Epilogue
Laurel
After a couple minutes trying to force on the pink rain boot, I finally conceded it was officially too small for Rose’s growing feet. I tugged it off and stared at her white socks, which were adorned with rainbow unicorns. Shaking my head as I knelt before her, I couldn’t believe the rain boots I’d purchased for her five months ago in early November, no longer fit. She was growing too fast.
This thought made me woozy and I had to stand up before I tipped over. “Here, baby. You can wear Mommy’s boots,” I said, removing my mid-calf rain boots.
Rose giggled as I helped her off the bench in the mudroom. “Your boots are too big, Mommy.”
“And your boots are too small,” I replied, kneeling down again to help her slide her right foot into one of my boots. “I’ll have to get you some new boots this weekend. Maybe we can go shopping with Aunt Drea and the boys.”
“I hate shopping!”
“Don’t say you hate shopping. Say you don’t like shopping,” I corrected her, sliding her other foot into my left boot. “Scoot back a little so Mommy can open this.”
I slid open the drawer built into the bench and extracted a pair of my old rain boots.
“You don’t like those boots,” she said, reading the discomfort in my face as I slid my feet into them and felt the insole sliding around beneath my right foot.
I laughed. “That’s right. They’re not as comfortable as the ones you’re wearing, but I have to wear these because I don’t want to wear Daddy’s boots. Are you ready?”
She nodded and we entered the garage, walking slowly to accommodate our awkward foot fashion. We walked across the garage and exited through a side door into the backyard. To our right, warm light glowed through windows on the office space attached to the garage.
Barry and Jack were in there working on two completely different projects. Barry was finalizing an update on an app he and I had collaborated on. Jack was sifting through hundreds of hours of surveillance footage for a missing persons case he and Sean were working on. Considering it was nearly 6:30 p.m., Drea was probably at home helping the boys with homework or making dinner.
Rose brushed her long, silky brown hair out of her face as she kept looking down at the boots. “They’re falling,” she said, dragging her feet across the flagstone pathway that hugged the back of the house to keep the boots from slipping off.
“We just need to get some herbs. This won’t take long,” I said, resisting the urge to pick her up so we could get to the herb garden faster.
For the first five months of this second pregnancy, I had ignored Jack’s and Dr. Eastman’s warnings not to carry four-year-old Rose anymore. But my last ultrasound indicated the placenta was shifting, and if it continued I would be put on bedrest. I was eight months along now and very ready to be done with this pregnancy.
The rain made a soft pitter-patter as it fell on our raincoats. We descended four steps down to the lower terrace and walked past the pool. Walking around the pool house, we picked up another footpath. This one led toward an arched arbor covered in shaped laurel shrubs. The arbor served as the entrance to a fenced-off secret garden, where I kept plants that required full sunlight.
I opened the iron gate beneath the arbor and smiled at the familiar sound of the squeak in the hinges. Pulling out a pair of shears from the pocket of my raincoat, I snipped off some chives and tarragon for the frittata I was making for dinner. Then, I headed over to the roses lining the back wall of the garden to check on their progress.
My white roses were covered in tight buds, but the Osiria roses only had a few. Most of these would bloom next month, in early or mid April. I pruned a few more leaves on the Osiria bushes to encourage more buds to form in the notoriously stubborn plant.
“No, sweetie, don’t touch that,” I said, moving Rose’s hand before she could touch the thorns on a white rosebush.
“But the roses doesn’t hurt,” she said, as she always did.
She was two years old when she realized she shared the same name with the roses. Ever since then, she insisted the thorns didn’t hurt her. It was true that she’d purposely pricked herself multiple times and never cried, but I still didn’t need her believing the roses were completely harmless, or she might pass on this information to her brother with dire consequences.
“The roses don’t hurt,” I corrected her. “And you’re right, the roses don’t hurt. But the thorns do hurt if you prick yourself very hard. So let’s try not to do that. Okay, Rosie-posie?”
She smiled at Jack’s nickname for her, the blue eyes she’d inherited from him lighting up with glee. “Okay.”
We left the rain boots in the boot tray in the garage to dry off as we went inside to finish dinner. I supervised Rose from the kitchen as she kneeled next to the coffee table and colored while watching Beauty and the Beast. Jack entered the kitchen just as I was pulling the finished frittata out of the oven.
“Smells good,” he said, leaning in to plant a kiss on my cheek.
“Did you find anything yet?” I asked as I flipped the frittata out of the pan onto a serving platter and sprinkled it with fresh chives.
“Not yet, but I still have more than 130 hours of footage to get through,” Jack replied as he washed his hands in the sink.
“Do you need me to help?” I asked as I cut wedges of the frittata and placed them on plates next to a helping of baby greens salad.
Jack shook his head as he wiped his hand on a towel. “We’re good. Sean is working on his portion and I’m doing mine. Shouldn’t take more than a week. How are you feeling?” he asked, placing a hand on the small of my back.
I shrugged as I carried the plates to the round table in the breakfast nook, which overlooked the pool. “Same. Still tired and dying to have this baby so I can get back to work,” I said, grabbing the salt and pepper out of a cupboard and taking them to the table. “I discovered Rose has outgrown another pair of rain boots. And I’m going to check on the camellias when we’re done eating.”
