I consider our options. "There's a walking trail around Miller's Pond. Still pretty with the snow. We could bring hot chocolate, watch the ducks."
"Sounds perfect," she says, and the simplicity of her acceptance, the lack of pressure or expectation, cements something in my chest, a certainty I haven't felt in years.
When the dishes are done, I know I should get dressed, prepare to pick up Emma, return to my regular life. But Gloria turns to me, slipping her arms around my waist, and I find myself holding her close, breathing in the scent of her hair, memorizing the way she fits against me.
"Thank you," she murmurs against my chest.
"For what?"
She looks up, chin resting on my sternum. "For staying. For pancakes. For inviting me into your Sunday."
I brush a stray curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Thank you for making me want to."
Her smile is soft, a little shy despite the intimacy we shared last night. "This is going to work, isn't it? Whatever this is between us."
It's a question, but also a statement, an acknowledgment of potential. I think of all the complications, all the reasons to be cautious, all the differences between us. Then I look at her face, open and hopeful and somehow already essential, and find only one answer possible.
"Yes," I say, voice steady with newfound certainty. "I think it is."
Epilogue – Gloria
Three Years Later
"...and that is why, even in the face of dragons and darkness, friendship remains the truest magic of all."
I close the storybook with a flourish as the circle of children seated on colorful cushions erupts in delighted applause. Some are still wide-eyed from the tale, while others bounce with leftover energy. Behind them, parents smile indulgently.
"Miss Gloria, are there really dragons in the mountains?" asks five-year-old Mia, her glasses slightly askew on her earnest face.
"Well," I say, leaning forward conspiratorially, one hand resting on my very pregnant belly, "I've never seen one myself, but that doesn't mean they aren't there."
"Emma says they only come out at night," pipes up another child, looking toward the teenage girl arranging bookmarks at the edge of our reading circle.
Emma glances up, fourteen now, the mischievous sparkle in her blue eyes is all Nathan. "Only the shy ones," she corrects with perfect seriousness. "The brave ones sometimes fly right over Whitetail Falls during snowstorms."
A collective "ooooh" rises from the children, and I catch Emma's eye with a grateful smile. She winks back, so confident and at ease in this role she's grown into—junior storytime assistant at Moonlight & Manuscripts, beloved by the town children and indispensable to me.
"Speaking of snow," I say, glancing toward the large bay window where fat white flakes have begun drifting past the glass, "I think the first real snowfall of the season has started."
The announcement causes immediate excitement. Small faces press against the window, breath fogging the glass as they watch winter's opening act transform Foxglove Lane into something from a snow globe.
I feel a warm hand settle on my shoulder and look up to find my husband standing beside my reading chair, his expression soft with pride and that particular tenderness he reserves for moments like this.
"Need help up?" Nathan asks quietly, his thumb tracing small circles at the nape of my neck.
"In a minute," I murmur, enjoying the view of Emma herding excited children, the snow falling beyond the window, and the comforting weight of our second child stretching beneath my heart. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
He follows my gaze, understanding I mean more than just the scene before us. "Perfect," he agrees, his hand sliding to rest protectively over mine on my belly.
The morning crowd today includes not just parents and children, but a row of familiar faces in the back: Paul and his wife Natalie, Logan and Austin grinning and occasionally making faces at the kids when they think I don't notice.
"Another reading from the world-famous Gloria Cross," Austin teases as the children disperse to find books with their parents, some lingering at the window to watch the snowfall.
"Hardly famous," I laugh, finally accepting Nathan's hand to help me stand, eight months pregnant makes graceful movement a distant memory.
"Tell that to your fan club," Logan counters, nodding toward a group of mothers who regularly attend with their children, oneof whom is now approaching with a copy ofAnne of Green Gablesin her hands.
"Would you mind signing this?" she asks shyly. "It's for my daughter's birthday. You read it at the summer festival, and she hasn't stopped talking about it since."
