Page 83 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
Melody raises a hand. “I was a recipient.”
“You were?”
“About ten years ago. My husband and I hit a rough patch, and Pat wanted to help out. He and his wife arranged for us to find the letters. To experience the power of that kind of love again.”
“Did it work? Please say yes,” I add with a hopeful smile.
“Very much so. It strengthened our bond when we needed it.”
Hunter clears his throat. “So all of you protect the letters now? Da Vinci Code–style or something?”
Vikas laughs. “Exactly. We’re exactly like The Da Vinci Code.”
“But what about you? How did you come into this?” I ask Vik.
He taps his temple. “The same way I come into anything. Knowledge, learning, listening.”
“You’re being evasive again,” Hunter chides.
He looks at the man I love. “I was aware of the story through Corinne. But no, I was not a recipient. I am glad that Corinne and Pat thought you’d be a worthy candidate when I made my case for you.”
Chuckling, Hunter swats him on the arm. “You love ribbing me.”
“It is one of my greatest passions,” Vik says. “But was I right? It seems I was, but I don’t want to assume.”
Hunter turns to me. “So right that I’ve already made plans to follow her around as she embarks on a whole new phase in her career.”
My insides go warm at the echo of his promise. We’re finding our way again.
His mother squeaks. “You’ll be closer, and you’ll be safer. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Glad you’re happy, Mom,” he says, then brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted too.”
Shivers rush through me as he delivers a chaste kiss to my lips.
“So, what’s next with this secret society?” Hunter asks the crew.
“Do we take an oath?” I chime in. “Sign a pledge? Learn a secret handshake?”
Vik chuckles. “No, but it would be an honor if you two would become a part of it now. And if you’d be willing to protect this love story until you encounter somebody who needs its power to realize what’s right in front of them.”
I squeeze Hunter’s hand, speaking for both of us, since I know his heart on this matches mine. “We’d be honored.”
“I have a question,” Hunter says. “Why is it still secret?”
“Would it have changed your life if it were public knowledge? Something easily googled?” Vik asks.
“No,” Hunter and I say together.
“That’s why,” says Vik. “Some stories are better shared privately.”
“And that’s why we didn’t want the letters to be filmed,” Corinne says. “You made that a bit complicated for us, dodging your request to film it.”
“I understand completely. We’ll follow your lead,” I say, and Corinne reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. She’s wearing a silver bracelet, and I know it’s the one Greta went back for.
It’s a precious artifact, something that tells the story of this family. “Your bracelet is beautiful. A true treasure.”
“It is. Thank you for saying that.”
“I have another question,” Hunter says. “How do we deal with The Folklore being shut down?”
Pat shakes his head, sighing that whippersnapper sigh. “Improvise, kid. You use your head. That’s what we did. We sent you to a new place—a proxy for The Folklore. And we made sure the last letters wound up in your stinking hands.”
“You don’t like me, do you?” Hunter says.
Pat waves a hand. “I like you a helluva lot. You remind me of someone I like even better. Me. And we both needed a kick in the pants.”
“You got yours. I’m getting mine. Can’t deny it worked,” Hunter says, with his cocky charm.
I lean in and kiss his stubbled jaw. “It worked incredibly well.” Then I turn to Vikas, the man who whisked Hunter off to Antarctica all those years ago. I never thought I’d think this, let alone feel it, but I’m glad Vik hired him way back when.
“Thank you for stealing this man away from me ten years ago. I don’t think we were truly ready for each other then. But we are now. So thank you for taking him. And for sending him back.”
Vik dips his head. “You are most welcome.”
Funny, how life has a way of offering all sorts of second chances.
The trick is to look for what’s hidden in plain sight.
Epilogue
Presley
* * *
Eight months later
* * *
The kettle gleams in the morning sun streaming through the windows of the old farmhouse.
Hunter shoots it a scathing look. “It’s a teapot.”
I give a c’mon glance right back at him. “It’s not a teapot. Just like the xylophone wasn’t merely a xylophone.” I grab for the copper kettle.
He holds the object above his head playfully. “Are you sure you want this little teapot?”
“You know it’s not just a teapot. Admit it, Hunter Armstrong. Tell the truth.”
Hunter turns to the camera—his phone—and sets it on a holder on the kitchen counter. “Fine, fine. She was right. The xylophone wasn’t just a xylophone. It was used in The Folklore Theater’s many musical productions.”