I had been trying to get the middlemist red camellia seeds Jack bought for me to bloom for four years now. The seeds had sprouted on multiple occasions, but they never flowered. Most gardeners would have thrown in the towel by now, but I had no intention of giving up. Especially when the gardening only took up a few hours per week of my time, and it was an important skill to pass on to Rose, to help her stay connected to the grandmother she would never know.
We ate dinner then headed upstairs, so I could shower while Jack got Rose ready for bed. By the time I’d showered and dressed in my nightshirt, Jack was in Rose’s bedroom reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit, her favorite bedtime story.
“Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after, waving a rake and calling out, ‘Stop thief!’” Jack continued, undaunted by my arrival. “Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.”
Rose’s eyes widened. “Maybe he was wearing his mommy’s shoes!”
I laughed as I took a seat on the other side of her bed. “Maybe,” I agreed.
By the time Jack finished reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Rose’s pink-rimmed eyelids were closing. Without further prompting, she turned over onto her side and hugged her white comforter with the dainty pink roses to her chest. Her soft toffee-colored hair fanned out over her pillow as Jack and I kissed her goodnight.
As we tiptoed out of her bedroom, her brother decided that would be a good time to kick me in the cervix. I grabbed the doorframe and pressed my lips together to stifle a yelp.
Jack locked elbows with me and guided me out into the corridor as he softly close Rose’s door behind us. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
I nodded and flashed him a smile. “Yeah, nothing like a swift kick in the crotch to remind you who’s boss.”
He shook his head.
“If he keeps it up, there’ll be cops with handcuffs waiting for him in the delivery room.”
I looked back at Rose’s bedroom door. “If he’s anything like his sister, he’ll be pricking himself with rose thorns just to feel alive. Her fascination with the rosebushes is getting a little out of hand. I think I’m going to have to plant some thornless roses for her.”
“Maybe she’s inherited her grandma’s green thumb. Or steel thumb. Not sure what to call it,” he said as we entered the master bedroom. “Speaking of obsessions with flowers, did you check on the camellias?”
I smacked my forehead. “I can’t believe I almost forgot. I’ll go now.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I glanced over my shoulder and grinned as Jack trailed behind me while we descended the stairs. “You’re so paranoid,” I said, knowing he was following me to make sure he was there in case I went into early labor. “By the way, Jade called earlier and said the event venue is perfect. The only problem is it has a max capacity of seven hundred. Is that going to be enough?”
He laughed as we padded across the wood floor toward the corridor leading past the library to the greenhouse. “Seven hundred should be enough. Did she say how much we’re charging per plate?”
“I think she said we would need to charge $2,500 per plate at less than five hundred heads. Seems reasonable. The gala we went to for Kent’s foundation was $3,500 a plate, but I think people are more concerned with violence against women and children than men with prostate cancer.”
Jack shook his head as he opened the door to the greenhouse. “Remind me never to get prostate cancer.”
Jack and I started the Reboot Humanity Foundation three years ago. It started as a way to justify spending thousands of work hours on non-profit apps that helped people prevent and report violence against women and children. The first app we created had preprogrammed messages for a person to send to a friend to help them out of a dangerous situation. It also had emergency resources and tips for staying safe.
When we convinced Kent to allow users to connect the app to Halo so users could have their messages analyzed for possible grooming schemes, that was the turning point. The app took off pretty quickly after that, and led to the arrests of multiple offenders. The stories we began receiving on a daily basis about how the app was saving people from violence — and even death — were enough to inspire us to devote ourselves to the foundation on a full-time basis.
Barry and Drea handled the commercial arm of Reboot Industries mostly on their own. Sean handled the private investigation business with a bit of help from Jade and a small office staff. Unless he needed a keen eye on something, like the surveillance footage. After feeling like he had dropped the ball on Byron Huxley, Jack honed his detective skills. And he was able to spot patterns of deception where most could not.
The motion-activated lights in the greenhouse turned on as we entered, revealing the twenty-foot-wide by sixty-foot-long glass-enclosed space. At the far end, a small eight-by-ten section was enclosed with clear plastic. Inside was where I had been attempting to create the right environment for the middlemist red camellia to flower. But it turned out it wasn’t as easy to recreate UK weather in Oregon as I presumed.
Jack unzipped the plastic sheeting and held the flap open for me to enter ahead of him. “Ladies first.”
I inhaled the sweet, verdant smell as I entered the mini-greenhouse-within-a-greenhouse. The misting system must have activated recently, as the shiny, dark-green leaves of the three potted camellia plants were beaded with moisture. I immediately grabbed the small cosmetic scissors I kept in here for precision pruning, and snipped a few leaves. But as I rubbed a waxy leaf between my fingers, I spotted a tiny hint of red beneath it.
My heart raced as I bent down and gently lifted the leaf to get a better look. I gasped when I saw a tiny, sage-green bud no more than a centimeter in diameter. A minuscule dot of red flower could be seen peeking out of the top of the bud.
I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Do you see it, too?”
