Epilogue—Lorna
TWO YEARS LATER, THE lodge has an addition.
We built it during our second spring here, off the side of the house where the morning light is best. Chris spent enough weekends helping the crew from Asheville to become dangerously confident about his construction abilities, though licensed professionals handled anything involving permits, electricity, or the possibility of the roof falling on me.
The result is a proper office for Raney Media with built-in shelves, storage for product samples, and a door I can close when I’m filming. My desk faces the mountains.
Brooke runs operations from Charlotte now. Mia edits from whatever city she’s visiting when a deadline finds her. Erin, once my part-time editor, is full-time now, and two other new employees have joined us since then. The company crossed three million followers this summer.
I still read Brooke’s Monday reports from beginning to end. Chris finds that amusing.
There’s a framed photograph on the shelf behind my desk of a bakery in Lisbon. He gave it to me for our last anniversary without explaining why he’d chosen it. He didn’t need to.
Lisbon has good memories, but also bad ones, including our second trip there after our honeymoon a few months before.
I was looking at pastries through that window the afternoon I called him from the hotel lobby and told him I missed him.
He said he’d come back early enough so we could have dinner together at the restaurant downstairs.
He didn’t and never called. It was the first time I’d started to wonder where I ranked in his priorities.
That was before Fenton/Tim, so I can’t assign him even a little share of the blame.
That oversight and lack of concern was all Chris’s.
We can talk about that trip now without either of us pretending the good parts of our marriage didn’t exist alongside the bad ones. I like that better than rewriting our history.
Wednesday afternoon, I’m photographing a set of serving bowls on the kitchen table when the driveway sensor chimes.
I glance at the monitor mounted beside the pantry. A UPS truck rolls up the access road and stops in front of the lodge. Moray lifts his head from his bed near the fireplace but doesn’t bother getting up until the driver crosses the porch.
Moray is eighty pounds of shelter-dog uncertainty, mostly hound according to the veterinarian, with something much larger responsible for his shoulders. Chris named him after Richard Moray. Richard didn’t appreciate the honor, but his daughter, Camille, still finds it hilarious.
The driver leaves a second box beside the door and waves toward the camera before heading back to his truck. I wait until he pulls away, then bring the package inside.
Two years ago, I would’ve checked the label before opening the door. Today, I only check because I can’t remember what else I ordered, or if it’s something I’m supposed to feature as part of a sponsor deal.
The box contains linen napkins from a company in Vermont. I carry them into the kitchen and add them to the serving bowls I’m shooting for a holiday feature.
Moray follows because everything that enters the house has to be investigated for possible food.
I click my tongue at him to get his attention. “Not edible.”
He sniffs the box anyway.
Tim has been in prison for about two years.
I don’t think about him often enough to measure the time anymore.
He still tries to write me, but the guards block every attempt.
I only know because Willa told me. She’s in charge of coordinating the ongoing safety plan with officials at the prison so I don’t have to think about it unless I choose to.
Willa still visits every few months, usually claiming she’s here for dinner before spending the first hour checking cameras, sensors, and locks.
Chris has become an excellent cook, so the food is part of the draw.
Raney Media keeps her on retainer for system maintenance. I keep her because she’s my friend.
The security monitor chimes again around four, but this time, Moray is already charging toward the hallway before I look.
A dark SUV comes up the drive.
“Apparently, Dad ranks above UPS,” I say to him.
Moray thumps his tail and rushes forward. His nails skid across the wood floor as the front door opens. Chris barely gets his overnight bag inside before Moray launches himself at him. He catches the dog’s front legs and staggers back a step. “I was gone one night.”
Moray tries to lick his chin.
“Your depth perception is terrible.”
I lean against the kitchen doorway. “To him, you could’ve been gone five years. He can’t tell time.”
Chris looks past the dog and smiles at me. “I don’t believe that. He always knows exactly when it’s time to eat.”
I have to concede that point.
He gets Moray back onto four feet, leaves his bag beside the stairs, and comes into the kitchen. His tie is already gone, and the top button of his shirt is open.
“You’re early.” I return to the bowls and shift one closer to the window.
“Carla didn’t need me for the second session.” Chris stops beside the table and studies my setup. “Those are new.”
“Virginia studio. Soda-fired.”
He picks up the smallest bowl and turns it to inspect the glaze. Two years ago, he wouldn’t have known what he was looking at. Now he runs his thumb near the variation along the rim without touching the finished surface. “Holiday feature?”
“Yes.”
Chris replaces the bowl exactly where he found it. “Do you need help Saturday?”
“Maybe with the lights.” I adjust one of the napkins. “I’ll know after I test the setup.”
“I’m around.”
He doesn’t mean he’s keeping the weekend empty because I might need help. He already intended to be home. Aldren Capital still takes him to Charleston and New York, occasionally farther, but the lodge is where he returns every time. We sold the Charleston apartment last year.
He opens the refrigerator and looks inside. “Did you eat lunch?”
I keep arranging the napkin.
He turns his head. “Lorna.”
“I got busy.”
“That’s not lunch.”
“I know.”
He takes out bread, cheese, and the roasted tomatoes left from dinner. There’s no lecture. He puts a skillet on the stove and starts making me a grilled cheese while I finish the last photograph.
I take three more shots before lowering the camera. “Chris?”
He looks over from the stove. “Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
He turns the burner down and gives me his full attention. “Okay.”
