My jaw drops. How often did I daydream about living in a fairy-tale cottage in this very valley? A perfect escape, a place of tranquility with nature all around. And now it’s happening. My daughter can have a warm and welcoming home, the home I always wanted for myself.
“There will be nary a marble floor or fake book in sight,” I tell Dante through the microphone on my headset. “The cycle of cruelty stops with us.”
My tone is joking, but I mean every word.
“No more bad parenting,” Dante agrees. “And no dark paneling or disapproving portraits of past ancestors either, right?”
“Well...maybe just a few disapproving portraits,” I tease.
Leaning over, I give him the tightest hug and biggest kiss I can manage while pregnant, strapped into a helicopter seat, and wearing a headset.
Then I rest my head on Dante’s shoulder, watching our little valley out his window as we slowly turn and fly away.
Dante runs his finger over my cheek. “Are you happy, Mrs. Bellanti?”
“Deliriously so, Mr. Bellanti.”
Once we’re back on the ground, we lean into each other as we watch Dean fly away, the wind from the helicopter blades tossing our hair.
“So. How was your helicopter ride?” Dante asks.
“Best ride ever,” I say, turning to face him and wrapping my arms around his waist.
“Best life ever.” He kisses me. “And it’s only going to get better.”
Epilogue
Frankie
“Livvie’s goingto love this one.”
“What are you torturing her with now?” Dante asks, looking up from his laptop behind his desk.
“Paint samples for the new house,” I say with a laugh. “She’s going to hate every second of it. And I’m going to keep sending them to her until she helps me pick out a color.”
Dante chuckles. “Cruel and unusual. You know she’s just going to pick some random color to shut you up.”
“Oh, I know. But it’s still fun to tease her.”
We’re in his office at the Bellanti house, where I’ve settled myself on a couple pillows on the floor, a rainbow arc of design palettes and paint and fabric samples spread out before me.
I snap a high-angle selfie of the setup before taking another big bite of one of Delores’s spiced fruit cups. Then I text it to Livvie with a caption that says, “My heaven, your hell.”
My baby sister notoriously hates anything that has to do with decorating—in fact, the closest thing I can imagine her having any design interest in is the layout of a horse stall. Sure enough, a second later, I get a vomiting emoji in response.
I return to my samples, mulling over shades of chalk paint in marine and French blue, muted tones that will make the living room a place of restfulness. Or do I want it to be more energetic? Bright whites with a few sunny yellow and poppy red accents? It’s so hard to choose.
I’m interrupted by my phone chiming with another text from Livvie—this time, she’s sent me a video. I wait for it to download and then press play.
Livvie’s on a black horse that must be Max, and she’s in a blue tank top with her golden hair pulled back. Seated behind her on the horse is her new bodyguard, tan and blond and shirtless. Although the picture is wobbly, thanks to Livvie’s grip on the phone being jostled, it looks like they’re riding through a pond. Both of them are laughing. I can see Miggy splashing along with them under the bright Louisiana sun. I watch the video again, studying this young man on the horse with Livvie. Her caption reads, “My heaven.”
That’smy sister’s bodyguard? Holy hell.
Mom had mentioned what he looked like and had said that she thought there might be something going on between the two of them, but I hadn’t expected...this. In Mom’s opinion, the whole thing was charming and romantic, but she had supposedly cautioned Livvie against mixing safety with pleasure. She’s only eighteen, after all.
Still.
I can’t quite judge her. The dude is hot.
