“Wow.”
“Yeah. He was a smart guy, and he gave me something my father never could or would.”
“Respect?”
“That, but he also gave me the second chance so few of us have. He told me that story, and I started going home every night and sitting beside my mom, reading her passages from the books she loved. I made a lot of memories that way, and I like to think, I made her happy.”
You did, she wanted to say, but she was crying, salty tears stinging the corner of her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, wiping them away.
“You didn’t. Your story did.”
“I think that might be the same,” he said, offering a wry smile.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’d rather cry for beauty than for sorrow. I wish I could see the roses in the spring. I bet they’re lovely.”
“Once we free them from weeds, they will be,” he agreed.
“I’m sure whoever bought the property will take care of it,” she said, not sure why the thought of that made her so sad.
Maybe because the house might be torn down, the roses plowed, the life Emmerson and his wife had lived buried under asphalt and dirt-cheap prices.
“I’m the new owner,” Flynn said. “Or I will be as soon as the paperwork is done. I offered a cash deal, because I knew Emmerson’s son couldn’t resist.”
“You’re the owner?” she repeated, because the rain was clattering on the tin roof, and she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.
“Like I said, I will be.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because I realized Byron was right. A Walmart would change the town more than it needed to be. Plus, the acreage is attached to yours, and I can see us expanding in a few years. Either moving more toward equestrian pursuits or raising cattle.”
“You own a ranch. In Texas,” she pointed out, but her hands were on his shoulder and she’d levered up on her toes.
She was looking into his face and into his eyes, and she was trying to read the truth there, because she needed to know that he meant what he said, that the future he was describing was a possibility.
“I’m very aware of that,” he said. “I’m also aware that I have a ranch manager who is great at his job. He can handle things for me when I’m here.”
“Flynn, I don’t want you to give up your dreams.”
“I have my dreams, and I’m continuing to pursue them. But I’m making new dreams, too. That’s part of life, right? Looking up at the starlit sky and realizing where you are is exactly where you want to be?”
“There are stars in Texas,” she said, because she was so afraid that he’d regret buying Emmerson’s farm and devoting a part of himself to a place that he’d once fled.
“But there’s not you,” he whispered against her lips. “The thing is, it wasn’t the stars, Sunday. It wasn’t the giant moon rising above the mountains. None of those things were home until you were in my arms.”
He kissed her then, and she could see it—the starlit sky and the giant moon, and the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“I like your new dreams,” she murmured, and felt him smile.
“Will you write about them in your journal?”
“I won’t have to. They’re already written on my heart.”
Epilogue
This wedding was going to go off without a hitch.
Even if it killed her!
Sunday lifted the hem of her tea-length skirt and tried to jump over the wagon filled with flowers. The one that she was supposed to be bringing to the chapel.
She’d been waylaid by a massive, curly-haired beast.
She tripped, of course, missing the dog by a hair’s breadth. He darted away, head held high, tail wagging, a silky piece of purple fabric in his mouth.
“Rembrandt!” she shouted. “Come back here with that cummerbund!”
She tried to give chase, but the darn dress tangled around her legs and she pitched forward again.
And probably would have face-planted if someone hadn’t grabbed her by the waist and hauled her to her feet.
“Thanks,” she managed to say as she turned to face her rescuer.
Not that she needed to look.
She knew it was Flynn.
She knew the feel of his hands, the gentleness of his grip, the easy way he moved.
Even on the worst days, on the days when she couldn’t remember dates or times or appointments, when she struggled to find words and remember names, she knew those things.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, stealing a kiss.
“I’ve been thinking. You know that dream you were talking about a few weeks ago? The one with starlight and the moon and us?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“You forgot to mention six kids, a dog, a horse that likes to escape, and a housekeeper who has made it her life’s mission to make sure every one of my children is starched and pressed before your brother’s ceremony.”
“I guess I did forget to mention those things,” he said, chuckling as he signaled for the dog.
Rembrandt came, prancing along with that piece of fabric still dangling from his mouth.
“Off,” Flynn said, and Rembrandt dropped it right into his waiting palm.
“You’re a pest,” Sunday said to the dog, but she patted his head because he was a cute one.
“Doesn’t look like this is any worse for wear,” Flynn said, handing her the cummerbund.
“Right. As long as no one notices the fang marks and slobber.”
“Mom! Are the flowers coming?” Moisey called, whirling into view, her violet dress swirling around her legs as she twirled toward them. “Because Clementine is at the chapel, and she’s looking beautiful but worried. On account of you not being there, and the flowers missing.”
“We’re on the way,” Flynn assured her, grabbing the handle of the wagon and pulling. “You two go on ahead, and let her know I’m coming.”
“I can help, Uncle Flynn,” Milo offered, rushing to the back of the wagon, ready to push it up the hill. They’d transported the flowers from Clementine’s fall garden. All of them picked by the bride that morning. Reds and oranges and deep pinks, the hues reflecting the beauty of the fall sky and the setting sun.
“Put this on first.” She handed Milo the cummerbund.
He sighed deeply but didn’t complain.
They’d had the discussion, she and the kids, about how important this day was, how special it needed to be for Porter and Clementine.
“Mom!” Twila rushed toward her, her dress bouncing as she moved. She had a clipboard in her hand and pencil behind her ear. “You’re running three minutes behind.”
“Sorry, I’m not as fast as I used to be.”
“Yes, well, that’s why you should have started sooner,” Twila chided, brushing a fleck of dirt from Sunday’s dress.
