Epilogue
MALLORY
My hands are caked with dirt. Each crease and bend is shadowed with earth as I kneel between rows of late-summer zinnias, clipping the stems into the bucket beside me. I brush the sweat from the back of my neck as a bee drifts by, probably drunk on the cosmos.
“Gentle,” I call, cutting my eyes to my left.
Dahlia, our two-year-old, freezes. She has one fist wrapped around a cosmo that wasn't on today's cutting list. Her other hand hoists a tiny watering can, used more for play than anything. It tips sideways, spraying water onto the path.
"I helping," Dahlia says, her lip jutting out defensively.
"I know, baby," I say, sitting back on my heels and trying not to laugh. I can already see what we'll be dealing with when she's fifteen, and I'm not sure whether to lock her up now or just pray. "But sometimes you have to let them grow a little while longer."
Dahlia contemplates the cosmo, cuts her eyes back at me, and tugs the flower. Proudly, and perhaps a little defiantly, she presents it as proof of a job well done.
I sigh, taking it. "Thank you, baby."
Behind me, the screen door bangs. Boots pound down the stairs as Rourke moves past the house toward the tree line.
It took months to get used to the sight of him not walking through a hotel lobby with a phone pressed to his ear, and even now, the sight of him wearing flannel and working the yard makes my breath catch.
I like to joke that if country living doesn't work out for him, he could always become a lumberjack influencer.
A few months after Rourke brought me back here following Emmaline's wedding, he floated the idea of buying the farmhouse. There was still a part of me that was afraid it was all a dream. That someday, Rourke would wake up and realize this wasn't the life for him.
But then he bought the farmhouse. On Saturdays, he drives us to the market. He became a star pupil of Dale's, learning everything from how to fix the porch boards to how to chop wood. Luckily, there weren't any accidents. At least, nothing major.
During my pregnancy with Dahlia, he hovered.
Numerous opportunities tried to pull him away, but he was there for all of it.
Admittedly, perhaps he was there for a little too much of it.
But the afternoon I went into labor, he had the car seat installed, and we raced to the hospital at what would probably be considered a very unsafe speed.
And he's never left my side.
Dahlia gurgles, and I put the cosmo into my bucket before picking her up. "Ready to go see Daddy, baby?"
She nods her head and leans into me, grabbing for the cosmo again, and I carry her toward where Rourke is working on the side of the house.
"What's the project today?" I ask, nodding to the supplies on the ground.
"You mentioned you wanted to put a swing out here for this one," he says, nodding toward the baby girl on my hip. Dahlia immediately reaches for her daddy, and he scoops her up. "Figured I'd get things started while we wait for Beatrice to arrive."
"Don't you have that video call with the board in half an hour? You'll be sweaty and dirty."
"You're under the impression I care about that."
I turn my head, trying to hide a smug smile. Two years ago, this man was hosting dinners for billion-dollar investors. I try to remember the last time I saw him in a suit.
"Flower!" Dahlia says, pressing the cutting against Rourke's chest.
"Did you pick that?" he asks, reaching down to take the flower from her.
"For you," she says, positively demure and not at all defiant now.
"Luckiest man alive," he says, looking over at me as he takes the flower from our little girl.
"It's true," I say. "You are."
"Minx."
Beatrice arrives unceremoniously in her sensible sedan.
Her black pantsuit is neatly pressed as she gets out, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. The last time she visited, she spent an afternoon playing dolls with Dahlia. For a brief moment, I was convinced I was hallucinating.
"Darling," she says, kissing each of my cheeks before turning to Rourke. "And you."
"Hello to you too, Beatrice," Rourke says, smiling and leaning into the hug that Beatrice pretends not to give willingly.
He then takes the bags, disappearing upstairs to place them in the guest room.
I watch him as he ascends the stairs, noting the way his shoulders and back have filled out even more from the work he's put into the house.
I turn back to see Beatrice watching me.
"What?"
"You're smitten with your husband," she says, taking a seat at the kitchen table and pulling Dahlia into her lap. Dahlia immediately begins grabbing at her necklace, which Beatrice takes in stride. "Good to know he's still behaving himself."
"And how would you know that?"
"My dear, I know everything."
I look back toward the stairs and then to Beatrice. "Sometimes I'm afraid it's all a dream. That I'll wake up and everything will vanish like vapor."
"It won't," Beatrice says, transferring Dahlia to me and reaching for her handbag. I watch as she pulls two slim black notebooks from the bag. "Since I won't be here for your birthday, I wanted to give you these."
The notebooks are slim and spiral-bound. There's no disguising my confusion as I look back at Beatrice. "Not that I'm not grateful for the thought, but?—"
"Open them later," Beatrice says. "You'll understand."
The evening is filled with laughter, stories, and too much food.
Coralee and Dale bring their two, soon to be three, over to play with Dahlia, who somehow manages to stay awake way past her bedtime.
The evening ends with a sleepy toddler curled against her daddy as he sees Beatrice to her room, and Coralee makes off with the rest of the key lime pie, claiming the baby needs more.
When the house is quiet, I sneak upstairs with the notebooks Beatrice gave me earlier. Cracking open the first one, I manage to get to the bottom of the first page before the words blur.
"January 16 -- Rourke called at 11:12 p.m. Mallory was asleep. He's worried that her back is hurting more as the baby grows. Told him it was normal for pregnant women to have back pain. He told me 'this isn't just any pregnant woman, Beatrice. This is Mallory.”
Another entry reads, "May 12 -- Went to visit Rourke, Mallory, and the new baby. Watched him watch her hold the little one with such love that I almost had to step out of the room. I knew this was who he was. I'm just glad I could knock some sense into him."
The laugh that spills out of me is watery as Rourke walks in, stopping at the threshold of the door.
"What's wrong?" he asks. He looks so concerned as he makes his way over to the bed that the watery laugh turns into one of genuine amusement.
"I'm sorry," I say, laughing and wiping the tears from my cheeks. "I'm not sad. Beatrice gave me a gift."
I hold up the notebooks. The look on Rourke's face shifts from concern to horror.
"Oh God, not those things. I thought she'd stopped keeping a record of all my mistakes. Whatever is in there?—"
"It's wonderful, Rourke," I say, closing the book and placing it on the nightstand. "She loves you. More importantly..."
I reach out for him, pulling him close when he takes my hand. "You love me."
"That I do," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You going to tell me why you're crying happy tears, or do I have to tickle it out of you?"
My breath catches as I look up at him. "I'm just happy."
"Happy?" He gently pushes me back against the pillows, hovering over me. "I think I can manage to make you happier."
"I doubt that," I say, running my hands up the biceps that have only grown more defined over the past two years. "After all, I'm pretty happy. But I'm willing to let you give it a shot."
"Luckiest man alive," he whispers, pressing his lips to my neck.