For the past four days, I’ve carried the information around by myself. Not because I’m afraid to tell him. I wanted a little time when it belonged only to me.
Now I want it to belong to us. “I’m pregnant.”
Chris doesn’t move.
The spatula remains in his hand, suspended over the skillet. His eyes widen, and for about two seconds, the billionaire who can answer hostile board questions without looking at his notes has absolutely nothing.
Then he sets down the spatula.
“Okay.” He comes around the island but stops on the other side instead of reaching for me. “I’m going to be a dad?” At my nod, he asks, “How can I help?”
My throat aches unexpectedly.
Not Are you sure?
Not What did the doctor say?
Not even the dozen questions I know are already forming in his brain.
Just acceptance and help. It should be commonplace by now, but there are times when it still strikes me how important it is that he’s finally listening.
He believes me first without needing an authority to verify.
My laugh is a little damp. “I need you to finish my sandwich before you burn it.”
Chris looks toward the stove. “Right.”
“And then you can hug me.”
He turns off the burner before coming around the island.
I barely get my arms up before he wraps me in his. He holds me without squeezing too hard, which means he’s already worried about something ridiculous.
I laugh against his shoulder. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”
“I know.”
His arms loosen immediately.
I pull back enough to look at him. “You can be happy.”
That finally releases the smile he’s been trying to contain. “I’m so happy I’m having trouble functioning.”
“I noticed.”
He kisses me, once and then again, before remembering the sandwich. “Food,” he says, turning toward the stove. “You definitely need food.”
“That sounds suspiciously like the beginning of managing me.”
Chris points the spatula at me. “I’m making the lunch you forgot before I knew you were pregnant. Existing sandwich jurisdiction.”
“I’ll allow it.”
He rescues the grilled cheese, cuts it in half, and puts it on a plate with the roasted tomatoes. I sit at the counter while he takes the stool beside mine instead of standing over me.
Only after I’ve eaten several bites does he ask, “How far along?”
“About six weeks.”
Chris’s eyebrows lift. “You’ve known for six weeks?”
I snort. “No. That’s not how pregnancy works.”
“Right.” He rubs his forehead and laughs at himself. “Bad start.”
“I found out three days ago.”
His attention returns to me. “Three days?”
“I wanted a little time with it before I told anyone. I also didn’t want you to cancel your trip when Carla asked you to be at the meeting in person.” He definitely would have canceled if I’d told him yesterday.
“Have you told anyone else?”
“No.”
His face softens. “Thank you for telling me first.”
I take another bite of sandwich and bite back the urge to giggle. “You’re my husband. That seemed reasonable.”
“It does.” He picks up half of his own sandwich, though he doesn’t eat it. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. A little nauseated in the mornings. Otherwise okay.”
“Doctor?”
“Appointment next Thursday.”
Chris nods, then stops himself before the next question comes out. I can practically watch him sorting through the impulse to organize the next eight months.
I bump my knee against his. “You can ask.”
“Do you want me there?”
“Duh. You were there for the conception, so I expect you to be there for the less fun parts too.”
That makes him laugh, but his voice is tender. “Then I’ll be there.” He finally eats his sandwich.
We spend the next half-hour at the counter talking about the baby. Not schedules or schools or whether the guest room will become a nursery. There will be time for those things later.
Today, we talk about how strange it is that someone the size of a lentil can make me hate coffee, whether Moray will tolerate a baby stealing his attention, and how long we can keep the news from Eleanor before she somehow detects a grandchild through the atmosphere.
Chris gives her four days. I give her six. Neither of us expects to win.
LATER, I TAKE MORAY outside while Chris goes upstairs to change. November has stripped most of the leaves from the mountains, leaving dark branches against the late-afternoon sky. The creek is louder this time of year, fed by rain farther up the ridge.
Moray runs into the yard and immediately finds something worth sniffing near the woodshed. I walk to the porch railing.
The guesthouse sits across the yard with the chimney cold tonight.
We use it for visitors now, on the rare occasion we invite someone into our space, but it’s currently unoccupied.
Chris repainted it, replaced the mattress, and bought a coffeemaker that doesn’t produce anything resembling rust water passed through a dirty sock.
He finally replaced the showerhead too. That took longer than it should have.
Behind me, the front door opens. Chris comes outside in jeans and a sweater and joins me at the railing.
“Moray found something disgusting,” I warn him.
“He always does.” Chris looks toward the dog, then slides one arm around my waist. “Do you need anything?”
I lean into him. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
“Nothing except you.”
He accepts the answer and stays beside me.
My wedding rings catch the fading light where my hand rests over his arm.
Two years ago, I wanted Chris to believe me. Now, I can tell him I’m pregnant, ask him to finish a sandwich, and know that the first thing he’ll do is listen.
Moray suddenly charges toward the porch with something muddy hanging from his mouth.
Chris straightens. “That better not be dead.”
“It has fur.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
I step aside as Chris heads down the stairs to negotiate with the dog. “Drop it, Moray.”
Moray runs the other direction.
Chris looks back at me. “A little help?”
I laugh. “You can handle it. I have faith in you.”
“Gee, thanks.” He takes off across the yard after our terrible dog.
I stay on the porch long enough to watch Moray make one triumphant circle around the woodshed before dropping the whatever-it-was and going inside to get treats when Chris mentions the word to bribe him into cooperation. We’ll have to work on his parenting skills when the baby comes.