Page 102 of Mistletoe & Magic
“Where’s the fun in that?” she fires back.
I shake my head and grin, already knowing this is just the beginning of whatever storm those two are about to cause.
Later, when the house is quiet and the dishes are done, I find Ivy curled up on the couch with her notebook again.
“Back to the business plan?” I ask, sinking down beside her.
“Yeah,” she says. “But I’m adding something new.”
“Oh?”
She turns the notebook toward me, her handwriting looping across the page. “I want to add another summer retreat series for kids. Camps, crafts, maybe even music nights in the barn.”
I feel my chest go warm again. “Do it. Whatever you want, Ivy. I’m here for you.”
She smiles, slow and sure. “I know.”
And I do what I’ve been wanting to do since she sat down at the island earlier. I kiss her until she laughs against my mouth.
Life feels steady. Good. Like we are building something we can keep.
Tonight, the house is warm, Ivy is in my arms, and there’s still a slice of pizza left on the counter with my name on it.
Epilogue
Ivy
Three months later
“End of April is my favorite,” I say. “Everything looks like a fresh start.”
The air smells like rain that is thinking about happening. The sky is a soft gray, but the groves are green. New needle growth is bright on the tips of the firs; the ground is springy, and the robins are busy. I lace my fingers with Remy’s as we follow the path along the fence. His thumb brushes my knuckles a few times like a secret code that only we know.
He smiles at the ground first, then at me. “Everythingisa fresh start.”
We check the rows like we always do. He stops to nudge soil around a root that looks exposed. I crouch to pick up a bit of twine and tuck it in my pocket for later. We talk about silly things. How the new barn cats have chosen the old seed sacks as their kingdom. How Junie’s class is hatching chicks, and theteacher keeps sending photos that make Remy pretend he does not want six of them. My bet is that by the end of summer we’ll have a whole chicken coop to go with the goats that the neighbors never came back for, and Remy doesn’t complain about. He secretly loves them.
We turn the bend and step into the small clearing. I stop.
There is a blue and white plaid blanket spread on the soft grass. A basket sits ready. Two glass bottles of lemonade catch what little sun there is and light up like they are full of their own glow.
I look up at him. “What do you have planned, Remy?”
He tries for casual and does not quite get there. “Walk. Lunch. Maybe I try to convince you of something.”
I laugh and he takes my hand again and leads me to the blanket. He kneels and opens the basket like a magician who is proud of his hat. Sandwiches wrapped in parchment. A container that smells like dill and mustard.
He hands me a sandwich. “Turkey on sourdough with that honey mustard you like.”
I take a bite and close my eyes. “This is perfect.”
He opens another container. “Potato salad. Your favorite kind. Extra pickles.”
I eat a forkful and try not to moan with delight. “You remembered.”
“I always remember.”
And he does always remember. It’s the little things that he never forgets. About how I like my food or things I say I want to try to do. He treats everything like it’s important and like it means something.
