Epilogue #2
He was looking down at me. I was looking up at him.
My hand was on his arm. His fingers were curled around my wrist — loose, steady, there.
The four-o'clock light hit from the left and turned everything gold, and neither of us was performing for anyone.
We were just two people who'd stopped pretending at the exact right moment, caught in the middle of a look that said everything neither of us had managed to say cleanly all week.
"Theo," I said, and my voice did something embarrassing.
"I know," he said. "It's annoyingly good. I almost didn't give it to you because it's going in my portfolio and I wanted the reveal."
Beckett picked up the print. He studied it the way he studied grain — carefully, closely, like he was reading the structure underneath. Then he set it down and looked at Theo.
"Thank you," he said. Two words. The serious kind.
Theo leaned against the counter, arms folded, looking pleased with himself in the way that only Theo could — charming and self-aware and not remotely sorry about it.
"I've got a few more candids to sort through," he said. "Some good ones from the reception. The bonfire set too, but those need editing." He glanced at me. "I'll send the full batch to Willa first, then family. But I've got one I need to deliver separately."
"To who?" I asked.
"Mae."
The name landed lightly, but I caught the way Theo said it — like he was being casual about something that was not, in fact, casual.
"Mae," I repeated. "You're hand-delivering wedding photos to Beckett's sister."
"She's in one of the best candids from the reception. It's professional courtesy."
"Professional courtesy."
"She was standing near the dance floor when the sparklers went off.
The light was —" He stopped. Shifted his weight.
Pushed a hand through his hair in a gesture I recognized because I'd watched Theo deflect his way through a hundred family dinners, and he was doing it now.
"It's a good photo. She should have it."
Beckett, who had been quiet through this, looked at Theo with an expression I couldn't quite read. Evaluative. Not unfriendly. The way he might assess a joint before committing weight to it.
"Mae's at the house until Sunday," Beckett said. "She's helping Mom reorganize the back porch."
"Good to know." Theo zipped the portfolio case. "I'll probably swing by tomorrow, then."
"Probably," I said.
"Don't," Theo said, pointing at me.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're making a face."
"This is just my face."
"It's your scheming face. I've known you for twenty-nine years."
"I'm not scheming. I'm observing. There's a professional distinction."
Theo shook his head, but he was smiling — the kind of smile that was trying not to be too much and failing. He grabbed his camera bag, said goodbye to Beckett with a handshake that had more warmth in it than the first time they'd met, and headed for the door.
I followed him onto the porch.
"Theo."
He turned.
"She's great," I said. "Mae. She's really great."
"I know that."
"And she'll see right through you. She sees through everyone."
He looked at me for a second — really looked, the way photographers do when they're deciding whether a moment is worth catching. "Good," he said. "I'm tired of people who don't."
He left. I stood on the porch and watched his car pull out, and something about the way he'd said it — not flippant, not charming, just honest — made me think that whatever was about to happen between Theo Hart and Mae Lane was going to be the kind of thing you couldn't look away from.
Behind me, the screen door opened. Beckett stepped out, coffee in hand even though it was four-thirty in the afternoon because the man had a commitment to ritual that bordered on religious.
"Your cousin," he said, "just asked me where my sister will be tomorrow."
"I noticed."
"And you're not going to do anything about it."
"Absolutely not. I am a reformed meddler. I have grown as a person."
"Since when?"
"Since about eight days ago, when my last meddling attempt started with a fake kiss at a bar and ended with me moving into your house."
He was quiet for a beat. Then: "Worked out, though."
I looked at him — leaning against the porch post, late-afternoon light cutting across his shoulders, watching me with that steady green gaze that had been undoing me since the Wisteria.
The man who'd built my sister's wedding arch by hand and kissed me back when I'd given him every reason not to and told the truth at a bonfire when a lie would have been easier.
"Yeah," I said. "It did."
He held out the coffee. I took it, added enough milk from the mug he'd brought for himself to make it a different drink, and leaned into his side on the porch while the light went long and gold across the yard and the cottage next door sat quiet with its new electrical panel and its empty rooms.
I didn't smooth anything. I didn't straighten my shirt or check my reflection or rehearse what I looked like from the outside.
I just stayed.
THE END