Olive tilted her head. “What did he ask?”
“He asked if we would stay here with him. Not just for a little while, but… always.” My voice wavered, but I pushed through. “What would you think about that?”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. She looked down at her plate, then up at Seth, then back at me. My heart thudded painfully.
Then her face split into a grin. “Does that mean Uncle Seth is our family now?”
Seth’s breath caught. I glanced at him, and the look in his eyes nearly undid me.
“Yes, O,” I said, pulling her into my lap. “If you want him to be.”
She squealed, throwing her arms around both of us, syrup sticky against my cheek. “I do! I do! I told Aunt Blair that already. She said it was only a matter of time.”
Seth laughed, low and rough, but there was something broken in the sound, like he was barely holding himself together. He reached across the table, covering my hand with his, and heldit there even as Olive babbled about sleepovers and picnics and whether this meant we could all get a puppy.
After breakfast, Olive darted off to draw a picture of ‘our family,’ crayons spilling across the coffee table. Seth and I stayed in the kitchen, the dishes cooling in the sink.
“You handled that better than I did,” I murmured, leaning against the counter.
“She made it easy,” he said, his voice quiet but full. “You both do.”
I looked at him then, really looked at the man who had built walls for years and had just let them fall without hesitation. My chest swelled with something that felt like both relief and joy.
“Then it’s settled,” I whispered.
He closed the distance between us, one hand sliding to my cheek. “It’s settled.”
The kiss that followed was slow and sure, syrup still lingering in the air, laughter still echoing from the other room. Olive’s voice called out a moment later, demanding we come see her masterpiece. We pulled apart reluctantly, smiling against each other’s lips.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I felt like we were exactly where we belonged.
Chapter 52
Seth
Saturday arrived warm and clear, the kind of summer morning that made Wisteria Creek feel like it had never known storms. Sunlight slid over the lawn and settled on the porch rails, bright as fresh paint. From the kitchen window, I could see the tips of our flowers, a little taller than yesterday, a little braver too. Coffee steamed in my mug, and the house carried the soft clatter of a day beginning. Madison’s laugh camefrom the hallway as she tried to herd Olive into shoes that matched. Olive argued that sneakers made her fast and sandals made her fancy, which meant she needed both. I leaned on the counter and let the sound of them work through me until the last corners of sleep let go.
We were going to the farmer’s market. That was the plan. Buy peaches. Pick up honey from the old man who always wore a straw hat and called everyone darling. Let Olive choose a bunch of wildflowers for the kitchen table. Maybe talk to a roofing contractor about a porch overhang for a client who had been slow to commit. Mostly, I wanted to be seen with them, the three of us moving together through the center of town. The idea steadied me in a way I had not expected.
Madison walked into the kitchen with Olive’s hair half braided, curls slipping free like they had their own minds. She wore a simple cotton dress and sneakers, a canvas tote over her shoulder. Olive skipped behind her in a sunhat that kept tilting over one eye.
“Breakfast now or breakfast at the market?” Madison asked, tilting her head toward the stove.
“At the market,” Olive declared, answers ready. “I need a cinnamon roll. A big one. Bigger than my face.”
“Ambition is important,” I said, fighting a smile. “Market it is.”
We made a quick sweep for the things that always went missing. Sunglasses. A water bottle for Olive. Keys. I locked the door out of habit and looked back across the yard at the guesthouse, our guesthouse that was no longer temporary. The knowledge settled like a key finally turning in the right lock.
The town was already awake when we pulled in near the square. Tents bloomed white along the sidewalk. A string band tuned up beneath the shade of a maple, notes rising like birds. The air smelled like kettle corn, cut grass, and peaches that had been sitting in the sun. We stepped out into the crowd and Olivereached for both our hands without looking, as if she had always walked that way. I glanced at Madison, and she glanced back. No words. Only the quick curve of a private smile.
We moved slowly, letting Olive set the pace. She stopped to watch a potter spin a wide bowl from clay that looked like river mud. She pressed her nose to the glass of a honey jar and asked if bees knew their names. She stood on tiptoe at a flower stall and pointed at a bundle of zinnias that looked like fireworks, all yellow and coral and pink.
“For the table,” she said with sudden ceremony. “For our home.”
The words hit me in the sternum. They hit Madison, too. I saw it in the clean intake of her breath and the way she squeezed Olive’s fingers. I bought the flowers, and the farmer tucked a sprig of mint into the paper as a gift. He told Olive to put the mint beside the sink so the whole room would smell like a fresh garden. Olive promised to do exactly that and asked him if the flowers liked pancakes. He gave it serious thought. He decided they preferred sunshine and compliments. Olive accepted this with a nod that said the matter was settled.
We reached the bakery stall, and the last cinnamon roll was the size of a saucer, which made Olive crow with triumph. Madison and I split a peach hand pie, flaky and warm, the fruit inside so ripe it tasted like summer itself. Peach juice slipped down Madison’s wrist, and I caught it with a napkin before it reached her elbow. Her eyes met mine. It was a small thing, but it felt like an oath.
