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She opened the door with a flourish to find an unfamiliar young woman, recognizable only because she was the subject of one of the Saltonstall family portraits, and because her eyes were the same pale shade of gray as her brother's.

“You must be Venetia.” Iris beamed at her, accepting a covered dish and pulling her into a one-armed hug. “I love your earrings.”

“Thank you.” Venetia touched one of her large silver hoops. “You have some nice ones in your collection as well.”

Before Iris could riddle out when Venetia had seen her jewelry collection, she heard footsteps on the gravel drive. A man in his sixties with a gray beard and pursed mouth—who Iris recognized as Venetia’s husband—followed her into the house. He greeted Iris warmly before moving further into the living room to say hello to his brother-in-law.

Behind him, two more guests walked along the grassy path.

Jocatta, her hair in an auburn knot, was draped in a long, satin-lined cobalt blue coat that stood out magnificently against the cloudy sky. Thomas, smiling in his gentle way and dressed in more simple attire, accompanied her.

Iris stepped aside to let them in as Blair approached the doorway, surprise flitting across his features.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he admitted quietly. He hesitated a beat too long, blocking their way inside. Finally, he held out his arms and Jocatta reached out to hug him, her expression an alloy of worry and relief, the kind of complex emotion that a mother holds for her child.

His father patted him on the back. “We wouldn’t have missed it.”

The rest of the dinner party arrived over the next several minutes, and soon there were twelve of them—Iris, Gabriel, Blair, Iris’ mother Mary, Audrey, Evette, Jocatta, Thomas, Venetia, her husband Steven, Li, and Cody—cramped together around the table, their plates piled high, their glasses shimmering under the overhead lights.

Iris’ cheeks hurt from smiling. Her chest was warm with wine and bursting with love for everyone around the table, even those she didn’t know well. Dinner lasted for over an hour and then came dessert: several pies that the three of them had baked together, to varying degrees of success.

Later, their guests milled around the house chatting while Iris washed dishes and eavesdropped on their conversations. She was happily listening to her mother and Blair’s animated discussion from the living room when she felt a soft hand touch her shoulder. She looked up to find Jocatta, looking unusually content.

“I wonder if we could talk in private,” she said.

“Oh.” Iris splashed herself with hot water as she fumbled to turn off the tap. She wiped her hands on a dish towel embroidered with yellow roses that hung over the oven rack. “Of course.”

She led the way out onto the lantern-lit back deck, the rush of cool, late April air a relief after hours spent inside the stuffy house. She leaned against the railing as Jocatta took in the towering elm trees, the trail of roses that lined the fence, and the row of solar lights. The bamboo wind chimes tinkled softly as a light breeze ruffled Iris’ hair, carrying with it the scent of freshly mown grass.

“You have cultivated quite the home here, my dear,” Jocatta said, a gleam in her eyes as she turned to face Iris, who bowed her head.

“It’s nothing compared to yours.”

“Well, I’ve had quite a lot of time to decorate.” She used the same self-deprecating tone that Iris had heard from both Blair and Espirit in the past. This was the first time she’d ever detected it in Jocatta’s voice, though.

Jocatta trailed her hand along a tree branch that reached out over the deck, while Iris inhaled deeply. The air held a hint of rain, but its subtle warmth promised that May was just around the corner.

The past winter had been the most memorable of her life, but Iris wasn’t sorry to usher in the spring and summer. She had a feeling that the warmer seasons would hold more peace than conflict, more love than loss. At least, she hoped so.

“I wanted to thank you,” Jocatta said at last.

Iris swallowed. “What for?”

“For giving my son the future I held back from him.” Jocatta peered out over the horizon, the mountains thick with trees. Her voice was calm, resigned. “I can see that I held on for far too long. This is your story now. Yours, Blair’s, Gabriel’s.” She placed her hand on Iris’ shoulder again, and Iris fought the wave of emotions that washed over her. “I trust that it will be far more lovely than anything I could imagine.”

Before Iris could interpret the expression in her eyes, Jocatta turned away—not back in the direction of the house, but down the rickety wood steps. She walked slowly along the fence lined with roses, her figure limned in moonlight.

The grandfather clock had long since rung out midnight by the time their guests finally left, despite Iris’ assurances that they were welcome to stay over. Although the three of them had tried to stay on top of cleanup, the sink was piled with dirty dishes, the tablecloth full of crumbs and stains.

All of it could wait until morning.

Iris collapsed onto the couch next to Blair, who, impossibly, already had his journal resting on his lap. Gabriel settled in at Iris’ other side, draping a blanket over himself as he leaned back against the cushions, his eyes falling closed.

Iris snuggled deeper into the pillows before reaching for her book. She was in the middle of Blair’s copy of Villette, which she was enjoying, despite her less than fluent understanding of French.

After a while, Iris leaned her head on Blair’s shoulder. She looped her arm through his, giving him a squeeze as she peered nosily at his current page. He was nearing the end of his journal. Maybe she’d surprise him soon with a new one. Purchased from Bookish Emporium, of course.

“Are you writing me a love letter?” she whispered in his ear.