into a smile. “Fran! Logan! And the famous Maggie.”
“She’s not that famous.”
“She has more Instagram followers than I do. The goose account keeps posting pictures of her.” He reaches out to shake Logan’s hand. “How’s business?”
“Booming. You?”
“Can’t complain.” Wyatt gestures at the woman arranging flowers at the next table over. “Have you met my wife? Paige, come say hi - this is Fran and Logan. Fran’s the one I told you about.”
Paige approaches, a friendly brunette with dirt under her fingernails and a warm smile. “The flower farm! Wyatt talks about you all the time. Says you’re his best wholesale customer.”
“And he’s my best supplier.” I shake her hand. “I didn’t know you two had gotten married.”
“Six months ago. Small ceremony, just family.” Paige grins at Wyatt. “He finally wore me down.”
“I was very persistent,” Wyatt agrees.
“Persistent and annoying.”
“Same thing, really.”
I laugh, recognizing the dynamic, the easy teasing of people who actually like each other. “Congratulations. You two seem happy.”
“We are.” Wyatt puts an arm around Paige. “It took a while to find the right person, but it was worth the wait.”
I glance at Logan, who’s watching me with a small smile. “Yeah,” I say. “It usually is.”
***
We head home around noon, the truck loaded with empty buckets and the satisfied feeling of a successful market day.
Maggie fell asleep during the drive, so Logan carries her inside while I unload the remaining supplies.
The cottage looks exactly the way it should, warm and lived-in, full of evidence of the life we’ve built here.
Maggie’s toys scattered across the living room.
Logan’s woodworking sketches on the kitchen table. My flowers in vases on every surface.
“She’s down,” Logan says, emerging from the nursery. “Should sleep for at least an hour.”
“Good. I need to check on the greenhouse beds.”
“Or-” He catches my hand as I move toward the door. “We could have lunch. Like adults. Without a baby demanding attention.”
“A revolutionary concept.”
“I’m full of revolutionary concepts.”
We make sandwiches and eat them on the porch of the cottage, watching Gertrude patrol the perimeter of her domain.
The goose has become something of a local celebrity, her fan account, started by one of the grandmas as a joke, now has fifteen thousand followers who apparently can’t get enough of her attitude.
“She’s going to be insufferable when she realizes she’s famous,” I say.
“She’s already insufferable. Fame just validates her.”
“Da!” a voice calls from inside, followed by the sound of something falling.
We both freeze.
“She’s supposed to be asleep,” Logan says.
“She’s supposed to be a lot of things.”
We hurry inside to find Maggie standing in her crib, gripping the rails, looking extremely pleased with herself. A stuffed elephant lies on the floor, the source of the falling sound.
“Did you throw Mr. Elephant?” I ask.
“Guh!”
“That’s not an answer.”
Logan retrieves the elephant while I lift Maggie out of the crib. She’s wide awake now, bouncing with energy, clearly done with the concept of napping.
“So much for an hour of peace,” Logan says.
“Peace is overrated. Let’s go outside.”
The afternoon is warm enough to sit on the porch while Maggie explores the yard under our watchful eyes.
She’s been pulling herself up on furniture for weeks, taking tentative steps while holding onto things, but she hasn’t walked independently yet. The books say anywhere from nine to eighteen months is normal. The internet says not to compare. I’ve been trying not to worry.
“Watch this,” Logan says, setting Maggie down on the porch. He backs up a few feet, crouching at her level. “Maggie. Come to Daddy.”
Maggie looks at him, then at me, then back at him. She’s considering it. I can see the wheels turning behind those blue eyes.
“You can do it,” Logan encourages. “Come on, sweetheart. Just a few steps.”
She takes one step. Then another. And then she’s walking, actually walking, wobbly and determined, across the porch toward her father.
“Logan!” I clutch the porch railing. “She’s doing it! She’s walking!”