Page 63 of Something About September

She looked up into Cort’s eyes—storm-cloud gray, eyes she had known for so long and had probably always loved. One day soon, she knew she’d have the courage to say those words to him.

“I’m ready if you are,” she whispered.

Then she closed her eyes, and his lips on hers were the perfect ending.

Epilogue

One Year Later

Dear Mom,

I’m writing this before we open. I’m writing this even though I can’t mail it. I’ll bury it under the old apple tree, the way I do all my letters to you. Somehow, I feel like you get them.

The light is so beautiful. Autumn light always has been and always will be my favorite. Clean and gold, flowing through the front windows. Making each and every book look like it has been gilded, like it’s full of magic. Which I think most books truly are.

Blackbird & Bramley smells like the diner used to: cinnamon and fresh coffee. But also, of books. I used to want to bottle that smell up, but now it’s the scent profile of my life. That, and Cort’s cedary aftershave, and usually sawdust, since there’s still always some project or other around here that needs doing. The shelves along the north wall bow just a little and need some work. (Crispin has “approved the load-bearing plan,” which means he poked a shelf, frowned, and then said “fine.” I’m getting used to him.)

Kids who come in with their parents already know where the reading nook is: under the ivy print, next to the basket of board books. Every Thursday we host Poems & Pie. On Monday mornings it’s Literature & Lattes. The sign above the door (serif, by decree; Crispin again): Blackbird & Bramley. Then, Books • Coffee • Pie. I ordered it “well within the recommended lead time,” per Crispin’s seasonal-decor gospel. I also rotate the tiny felt garlands on schedule like a model citizen.

Pip and Cort are growing a new behemoth in their yard and hoping for a first-place ribbon again this year.

James and Marion come at least once a week. They read the paper at the sunniest table and call me over to help them with the crossword. We are family, and I feel certain of it.

But I still think, sometimes, of writing a different kind of letter—one to Pierre Margaux. I found him. He still lives in Montreal. He has a family, which means, in a way, so do I. I haven’t decided what to do about it yet; this beautiful Bramley Hollow family of mine feels like enough.

And then there’s Cort. Let me tell you, I am no longer impervious to the Cort Adams Effect, and never will be. Every time he smiles at me, my heart does a cartwheel. The best part is, I’m pretty sure there’s a Rebecca McIntosh Effect, and that his heart does somersaults when I smile at him. Sometimes it still feels like a fairy tale, but I also know it’s better than that. Not a story in a book, but a real love that will last. I don’t feel scared anymore. Well, today I feel a little nervous, but more on that later.

I keep your letter under the counter in a plastic sleeve. Sometimes, between cappuccinos, I slip it out and run a finger under the line that saved me: Go meet your life.

When I lock up at night, your photo watches the room, and I put one of Lenore beside it. You two feel like guardian angels.

Tonight is supposed to be girls’ night, and Sabrina just texted “martinis??” with four cherries. I’m going to have to tell her—but first, I have to tell Cort. Though, actually, you are the first to know, and that feels right because, well, you’re my mom.

I’m pregnant. I did a test this morning. Two pink lines, clear as day.

Writing that down didn’t feel scary. It feels right. It feels real.

I can’t predict the future, but I know Cort well enough to know he’ll be happy, too. In fact, I can’t wait a minute longer to go tell him that Pip is going to be a big brother, that we’re going to be even more of a family than we already are.

I can see it all, so clearly. My life. Ours. Another branch on the family tree. Another line on the map.

Me, someday soon, standing under the apple tree, smiling. Full of love.

Love,

Rebecca