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Deacon and I are dancing to Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” when Winnie calls to the group. “It’s time!”
Sofia runs through the crowd distributing paper lanterns with Lola following behind with lighters. The music stops, and we gather in a group while my aunt counts down to zero. We all light the small rings inside the lanterns—Deacon and I have the biggest one, which we light together. When she says zero, we release them, watching as the glowing beacons rise in the dark night, catching the breeze and turning into a swirling line drifting towards the mountains.
It’s beautiful and hopeful, and as Deacon folds me in his arms, I relax into my happily ever after.
We healed our family.
We created a new path.
One vow we did add to our ceremony, and it drifts through my mind. No matter what, from this day to forever, without hesitation or pause, we choose each other, and we’ll go on choosing each other, in a heartbeat, until death do us part.
Epilogue
Deacon
Six months later
“Mi Mamá?” The older woman holds a pair of glasses in front of her eyes as she reads the card beside Angel’s painting of the Sierra Madre at dusk.
We’re at her showing in the Palladium, and the gallery is packed with business leaders, art collectors, students, and the generally curious. Angel is a pro. She’s wearing a tight black dress that shows off her baby bump magnificently. It stops mid-thigh, and her toned legs are accentuated by tall, black heels.
Her hair is darker from being inside all winter, and she had it straightened. Although I prefer her crazy curls, she’s very sophisticated with it shiny and smoothed into a bun at the nape of her neck. Oversized earrings are in her ears, and she is mouthwateringly gorgeous. She’s a smart, professional artist I’d like to fuck. AILF…
I’m getting distracted.
“My late mother preferred a deep blue and green palette for her work.” She gestures with her slim arms and elegant hands at the painting of the mountains. “I typically work in warmer, more vibrant tones.”
“And the mountains?” The woman nods, stepping back to absorb the large work.
“The Sierra Madre. I grew up in the foothills living with her.”
The woman’s eyebrows rise, and she smiles, nodding as if she understands. Another work sold. Angel’s premier showing to the Texas art world is a hit.
“I’m so nervous.” She grabs my arm, speaking into my chest as the woman strolls down the line.”
“You’re amazing.” My hands are on her waist, and I kiss her forehead, inhaling the jasmine in her hair. “You sound like you’ve been doing this all your life.”
“Art, yes. Talking about it to super-rich, judgey, total strangers? No.”
That makes me chuckle, and I lean down to kiss the side of her cheek. “You sound like a pro.”
“Now, Mr. Dring, you can’t monopolize your talented wife all evening.” Her former professor walks up smiling, holding out her arms.
“Professor Roshay.” Angel turns to give her a hug. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“How could I not? You are one of the finest students I’ve taught. I wanted to tell you you’d get the residency, but how could I?”
“You’re too kind.”
“Farrell?” Winnie joins us, a glass of white wine in her hand. “Aren’t you so proud of my niece?”
“Winnie, how very fortunate you are to have such a talent in the family.”
“I have the privilege of saying I was one of her first portraits.” My aunt preens like a peacock, and I feel pretty proud of myself.
We built this bridge.
Angel looks up at me, her cheeks rosy pink, and I slide my arm around her waist. “How are you feeling?”
