Epilogue
Eight Months Later
~DARCY~
I've discovered that happiness has a taste.
It tastes like the specific brand of ginger tea Bria bulk-ordered for me in August when the morning sickness was at its worst, and like the eggs Declan learned to make exactly the way I like them — which he considers a culinary crime and makes with theatrical suffering every single morning anyway.
It tastes like the sparkling water I've been drinking instead of champagne at every Shaw Group event for the past nine months, and like the particular triumph of the Tulum property's first quarterly report, which ran ten percent above forecast and which I may have laminated.
It's in a frame in my home office, which used to be Declan's second guest room that has a standing desk he had delivered without asking and a small framed photo of Bria and Jessica and me.
And happiness also has a look.
It looks like the morning in August when I woke up at four AM to find Declan already awake, sitting in the dark living room with his father's books open on his lap — not reading, just holding them — and I sat down beside him, holding the silence with him.
The evening in October when Declan came home from the final Shaw Group nightclub closing, and I brought him a glass of the good Scotch and sat next to him on the couch as we watched the city go dark from the windows.
It looks like a morning in November when I felt the baby move for the first time and made a sound that brought Declan running from the other end of the apartment.
The afternoon in December when we had the conversation about names.
The evening in January when Bria came to dinner and announced that her journalist contact had confirmed the federal investigation into Cole Capital Management had been reopened.
It feels like my father's name in the news after that.
My name — my old name, Darcella Cole — in one article, mentioned briefly, as the estranged daughter who had provided documentation.
And then Darcy Shaw in the byline corrections, because Declan's lawyer is thorough and because I am, as of eight months ago, legally and entirely and with full paperwork a Shaw.
It feels like the afternoon in March when I sat in on my first Shaw Group board meeting as Senior Director of Hospitality Operations.
It sounds like the morning in May, six weeks ago, when Thomas Stranton Shaw arrived at seven forty-two AM, ten pounds and deeply opinionated about it.
So, yes, happiness has a taste.
A look.
A feel.
And a sound.
It’s also learning, slowly and imperfectly and with significant assistance from two best friends and two amazing brothers-in-law, that happiness is not a destination you arrive at.
It's a practice.
A daily, deliberate, occasionally very loud practice that currently involves a six-week-old with his father's green eyes and his grandfather's name and an opinion about everything.
Which is why I'm standing in the kitchen of our apartment on the Upper West Side, listening to three Shaw brothers attempt to hold a business meeting while one of them is currently being outvoted by the six-week-old in question.
Outside, the city’s golden hour light is turning everything to amber, the last warmth of the day settling over the park two blocks west.
The apartment smells like whatever Declan ordered from the Italian place on Columbus because I am six weeks postpartum and cooking is not currently on my list of capabilities.
It also smells like baby and the specific brand of dry-clean-only tension that fills a room when three Shaw brothers are trying to pretend a business dinner is a casual family occasion.
It is not a casual family occasion.
It never is, with them.
"The Tulum property quarterly projections are running fourteen percent above forecast," Wyeth says from the sectional, swirling what is genuinely excellent Scotch in a crystal glass. "Henrik is pleased."
"Henrik is never pleased," Quinn says, helping himself to more bread. "Henrik exists in a permanent state of mild dissatisfaction."
"Henrik expressed that the numbers exceeded his modeling."
"That's his version of cartwheels."
"It is, yes."
"I'll take it."
From the corner of the living room, where Declan is currently occupying the armchair he has claimed as his permanent post for the past six weeks, comes the sound of a small person deciding that the business meeting is deeply offensive.
The small person is Thomas Stranton Shaw.
Named after a man neither of us will ever meet but who is present in this apartment in ways that are hard to articulate — in the shelves of Declan's father's books that came out of storage, in the framed photograph on the hallway wall, in the name of the company that is now, officially and entirely, Thomas Stranton Shaw Hospitality.
Thomas has opinions about the quarterly projections.
And he is expressing them at volume.
"Someone needs to be walked," I call from the kitchen.
"I'm in a meeting," Declan calls back.
"Your meeting can walk him."
"My meeting is reviewing the Tulum numbers—"
"Wyeth knows the Tulum numbers by heart. He could recite them in a medically induced coma." I wipe my hands on a dish towel and walk into the living room doorway. "Give him to me."
Declan looks up from the baby — who has gone, in the span of thirty seconds, from squalling to hiccupping.
Declan's expression is almost comically soft.
"He's fine," Declan says.
"He was screaming—"
"He's reconsidering."
"He is not reconsidering, he's—"
Thomas yawns enormously, his entire face scrunching up, before he settles against Declan's chest.
Declan looks at me with an expression that can only be described as smugness.
"You were saying?" he says.
"He does that for you every time," I say. "It's unfair."
"It's genetics."
"It's showing off."
"He's six weeks old."
"He's showing off on your behalf. He can't help it. He's already bossy."
Quinn makes a sound like a laugh quickly converted into a cough.
Wyeth says nothing, but his Scotch pauses halfway to his mouth.
"The Tulum numbers," Declan says, bouncing Thomas slightly in his way that I will never admit out loud is the most attractive thing I've ever seen. "You were saying fourteen percent above forecast?"
"Fourteen point three," Wyeth says, recovering. "The gala generated significantly more industry attention than projected. Three inquiries for venue rental in Q4 already."
"The vendor infrastructure is solid," I say, dropping onto the couch next to Quinn and stealing a piece of his bread. "The on-site coordinator is excellent. She's going to want a raise."
