As the evening winds down, dessert plates reduced to crumbs and sugar dust, the fire settles into a steady, contented rhythm. Jennifer finally lets out a long yawn and rubs her eyes.
"We should head home," Jennifer says eventually, though she makes no move to rise from her chair. "Early day tomorrow. We're expecting a shipment of spring bulbs."
"In January?" I ask.
"Pre-orders for Valentine's arrangements," Elga explains. "February fourteenth waits for no one, not even Maine winters."
We walk them to the door.
"Drive safe," Darhg calls after them as they navigate the shoveled path to their car. "Text when you get home."
I wave until their taillights disappear down the snowy drive, then close the door against the bitter night. The cabin feels even warmer and more intimate after their departure, filled with the lingering scents of dinner and friendship.
I lean into Darhg's solid warmth, his palm settling over my hips as he draws me into the solid wall of his body. Desire rushes through my veins, as strong as the first day.
“Ready to head to bed?” he whispers against my ear and I shiver, long, deep, and delicious.
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Epilogue
Darhg
IangleMinnie'sstrollerthrough a knot of neighbors, one hand on the handle, the other steadying a plate of shortbread. Minnie kicks her tiny legs, tusklets nubbing her gumline as she gurgles at the splash of color covering the gallery walls. Her amber eyes track the movement of people with fascination, tiny fists waving at nothing and everything.
The Saltford Bay Community Arts Center Gallery hums with quiet pride tonight. White walls showcasestudent work under clipped spotlights, each piece marked with a small placard that lists the name of the artist and the title of the painting. The polished wood floor creaks softly under the weight of neighbors and classmates who've come to celebrate the end-of-term show, their winter coats carrying the faint scent of pine and wool from the blue dusk settling outside.
Rona stands beneath her work, luminous studies of the bay rendered in watercolors that seem to hold actual light. A soft portrait of Minnie asleep with a fist tucked to her cheek draws admiring murmurs from passersby. Two small self-portraits complete her section.
She smiles brightly as she notices us, her entire face lighting up.
"You look brilliant," I tell her, meaning every word.
She laughs, that warm sound that still makes something flip in my chest after a year of marriage. "It's just a class show, not the Met."
Elga bumps my shoulder with enough force to rattle my teeth, baby Minnie squealing with delight at the sudden movement.
"It is absolutely a big deal," the ogre woman declares, her voice carrying across half the gallery. "Our Rona's first official show as an artist."
Jennifer appears at her mate's elbow, honey-brown hair catching the gallery lights as she adjusts the blanket around Minnie's legs. "We've been bragging about you all week," sheadds with a grin. "Mrs. Patterson bought three of your bay studies before they were even hung."
"But Minnie’s portrait is all ours, of course," Elga continues, reaching into the stroller to tickle the baby's chin. "We’re going to put it right in the living room, so everyone who comes into the house will see it."
Rona leans down to coo at Minnie, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead.
"I'll invoice you for modeling fees, little one. You're going to be expensive."
The easy warmth between my mate and our friends still amazes me sometimes. Watching Rona bloom into herself—confident artist, devoted godmother, fierce protector of the people she loves—has been like witnessing a miracle unfold one day at a time.
Classmates drift past to offer congratulations, and Professor Martinez pauses to praise Rona's "eye for warmth and truth in ordinary moments." I mention the new easel and supply storage I installed in our converted studio at home, earning me one of those soft smiles that makes me want to build her a dozen more.
"Thank you for the shortbread," Rona tells Elga, gesturing toward the folding table where paper cups of cider and lemon water surround a tray of Elga's legendary cookies. "And Jennifer, thank you for helping spread the word. I couldn't have done this without both of you."
"When is your mother arriving?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer from the way Rona's shoulders tense slightly.
"Tomorrow, for the final day," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "There's going to be a press conference about supporting public arts funding."
Elga and Jennifer trade meaningful looks that communicate volumes without words. Rona catches it and shrugs.