Jack leaned over, smiling as he spotted the bud. “Holy shit. You did it.”
My eyes widened as I turned toward him slowly, my hand still covering my mouth.
He laughed as he pried my hand off my face. “You did it, pixie.”
I nodded, still unable to acknowledge the achievement with words.
He shook his head and planted a loud kiss on my forehead as he took me into his arms. “Your mom is doing backflips in heaven.”
I chuckled as I unabashedly rubbed my tear-stained cheeks on his T-shirt. Curling my fingers around the fabric, I smiled as I finally decided on what we should name our soon-to-be son.
Sniffling as I looked up, I smiled at the look of pure love in Jack’s eyes. “I think I know what I want to name him… Thorn.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Thorn?”
“I acknowledge it sounds a bit like naming your kid Apple or Scout, but I… Well, if I’m being honest, I love it.”
Jack laughed. “It sounds like a superhero or villain, which definitely suits that little thorn in your crotch.”
Right on cue, the baby rolled inside me, and I let out a soft gasp. “I think he likes it.”
Jack nodded. “Thorn it is,” he said, rubbing my belly. “Can’t wait to meet our little superhero.”
As Jack and I went back upstairs, I sat up in bed as he went to the bathroom to shower. Pulling up the journal app on my phone, I began typing my nightly journal entry, which I planned to give to Rose when she graduated from college or got married. I hadn’t decided yet.
March 8, 2023
Today, you outgrew another pair of rain boots. And when I took you out to the garden wearing my rain boots, you once again tried to convince me that you are immune to rose thorns.
When your dad and I went to check on the camellia in the greenhouse, we discovered a tiny bud hidden beneath the foliage. This was the moment I decided to name your brother, who should born in less than three weeks, Thorn.
You never got to meet your Grandma Beth, but one day you’ll understand how proud she would be of your bravery. And I hope by naming your brother Thorn, he will one day proudly take up his role as your protector. Allowing you to remain as fearless as ever.
You’ve told me many times, but I think today I finally understand: Thorns don’t hurt roses. Thorns help roses bloom.
For more swoony, emotional romance, visit cassialeo.com/books. Or turn the page for a preview of The Way We Fall.
The Way We Fall
Preview
Excerpt
THE WAY WE FALL
PROLOGUE
Lies are comforting. Soft blankets we wrap around our hearts. We roll around in them like fat, happy pigs. Gorging on their decadence. We prefer lies, though we claim otherwise. Trust me. If ignorance is bliss, believing lies is orgasmic.
I should know. I’d subsisted on a steady diet of lies and orgasms while Houston and I were together. And now that he was standing before me, five and a half years after the breakup, six-foot-four inches of solid muscle and caramel-brown hair, offering me my first dose of reality, part of me wondered whether my body would reject it.
Houston sighs as he looks me in the eye. “Rory, I came here because I told you I would tell you the truth and I intend to keep my word.”
“The truth about what?” I spit back, imbuing my words with caustic venom, hoping he’ll feel just a fraction of the agony he’s inflicted on me. “It’s over Houston. There is no truth that needs to be spoken anymore.”
He shakes his head, his blue eyes filled with regret. “I wish that were true.”
He reaches into his back pocket and my stomach drops out. My limbs become heavy as I watch him retrieve a white envelope. I think part of me knows what’s inside that envelope. Has always known. But lies are powerful. And it seems Houston’s lies had the power to make me stop looking for answers when they were right in front of me, tucked away in the warmth of
his back pocket.
“She left a note.”
My eyes are locked on the envelope as memories swirl in my vision. The first night Houston and I slept together. The hours that came before. I begin ticking off the lies one by one, but when I move past our first night together, the lies mount up too quickly. A mountain of fiction too high for me to see over.
“Not Tessa. Hallie,” he says, mistaking my horror for confusion.
The anger sets my blood on fire. I land a hard shove in the center of his chest. “I hate you!”
“I didn’t want you to read it until you were strong enough.”
Skippy barks as I pound on Houston’s chest, half-expecting to hear a hollow thump where his heart should be. He drops the letter and grabs my wrists to stop the onslaught of violence.
“That’s not for you to decide!” I shout, my voice strangled by the force of this truth. “How could you keep that from me?”
“I was just trying to protect you.”
A primal roar issues from deep in my throat. “I wish you would stop protecting me! If it weren’t for your stupid protection, I wouldn’t be picking up the pieces of my life again.”
His jaw tenses at my accusation, the muscle twitching furiously. “I need you to read it while I’m here. I… I won’t leave until you’ve read the whole thing. Then you’ll understand why.”
Yanking my wrists out of his grasp, I shoo Skippy away so I can grab the letter off the floor. But he follows me as I sink down onto the sofa, hopping onto the cushion next to me, his sixty-pound black Labrador body pressed against my side. As if he can sense that I’m going to need him there.
Houston sits on the edge of the coffee table facing me, our knees inches apart, his gaze locked on the letter in my hands. I try to read his expression, try to see beyond the hardened grief and obvious regret for any indication as to what I’m about to read. What did Hallie confess in this letter that would make him think he had to lie to me for more than five years? But I see nothing.