Epilogue
Damian
One year later.
The plane is late. Rough weather kept it in Anchorage for two hours, so we don’t touch down in the cove until late in the evening.
Fortunately, the sun only sets for a few hours here, and it isn’t down yet, so even if we’re late, it’s easy to get the full effect.
“Wow.” April presses her nose against the window.
“It’s special, isn’t it?” I ask.
She glances over her shoulder at me with a wide grin that makes her blue eyes twinkle under her slate gray hair. Since the first time we met, April’s been a cool customer, interested in collaborating without ever fully committing.
Alaska wins everyone over.
April was Tino’s teacher. She published a couple of novels twenty years ago, then turned her hand to screenwriting but never had much success. A few TV movies after the content had been “sanitized” for network tastes, options that never went anywhere. She started teaching creative writing at a community college, and that was how she met Tino.
When filming wrapped onThe More the Merrier—formerly known asBeloved Cove—this spring, Tino said we needed to meet her too.
The plane, still essentially a tin can, motors up to the dock.
“And everyone else is here?” April asks.
“The others flew in this morning,” I say, drumming my fingers against the arm of my seat, trying to hide my impatience as she continues to block the window. This trip is about April and the three other screenwriters who have come up north. She deserves to see every minute of it.
But I want one second to peek outside and make sure he’s there too.
Although she’s supposed to be here for a month, April has apparently packed everything she’ll need in a single backpack, so getting off the plane takes a matter of seconds. I follow, squinting into the late day sun. A couple others have come out to watch us arrive.
When I told Jack I’d buy that cabin last year, I was kidding. But then we started talking about places we could use to house the screenwriters, and Jack said the oddest thing.
“Too bad we can’t take them to the lodge. It’s got lots of room.”
And it did. More than they probably wanted, because it turns out when accommodating your first guest leads to an international sex scandal, there’s a lot of interest, but no one feels a hundred percent comfortable staying there, and marketing gets complicated.
Frankly, buying the Wild Eagle Lodge was probably the fairest thing I could do. Though when we looked into it, turns out the lodge and the property are two separate things, so basically we lease the cove, and then we can take the lodge to any other destination if the next crop of screenwriters needs new inspiration. Have tugboat, will travel. We’re thinking about going down the coast to Baja California before the weather turns too cold.
Jack’s in charge of the logistics. He’s good at it.
“Hi! Welcome!” Marci skips down the dock. She’s our guest services coordinator, which means I’ve essentially given her an unlimited budget to make sure the writers can have whatever they want while they’re here. Fortunately, with the first group we had in the spring, most of what they wanted was coffee, scotch, weed, and scented candles, so Marci hasn’t bankrupted me yet.
April follows Marci up to the lodge and joins the others, which leaves me alone with the person I most wanted to see.
“Hi.”
Jack’s standing on the dock, lit from behind by the sun, making his edges glow. His beard is thicker than it was before I flew to New York last week. Or maybe it’s the shadows playing along his cheeks.
“How was your flight?” he asks.
“Bumpy.”
He grins as he folds me into him for a kiss. Even though it’s only been eight days since we saw each other last and we’ve spoken every night, it feels like forever.
“Roberta called,” he says, making me groan. “No, it’s fine. She said something about Vin being lost on a road trip somewhere in Middle America and wanted to know if we had any other way to get hold of him.”
“Vin’s a big boy,” I say. “Whatever he’s up to, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”
