Epilogue
HOLDEN
SIX MONTHS LATER
The cabin smells like bergamot.
Every surface, every corner, every square foot that used to smell like coffee and pine now carries traces of Mara's work.
Beeswax votives cooling on racks she set up in the spare room I converted into her studio.
Essential oils organized on shelves I built in October because she was storing them in cardboard boxes on the floor and it was driving me insane.
Dried botanicals hanging from hooks above the window where my old fishing gear used to be.
The fishing gear is in the shed. The fishing gear lost that fight in week two.
"Holden!" Her voice carries from the kitchen, where she's been cooking since 6am. "Your mother just texted. They're fifteen minutes out."
"I know. She texted me too."
"She sent me a separate text with emoji. She's never sent you emoji. That means I'm the favorite."
She is the favorite. My mother met Mara in September, drove up from Cranbrook with my brother's family for Thanksgiving.
Spent the first ten minutes staring at the candles, the studio, the woman in my kitchen wearing my flannel and a yellow headwrap, stirring pepper soup while Fela Kuti played from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter.
Then my mother pulled me onto the porch, grabbed both my hands, and said "Holden. She's wonderful. Don't mess this up."
My nephew asked if Mara was my wife. Before I could answer, Mara said "Not yet. Your uncle is slow."
She wasn't wrong.
Today is Christmas Eve. The kitchen table, the one we eat every meal at, the one where she pours candles at midnight and I review charts at dawn, is set for eight.
My mother, my brother, his wife, both nephews.
Plus Sage from Bean & Bloom, who is bringing Jamaican patties because Mara asked, and who has become Mara's closest friend in Crimson Hollow.
The two of them together are loud enough to register on seismic equipment.
Mara appears in the doorway. Flour on her collarbone. Gold septum ring. My old Henley hanging off one shoulder. Wooden spoon in her hand.
"The egusi is almost done. Come taste."
I follow her to the stove. The pot is bubbling. Rich, green, thick with ground melon seeds. She holds the spoon to my mouth. My hand wraps around her wrist to steady it.
"Good?"
My mother's recipe, the one I told Mara about at midnight through a screen eight months ago. She called my mother in October. Asked for it. My mother cried. Then dictated the recipe for forty five minutes while Mara took notes on the back of a candle order form.
"Perfect."
"Your mom said I need more crayfish."
"My mom is a perfectionist."
"Your mom is right. I already added more."
Her phone buzzes on the counter. A notification from Marrow & Light's new website, the one Sage helped her build. Another wholesale order from a boutique in Nelson. Third one this month. The studio in the spare room is almost too small. We've been talking about building an extension in the spring.
We've been talking about a lot of things. Spring. The extension. A trip to Toronto so I can meet Chioma and survive Mango's enthusiasm. Whether the logging road needs regrading before the snow gets worse.
Whether the rocking chair on the porch needs a companion.
My arms circle her waist from behind. My chin rests on top of her head. The kitchen is warm. The table is set. The mountain outside the window is white with fresh snow.
"Hey, Holden?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you for texting back."
Every time. For the rest of my life. Every single time.
"Merry Christmas, Mara."
Her hand covers mine. The dimple appears against my jaw.
Annika's text thread is still on my phone. Third from the top now, below Mara's, below my mother's. I don't look at it every night anymore. Some nights. The hard ones. But most nights, the woman beside me is enough.
More than enough.
She's everything.
Holden and Mara continue on to have such a heart-warming HEA, and I bet you’d love a sneak peek. Don’t worry I’ve got you.