“The way you talk, sweetheart, one might think you were the adult, and I was the child.”
Twila cocked her head to the side, her silky braid sliding across her shoulder. “No one would think that, because everyone would be able to see that you’re older than I am.”
“True.”
“Come on. We’ve got to move. Uncle Porter will be here any minute. All the guests have arrived, and we want Clementine walking in the chapel exactly when the sun goes down.” She grabbed Sunday’s hand, dragging her up the hill.
The chapel was gleaming in the fading sun, the mountains behind it glittering with gold. The air had the crisp cold sting of fall and the sweet fragrance of fresh-cut grass.
Clementine was waiting near the door, wearing an ivory dress woven from alpaca fleece. She’d made it herself, and it was gorgeous, hugging her curves and floating languidly to the ground.
“You’re stunning,” Sunday said, hugging her friend.
“I’m nervous,” she replied, twisting a curl that had fallen from her long braid.
“Don’t be nervous, Clement
ine,” Heavenly stepped around the corner of the building. “You and Porter are meant to be.”
“Says a thirteen-year-old who’s never been in love.”
“I’ve been in love plenty. With the sky and the clouds and the grass under my feet.”
“Hanging out with your uncle is turning you into a philosopher,” Sunday said, and Heavenly smiled.
“No. It’s just making me appreciate the things I have. Like you. You’re beautiful. And when I’m grown, I want to be just like you.”
“Heavenly . . .” She wanted to say something clever and meaningful, lovely and right, but music drifted from inside the chapel, Rosie playing the first strains of the wedding march on the keyboard set up at the back of the room.
“That’s it! That means Uncle Porter is here!” Twila yelled. “Hide.”
She grabbed Clementine and Sunday by the arms and dragged them around the side of the building.
“Five minutes,” she announced. “Four. You know when to come, right? Because I have to walk in with Oya and the flowers and the other girls.”
“We know,” Sunday assured her.
Clementine was mute, staring at the façade of the chapel as if the secrets of the universe were written there.
“It’s going to be okay,” Sunday assured her friend as the girls disappeared and the music swelled.
It was time.
And she took Clementine’s hand. “It really is going to be okay.”
“Neither of us knows that. Not for certain.”
“I guess we don’t. But we have this day, and this place,” she said, gesturing to the silver-blue sky and the lush fields, the horses grazing in the distant pasture. “And we have each other.”
“And the men we love,” Clementine said, finally smiling.
“And a bunch of crazy kids and animals, and so much love, the hill seems to be singing with it.”
“That’s Moisey,” Flynn said, stepping around the corner.
And Sunday’s breath caught, her heart jumped.
“She’s decided she needs to sing the song of her people.”
“People?” Clementine asked.
“Yesterday, she decided she might be a princess mermaid from Atlantis,” Flynn explained. “Because she can hold her breath for so long.”
“Holy cow!” Sunday said. “Did she tell me this?”
“Yes,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“And what did I tell her?”
“That she should feel free to embrace the princess inside herself.”
“Oh. Dear. God. I should have written that down, looked it over, and come up with a better answer.”
“She’d still be singing,” Clementine said, all the tension gone from her face. “And I love it. This is going to make the best wedding story ever.”
“If we ever get you down the aisle,” Flynn said.
“Right.” She raised her chin, lifted the hem of her skirt, and marched to the door of the chapel.
“You two first,” Twila hissed, darting out of the building and gesturing for Sunday and Flynn to enter.
He took Sunday’s arm, his fingers curving neatly around her elbow. The music swelled, Moisey’s wobbly tribute pealing out loud and clear.
Twirling through the chapel and the sky and spinning out into the universe. And it wasn’t about mermaids, princesses, or underwater worlds.
It was about love.
That thing that stayed even when everything else was gone.
The thing that had pulled Sunday from a coma, back into the world, brought her back to her children, back to her friends.
Back to her home.
And the song was every word of a young girl’s heart and a family’s healing, and there wasn’t a person in the chapel who didn’t know it.
Sunday could hear them sniffling as she and Flynn walked past. She could see the tissues and the handkerchiefs. The hands dabbing at eyes.
She could see Porter waiting for his bride, his stance relaxed, his expression somber, his hand resting lightly on Moisey’s back.
Sullivan was there too. Holding Oya, swaying to the music, his gaze on his wife.
And then she and Flynn were at the front of the chapel, his hand slipping from her arm as he went to stand by his brother.
And she could see the future as it was going to be—bright with the joy of family and love.
She stepped to the side, standing next to Twila and Heavenly, waiting as the keyboard music swelled and the bridal march began.
Clementine appeared, resplendent in the light of the setting sun, beautiful in a way only love could make a person.
Sunday’s eyes filled with tears as she watched her friend walk up the aisle.
This was a memory she’d hold on to, one that she’d carry deep in her heart, where nothing could touch it or change it or take it away.
Her gaze was drawn to Flynn, tall and confident beside his brother.
He must have felt her gaze, because he met her eyes, smiled the smile that always made her soul sing.
“I love you,” he mouthed, and she knew it was as true as dawn or dusk or the rising of the tide. She knew it was more than words or promises or sweet kisses.
It was what happened when two people wandered off and then found their way back home.
“I love you, too,” she mouthed back.
And Heavenly leaned against her, wrapped her arm around her waist.
“See, Mom?” she whispered. “It’s not weird at all.”
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