He was in the kitchen, emptying the garbage for me so he could toss it in the outside bin on the way out.
“Hey,” I called to him, “could you turn on the ovens for me? Just check inside and make sure I didn’t forget any dough rising.” I smoothed my suddenly sweaty hands down my apron.
He opened one oven before clicking it on. Then the other. He paused, frowning. “There’s a bun in this one.”
My stomach fluttered. This was the reason I had insisted our trip to Japan be sooner rather than later. “Really? Abun? In theoven?”
He straightened and the door smacked closed. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”
I bit my cheek and nodded. We’d talked about starting a family, whether we wanted to and how it’d work. If we’d keep traveling. The answers were all yes, and we’d make it work. But it was all happening sooner than expected. Probably from jet lag and getting used to being in Montana again. And mornings like this when he hadn’t used a condom.
“Fuck me, Mad Maddy.” His long strides carried him out of the kitchen as he charged for me. Then he picked me up and swung me around. “You make me the happiest goddamn man in the world.”
“What a coincidence. You make me the happiest woman. The happiest baker. The most pregnant baker.”
“I will always make you happy, and remind you that you’re mine.”
“I’m all yours, Bailey. And you’re all mine.”
He grinned. “Bought and paid for. I do almost wish this had happened later.”
My mood dipped. “Too soon?”
“Nah, but you’re going to have to wait until you can drink again to try the special batch I named after you.”
“You did not!” I didn’t have to wait for Christmas. This man surprised me with sweet gifts and gestures all the time. “From that hopscotch bet? That I lost, by the way.”
He shrugged. “I’ll save two bottles.”
“What’d you name it?” I already had an idea.
“Mad Summit, and it’s the sweetest batch I’ve ever tasted.”
EPILOGUE
Five years later . . .
Mae
I don’t agree that a woman’s worth should be measured by who she is to others. Somebody’s daughter. Somebody’s mother. Somebody’s sister. Somebody’s wife. Each woman is her own person. Has her own identity. Her own worth. Full stop.
Yet, as I watch my kids and the loves of their lives mingle and my grandchildren run around, I’m immensely proud to be their mother. Their foster mother. Their mother-in-law. Their grandmother. Their step-grandmother.
They’re all here because I was somebody’s wife. Darin’s partner. He’s been gone for years, but I’m still his. Always will be. I love these moments twice as hard for him.
I rock in a fancy camp chair Tate and Scarlett got me for Christmas a couple of years ago. The shop is open and my kids stand in groups, often changing members, roaming from pod to pod. They’re closer than ever, and even better, they’re all in Bourbon Canyon.
Teller and Madison returned from Brazil last week. I watched their twins while they were on a working vacation. The way Madison has opened up Teller’s world is more than a mama could ask for. Next year, they’re taking their four-year-olds, London and Phoenix, to Peru. Madison blushes and Teller grins at her every time someone asks where they got the names. Teller says it’s the two places most important in their journey together.
Gideon’s dad, Hank, rocks in his chair next to me. He’s become a good friend, someone to commiserate with when the kids are going through a rough time, and a buddy who knows what it’s like to want to stay single. Darin isn’t here anymore, but my heart is his. Hank’s been without his soulmate longer than me, but he knows.
“We throw parties all the time, but I can’t believe it,” he says. His chair creaks while he’s rocking. “They’re growing up on us.”
“If I ever forget, Chance just needs to come home from college again.” I have a grandkid who’s a legal adult, and in case I doubt it, his size and deep voice will change my mind. With shoulders as wide as his dad’s and a mop of dark hair on his head to match, he made me a grandma, but now he can pick me up and walk a couple of miles if he wants to.
Chance chases after his sister, Brinley, and she darts away, screeching, a giant smile on her face. Darin’s a year younger than Brinley, but he tries to interfere with his sister, giggling. The nine-year-old is no competition for Chance. He gets tickled for his efforts.
Scarlett beams at him, and Tate wraps his arm around her while they watch their kids play.
