Epilogue
Five Summers Later
Reef
The early morning sun spills over Merlin Lake, rippling gold across the calm water.
Fishermen launch their boats, and kayakers and paddlers clamber onto their vessels, getting an early start before the speedboats and jet skiers show up.
I follow the aroma of fresh coffee wafting through the Minnow Bucket’s screened door.
Quincy Travers-Haven stands barefoot on the weathered dock, her white sundress fluttering in the breeze. She holds a clipboard in one hand and a thermos in the other, watching the new dockhands untangle a pile of ropes with varying degrees of success.
A black dog named Skipper lies at her feet, wagging his tail lazily whenever someone passes by.
“Skipper, you’re supposed to be supervising,” Quincy teases, crouching for a quick scratch behind his ears.
Her hair has been lightened by the sun, and her shoulders look pinkish from our dip at the sandbar yesterday.
She was determined to go, after having avoided that area of the lake for the past several years.
“I need to overcome my fears,” she’d said.
I can’t argue with that, especially when we’d found the sandbar abandoned in the middle of the day, and decided to take a skinny dip together, followed by a frantic, horny moment in the captain’s chair of the boat.
It’s been five years together, and that ass is never not making me ready to rut into her like a dog in heat.
“Morning, Ms. Travers,” I say, slipping the thermos from her hand for a sip. “Who’s winning the war with the dock lines?”
“Not the teenagers,” she says, laughing. “But they’re trying. I remember my first day.”
I press a kiss to her shoulder and then another, tracing a line along the tempting freckles there.
“Damn, thank you for wearing a sundress today.”
She laughs and swats me away. “Not in front of everyone.”
I run my finger over the spaghetti strap. “Then let’s go home.”
“It’s 7 a.m.!”
“And I don’t see the problem.”
She finally gives in to my embrace and lets me give her a proper good morning kiss. “Remember when you used to yell at everybody else for slacking off at work? How the tables have turned!”
I slip my arms around her and taste her coffee-scented mouth. “But you left early, and I didn’t get a chance to make you breakfast.”
“Speaking of which,” she says. “It’s time to replace that old oven.”
“Take that back,” I say of her grandmother’s 1970s setup, which is still in use.
Quincy tries to give me a hard look. “And the range, too.”
“You’re killing me, Quincy.”
I know she’s right. Since we eat almost every meal together now, Quincy has gotten more interested in cooking.
I insisted on doing most of the cooking up until a couple of years ago, when she started digging through her grandmother’s recipe books.
Now the stove and ovens can’t keep up with all the new things she wants to try.
She wants a warming burner. An air fryer setting.
Convection. And after I built us a garden in the backyard, Quincy has been talking about wanting a stove with an extra-large gas burner for canning with a pressure cooker to make preserves.
She knows I have a hard time letting go of the old things in her grandmother’s house, even though I have no connection to her grandmother. I feel the spirit of everyone who loved me in that place.
“If you want to, we can go to the medium and have her ask my grandmother if it’s okay to replace them.”
I snort. “Medium?” I know who she means.
Selene Cross lives up at that spooky old mansion in town and does palm readings and stuff.
She got run out of that tiny Bible-belt town east of Charlotte a few years back.
I personally don’t believe in that stuff—at least I don’t think I do—but if that lady feels more accepted here in Songbird Ridge, I’m happy for her.
Quincy nods. Quincy is totally serious about going to see the medium.
If my wife wants to do it, who am I to argue?
She already knows she’s going to get her way with the new stove and the ovens, but she seems strangely delighted at the idea of using “Madame Selene” to help us decide.
“Might as well,” I say. “The appliance store orders are slow as molasses either way. We can poll the entire town if you want to.”
“Well, we could always order online, or move to a bigger town, or…”
“Don’t start with that,” I say, interrupting her with another long, lingering kiss.
Four years ago, we decided together that once we were married, I would move into her grandmother’s house with her.
Since then, I’ve renovated the fishing cabin and now rent it out.
We save money by managing and doing repairs on both our rentals ourselves, whenever I’m not busy at the marina, and she has days off from teaching at the high school.
Between that income and both our jobs, we have almost enough cash socked away to make an offer to Captain Mack to sell the marina to me in a couple years.
But I’m in no hurry.
Especially now, as I’ve just dropped a chunk of my income on the ring that Quincy deserves.
She follows the kiss with a long, luxuriating hug, the kind that reminds me I belong here.
“Are those your boat keys in your pocket?” she says. “Or are you just happy to see me?”
“Always happen to see you.”
Every moment with Quincy is perfect, but right now, with the sun coming up over the ridge, the mist on the lake and her looking like an angel in that white dress, now is the best time to do what I want to do.
I take out the ring box and open it.
“What’s this?”
“I always said I wanted to give you a proper ring…” I start, unable to finish.
She covers her mouth and her brows draw together in a mix of shock and surprise and concern. She wore her grandmother’s ring when we got married, and I never felt right about it. I told her then that one day I’d get her something proper even though she said she didn’t need anything else.
Today, she’s got a white gold band to match her grandmother’s, with a blue stone that reminded me of her.
“Reef…what did you do?”
“I hired the best person I’ve ever met and made her my wife. I hope you can be proud of that now.”
I slip the ring on her finger, and it lines up with her grandmother’s ring perfectly.
She fists the front of my shirt. “Captain Mack hired me,” she corrects, teasing, but then goes serious, poking my chest. “I’ve never not been proud of you. The best thing I ever did was marry you, Reef.”
I pull her closer to me and kiss her again. And again. And again.
Let the teenagers stare at us and snicker. Let the boaters and the anglers and the paddlers look away and decide to mind their own business.
I have a feeling we’re going home early today, anyway.
THE END