"She's getting one," Declan says.
"She's going to want more than what you're thinking."
"How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"Because I know what I'd want, and I know how you open with a lowball."
"I don't lowball—"
"The coffee cart on the lobby level of the Shaw Group offices?" I raise an eyebrow. "First offer?"
Silence settles for a while.
"That's different," he says.
"How?"
"That's a lease negotiation, not a salary—"
"Declan."
"She'll get the raise," he says.
Thomas makes a sound of approval.
Or gas.
"The nightclub properties," Quinn says, raising a topic that required three dinners, two arguments, and one very long conversation about legacy to resolve. "All transferred?"
"All transferred," Wyeth confirms. "As of the first. The last one closed last week."
Quinn nods slowly. "Dad would have—"
"Yeah," Declan remarks.
"Yeah," Wyeth agrees.
The three brothers are quiet for a moment.
Thomas, perhaps sensing the shift in the room, makes a small sound and grabs a fistful of Declan's shirt with the fierce grip that still astonishes me.
I look at my husband, at the photograph on the hallway wall, at the company name on the quarterly report sitting on the coffee table.
Thomas Stranton Shaw Hospitality.
It's done.
It's actually done.
"Right," Quinn says, clearing his throat, and the energy in the room shifts back to something lighter. "Since we're here. Since it's been a year. Since everyone is—" He glances at Thomas. "—present and accounted for." He reaches for his glass. "I have an announcement."
"If this is about the Barcelona property," Wyeth says, "I've already run the numbers—"
"It's not about Barcelona."
"If this is about the Monaco inquiry—"
"It's not about Monaco."
"Then what—"
Quinn looks at me. And I look at Quinn.
And I take a very large sip of my sparkling water.
Because I have known about this for eleven days.
Because Jessica called me eleven days ago and said "I need to tell someone and Quinn is terrible at keeping secrets so you have to swear" and I swore and I have kept this secret with everything I have and it has been the hardest eleven days of my life with the exception of labor.
"Jessica's pregnant," Quinn says.
Wyeth's Scotch stops moving entirely, and Declan looks up from Thomas.
"Ten weeks," Quinn continues, and his face dissolves into something so delighted that I feel my eyes fill with tears. "We weren't—it wasn't planned, exactly. But it's—" He laughs. "We're having a baby."
"Another one," I say, gesturing at Thomas.
"A cousin," Quinn says, looking at his nephew. "He's getting a cousin."
"Quinn," Declan says.
"Yeah."
"Congratulations."
Quinn nods and presses his lips together before nodding again.
"Wyeth," Quinn says.
"I'm doing math," Wyeth says.
"It's not a math problem—"
"If Jessica is ten weeks along, the baby arrives approximately—"
"Wyeth."
"Congratulations," Wyeth says, clearly still doing the math in his head. "Genuinely. That's wonderful."
Quinn grins.
"How long have you known?" Declan asks, looking at me.
"Eleven days," I say.
"Eleven—" He stares at me. "You've known for eleven days?"
"Jessica swore me to secrecy."
"Jessica is my sister-in-law—"
"Jessica told me first and I kept her secret. That's what friends do." I meet his eyes pleasantly. "You of all people should understand delayed disclosure."
A pause fills the room.
A very long pause.
Wyeth coughs.
Quinn makes no effort whatsoever to hide his delight.
"Noted," Declan says finally, and Thomas makes a sound that is unmistakably satisfied.
"He's on my side," I tell Declan.
"He's six weeks old."
"He has excellent instincts. He gets that from me."
"He gets everything from me," Declan says, but he's looking at the baby when he says it.
I watch him for a moment, letting my eyes get their fill of my husband and our baby.
Letting my gaze enjoy the silver hair catching the last of the evening light.
The careful way he holds Thomas — not tentatively, not the way he held him in the first days when I could see him counting breaths — but with the certainty of someone who has figured out exactly where this fits in his hands.
Like he was made for this.
Like he knew before his brain did.
"The Barcelona property," Wyeth says, getting the conversation back on track.
"Not tonight," Declan says.
"The numbers are compelling—"
"Wyeth." Declan looks at his brother. "Not tonight."
Wyeth considers this, looking at Quinn, at me, at Declan, and then finally Thomas, who has fallen deeply, entirely, completely asleep against his father's chest with the boneless trust of a person who has never once doubted where he belongs.
"Fine," Wyeth says. "Not tonight." He lifts his glass. "To Thomas Stranton Shaw. The company." He pauses. "And the person."
"To Thomas," Quinn says.
"To Thomas," I say.
Declan doesn't say anything, the look on his face as he stares down at our son saying everything that needs to be said.
The evening settles around us, the city buzzing beyond the windows.
And in the apartment on the Upper West Side that smells like Italian food and newborns and something new being built — something that is ours entirely, that no one can take, that is clean and real and alive — the Shaw brothers hold their monthly meeting.
Somewhat productively.
Occasionally loudly.
With one person present who sleeps through all of it.
And one person watching from the couch who is, in every possible way, exactly where she was always supposed to be.
Home.
THE END.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for coming along for the ride with Declan and Darcy through accidental vows, love, trust, stubborn people making questionable choices, and one very sexy silver fox.
If this story made you swoon, stress, laugh, or want to shake these two to get it together, I would be so grateful if you left a quick review. Even a sentence or two means everything to an indie author like me and helps other readers find the book.
Thank you for letting me steal a little of your time.
With love,Vitina Rose