“So,” I nudge her gently, “what are you going to call it?”
Georgia doesn’t hesitate a second. “Serendipity,” she says, grinning so hard her eyes crinkle. “Because that’s what it was. And because it’s where I found everything I never knew I was looking for.”
“That’s perfect,” I kiss the top of her head.Just perfect.
Epilogue - Emmett
One year later
Serendipity opens at seven, but the place is already three-quarters full by the time I arrive, and Georgia is three coffees deep into her shift.
I think it might be my favorite version of her.
Boss Lady Georgia.But still my little peach.
The windows catch the January sunlight and spill it onto the exposed brick like liquid gold, highlighting every tiny imperfection. There are potted ferns strung up with nautical rope, a few mismatched lamps, and an entire corner devoted to an old upright piano that no one can play but which, according torumor,once belonged to Elton John’s third cousin.
Did I start that rumor to get people talking?Maybe.
Georgia stands at the espresso machine, wearing a blue apron covered in flour and a navy bandana to keep her hair out of her face. She’s orchestrating the chaos like the boss that she is, alternating between making lattes, fielding questions from the staff, and correcting Miles’s attempts tohelpby reorganizing the biscotti display.
I raise my camera, framing the shot through a cluster of hanging plants, and snap just as she throws her head back and laughs. There’s a fleck of cinnamon on her nose. I get a second one, this time zooming on her hands—how she cradles the mug like it’s a living thing.
If I were a better person, I’d probably ask before immortalizing her in forty-two megapixels, butgoddamn,she’s beautiful.
The bell above the door dings three times in a row, and I pivot to see what’s going on. It’s Robert, standing in the entry looking like he might turn back around and walk out. He’s clutching a manila envelope and a battered cardboard box, and I wonder what the hell that’s about.
Georgia spots him, and her face changes immediately. She nods, then gestures to the counter, not hostile but definitely guarded. “Hey, Dad. You want a coffee?”
He hesitates. “To go, please.”
She wipes her hands on a towel and meets him by the register, lowering her voice. “Is that for me?” She gestures at the box.
He sets it down on the counter. “Some old mail came to the house for some reason. Figured you’d want it.”
“Thanks,” she says, tone neutral, and they do this little dance where neither one quite looks at the other. Georgia pops the lid and peeks inside. “You could’ve thrown these out,” she says, holding up a sheaf of glossy alumni magazines.
Robert shrugs. “Didn’t want to assume. I try not assume too much of anything about you these days.”
She glances at me, and I think she might pop off with a sassy remark. Instead, she just says, “Thanks. I’m glad you stopped by.”
Robert looks around the café, eyes landing on the wall with art she’s selling for different local artists. “Place looks good,” he says, still not meeting her gaze.
“Thanks,” she repeats. “It’s getting there.”
He nods stiffly and then turns as if he’s about to leave. But Georgia reaches out and catches his sleeve. “Hey, Dad?”
He pauses, waiting.
She hesitates. “Do you want to try a cinnamon roll? It’s… I think it’s the best thing on the menu.”
Robert looks down at his hands, and for a second, I think he’ll refuse. But then he nods, wordless, and takes the plate Georgia offers. “You made this?”
She smiles. “Yep. All me.”
He takes a bite, chews slowly, and his eyes actually close for a second, like he’s really enjoying it. “Not bad,” he says.
Georgia’s entire face lights up. “Culinary school paid off,” she says, and Robert almost smiles.
