Three good deeds completed. One curse broken. And one architect finally learning that the best things in life can’t be designed or controlled. They can only be enjoyed.
Epilogue
Atlanta
One Year Later
“I can’t believe you talked me into wearing this ridiculous sweater.”
I adjust Holden’s collar, smoothing down the knitted reindeer that spans most of his strong chest. “It’s festive.”
“I look like a department store threw up on me.”
He does. But his whole family got them to wear in their annual holiday photo, which I was included in. He’s not envious of his brother and sister anymore, although their sibling rivalry is still strong. He opened up to his parents about his insecurities, and to say they were stunned at how he felt was like saying the Grinch never stole Christmas.
We’re at the Hope Peak holiday kick-off at the community center, manning the “Letters to Santa” station and helping children write their wishes.
A lot has changed in a year.
Four months ago, I officially accepted the VP of Interior Design position at Big Sky Architecture. Before stepping into the role, I’d insisted on shadowing other VPs of Design first, spending four months sharpening my skillset at firms in Bozeman and Missoula. I also took some business classes, and when I finally stepped into the role, I was ready. More than ready.
“Miss Atlanta!” A little girl with pigtails tugs on my sweater. “How do you spell ‘trampoline’?”
I crouch down, helping her sound it out, and when I look up, Holden’s watching me with that expression. The one that makes my insides melt.
After a little while, the Millers arrive with their grandchildren, who immediately run to show Holden drawings they made. Mrs. Miller pulls me aside.
“That yard decoration is still the talk of the neighborhood. But more than that, we’re grateful for what you two did. You made us feel seen.”
My throat tightens, remembering when Holden finally admitted to the Millers what he had done. He surprised the couple with fall yard art that mimicked their old inflatables. “You made us better people.”
“No, dear. He did that himself.” She pats my cheek. “You just loved him enough to let him.”
As the event winds down, Holden’s niece Bailey runs over, her brown curls bouncing.
“Uncle Holden! Mommy says you’re coming to my birthday party next month!”
He scoops her up, spinning her around. “Wouldn’t miss it, munchkin.”
She was the star of this year’s recital, which I attended with Holden and his family. His brother, Bennett, was there, who isalmost a twin of my man. I’m surprised a woman snatched him up.
We spend the next two hours enjoying the people of Hope Peak: August from the repair shop, Rosalie from Peak Sweets, and Tessa from The Velvet Book. Carter even volunteered to wear a fuzzy Grinch head and hand set, wandering around and being silly for the kids.
After the last family leaves, Holden and I bundle up and step outside into the cold night. The snow falls softly, Hope Peak’s Main Street glowing with holiday lights.
“Want to walk?” he asks, taking my hand. “My sister can drive the family back to the house.”
“Always.”
We invited them to Hope Peak to enjoy the holiday kick-off. My brother, Aspen, is here, somewhere, talking to Penny near the Christmas tree.
We stroll past Perfect Brews where Holden lets people get in front of him then past the hardware store where his quarterly “Ask an Architect” events draw crowds.
“I’ve been thinking,” Holden says, his breath visible in the cold air. “About the property. The 110 acres.”
My heart skips.
“I want to start the design process. With you.” He stops walking, turning to face me. “I want to build our dream home, Atlanta. Not mine. Ours.”
