“Excellent, I’ll add that here at the bottom.” Robbie leaned over the paper, writing in number ten exactly as I’d said.
Madison raised her hand. “I have one. We can’t forget Trevor. We should promise to always remember that Trevor needs walks, kibble and a daily treat.”
“What would we call that?” Robbie asked.
“Caring?” Grady asked.
“Yes, that’s good.” Robbie wrote item eleven on to the list.
“Okay, let’s sign this bad boy.” Grady tapped his fingers against the table top. “We need to get down to the courthouse.”
“There’s a signature line at the bottom for each of us.” Robbie set his pen in the middle of the table.
Grady signed first, followed by me, despite the tears in my eyes. Madison took the pen and wrote her name in large, looping letters that took up the entire line and most of the margin. She dotted the i with a heart. Underneath her signature, she added in her best handwriting: And Trevor too.
Robbie examined it. “That’s not technically a legal signature from the dog.”
“Trevor doesn’t have thumbs,” Madison said. “So I signed for him.”
Robbie considered this. “I’ll allow it.”
He signed last. Then he gathered the document and placed it back in the folder. “Let’s go make this legal.”
And so we did.
22
SIX MONTHS LATER …
Our house on Driftwood Lane quickly became a home. We’d moved in just before Christmas after Lila had helped us choose furnishings that made the beautiful spaces feel even more like us. A vintage surfboard hung on the living room wall. Vases I’d picked up over the years at estate sales were carefully placed in different rooms. Bookshelves were filled with Robbie’s science textbooks, Mary Oliver volumes, my favorite romances, and children’s books. We’d chosen comfortable couches and chairs for the family room, all meant for a casual lifestyle rather than a showcase. The farmhouse table Lila had found seated twelve, which meant I could finally host my friends for our weekly dinners.
And this afternoon, in front of our friends and family, Grady and I would exchange vows. Technically we were already married, but I’d promised Madison a real wedding. In truth, I wanted it too. It didn’t have to be huge or fancy, just an occasion to make our vows in front of our friends and family. I’d decided a wedding at springtime when the flowers were blooming and the salt air mild was the perfect choice. We’d decided to have the reception on our patio and enjoy a low-key reception afterward.
We’d just moved into the new house when I’d gotten a text from Jeff, the first one since he’d moved to Austin.
Jeff
Heard you got married again. To a rich guy. Guess you won’t need my hard-earned money any longer. But if you want to make it official, I’m willing to sign away my rights in exchange for dropping the child support claim. I’m about to hit it big with the startup and don’t want all this hanging over my head.
I didn't even hesitate. Whatever Jeff wanted to tell himself about why he was doing it was his business. What mattered was what it meant for us.
So, the following week, all four of us stood in front of a judge, plus Trevor waiting in the car because Madison had insisted he be part of our celebratory lunch. With a signature and the approving thump of a judge’s gavel, Grady legally became their father. Robbie shook his hand. Madison, however, broke into spontaneous cartwheels down the aisle of the courthouse. Even the judge laughed.
After some discussion, Grady and I had decided to keep our businesses. Now that we didn’t rely solely on that income, the joy they brought us made it impossible to sell. However, I’d cut back on my hours at my shop after hiring a young woman named Clara. She was only twenty-three and had come to us through Harborlight. I was training her the way Helen had trained me. She had an innate ability for composition and symmetry. In addition, flowers were her passion. She’d told me when I interviewed her that her mother’s flower garden had saved her after the assault. Their pure beauty reminded her of the good in the world. When Grady had suggested she apply for my positionat the shop, she’d jumped at the chance. After a week or so, I couldn’t remember what it was like before she’d come to work for me.
A few weeks after Clara started, Dr. Mark Brenner came in to order flowers for a nurse at the hospital who was retiring. He and Clara got to talking while she put the arrangement together, and he stayed for forty-five minutes. He came back the next day for flowers he definitely didn't need. And the day after that. By the end of the week, Clara mentioned, very casually and without meeting my eye, that he'd asked her to get coffee.
"The pediatrician?" I asked, trying not to smile.
"He's very nice," she said, blushing to the roots of her hair. "And he likes Mary Oliver."
I thought about telling her that he'd almost been mine—that an algorithm had once declared us ninety-seven percent compatible. But looking at the two of them, I understood something Robbie's data had missed. Mark was never meant for me. He was meant for someone who needed exactly what he was—steady, patient, gentle, and in no rush at all.
On the deck below, workers were setting up for the ceremony. I’d designed my own arrangements and bouquets, but Clara had insisted on assembling them. “A bride shouldn’t arrange her own flowers,” she’d said, in a tone that made it clear this was not negotiable. She’d dropped everything off that morning, and my bouquet was sitting on the kitchen island, waiting for me. I’d built it around golden and wide-faced sunflowers, anchoring the center like small suns. Pink peonies surrounded them for warmth, white roses for classic beauty, blush ranunculus for softness, and sprigs of eucalyptus woven through to tie it all together. It was wild and romantic and a little unruly, which felt just right for this particular bride.
Grady was out this morning doing a few errands. My friends were coming later to help me get ready.
I went upstairs to check on the kids. Madison was already awake, sitting cross-legged on her window seat in her pajamas, looking out at the apple tree. It was in full bloom, with white blossoms covering every branch. As I’d known it would, the garden below had come out of its slumber. Rosemary had erupted into purple flowers. Daffodils and tulips lined the stone path, and our coastal sage was silver-green, smelling herbal and clean, sharp as eucalyptus but warmer.
