Chapter Forty-One

Izzy

Unable to budge from my place on the porch, I watch until his truck disappears where the road curves around Mr. Perpetua’s big pine tree. The air feels heavy, as if the whole world is holding its breath.

My hand goes to Grace’s head, seeking to comfort both her and myself. She’s plastered against my leg, whining softly. She knows our world has just changed again.

“It’s okay, Grace. We’ll be okay.”

Her whines turn into huffs and sharp barks. My throat tightens. Kneeling, I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her fur. Her warmth steadies me, though my breath still comes uneven.

“He’ll be back, girl. I promise.”

We stay like that for a few minutes, regaining our courage to move on.

“What do we do now, Miss Alice?”

Her answer is light and steady, like a breeze through the pines. You just need to start.

Grace , as if she heard Miss Alice’s answer, nudges me toward the door. I take the hint.

Back inside, the silence hits hard. His coffee mug sits on the counter. His signature scent—leathery, earthy—lingers in the hallway. My chest aches.

Oh God, this is gonna be hard.

Taking Miss Alice’s advice, I sit at his kitchen table, open my laptop, and start shopping. The click of the keys fills the quiet. My plan: finish his house before he returns.

First: the boys’ room, as promised.

• Bunk beds—sturdy, safe, with built-in shelves  in a beautiful dark wood. I picture Oliver hiding his flashlight under the covers, Chase stacking his comics neatly.
• A dresser with soft-close drawers in the same wood. No more slamming drawers in the night.
• A plush navy rug, kid-friendly and indestructible. Perfect for the boys ruff housing.
• Glow-in-the-dark stars for Oliver, plus a galaxy projector that will show him real constellations.
• GI Joe posters for Chase, bold and heroic. He’ll grin every time he sees them.
• Red beanbag chairs, each embroidered with their names.
• White and blue striped comforters with matching sheets and curtains.

A room that feels like theirs, not borrowed space.

Perfect. They’ll love it.

Grace stays curled up under the table, tail thumping every time I hit add to cart.

Then I move on to what Joe needs.

• New towels—dark khaki, to match his spa bathroom-so much better than the threadbare ones he absconded from some German hotel
• Dinnerware—stone gray with a speckled glaze. No more paper plates.
• Silverware to replace the plastic ones from takeout.
• Pots and pans that actually match
• A comforter in a manly earth tone, with matching sheets. No more sleeping bags on the bed.
• A bedside lamp with a dimmer switch. He can read without straining his eyes.
• A vintage-style shaving kit—badger brush, safety razor, leather case. He’ll smile at the ritual.

Miss Alice hums in my ear. Good girl. Keep going.

I add a few more things for the kitchen:

• A spice rack. He’ll finally have flavor beyond salt and pepper.
• Mixing bowls. No more balancing salad in plastic tubs.
• A Dutch oven in forest green. Heavy, solid, something that will last.

I circle back, filling in toys, books, and little things for the boys’ room. Pictures for Joe’s bedroom.

The last thing I add is a gnome dressed like GI Joe. The absurdity makes me laugh out loud, startling Grace. She tilts her head, confused, then wags harder.

He’s gonna love it.

Tomorrow—I’ll hunt down a fort for the backyard.

I whisper into Grace’s fur, steady now. “We’ll get everything done, girl. He’ll be so surprised. ”

 

Chapter Forty-Two

Izzy

After a walk through the garden, Grace and I head back to my place—where I’m most comfortable, where I can sleep in my own bed and cook in my own kitchen. My lovely old kitchen with the chipped tile, squeaky drawers, and a pantry full of my homegrown food.

Comfortable and safe.

Grace settles by the back door, watching the yard like she’s on patrol. Her ears droop, chin pressed to her paws. She hasn’t barked or wagged her tail in hours.
Poor girl.

I’m using Alice’s old skillet, the one with the worn handle, to reheat last night’s leftover pot pie. My fingers brush the smooth groove where Alice’s hand once held it, and I feel steadied.

Leftovers. Perfect for a night like this, Miss Alice hums in my ear.

“Yeah, it is.”

Just enough for one.

The table’s set with mismatched silverware and a plate that’s been through too many dish cycles. I sit. Eat. The steam curls upward, and I let myself believe Alice is right—love lingers in the rising warmth.

Grace lets out a loud sigh—she hardly touched her own dinner.
Poor girl.

Miss Alice talks while I chew.
She tells me about the time she made stew for a neighbor who’d lost his dog.
She tells me about how food is a kind of promise.
She tells me about how love lingers in the steam rising from a pot.

I answer her out loud.
Not because I’m losing it.
Because she’s here.
Because she always has been.

Then the phone rings.

I wipe my hands and grab it.

It’s Joe.

“Hey,” I say, trying not to sound too eager.

Joe’s voice is warm. “Made it to D.C. Just sat down to dinner with an old buddy.”

I picture him, dressed in his uniform, sitting at a table in a fancy D.C. restaurant.

I smile. “Good. You order something decent?”

“Steak,” he says. “And mashed potato.”

“Yes. Real ones.”

I laugh. “I’ve spoiled you, haven’t I?”

“You sure have. I was scared my uniform wouldn’t fit.”

Her laugh echoes too loud in the quiet kitchen, but it feels good.

“You sound good. Staying busy?”

There’s no way I’m telling him about my plans for his house.

“Right now I’m in my own kitchen, just finished my dinner.”

There’s a pause.
Not heavy. Just real.

“How’s Grace?”

“She’s sad. Confused, but she’ll be okay.”

Grace raises her head when she hears her name. I lean over and give her a quick pat. She presses into my hand, sighing again.

“Miss Alice keeping you company?” he asks.

“Always.”

Another pause, as if we can’t or won’t say what we really want to say.

I hear another man’s voice and the clanking of dishes.

Joe says, “Listen, I have to go. Food’s here.”

Another pause. Then he says, “Love you, Iz. I’ll call again soon.”

“Love you, too. I’ll be here.”

“Miss you already.”

“Don’t worry, Grace and I will be fine.”

“Good,” he says. “That’s good.”

We hang up.

See, he did call, Miss Alice hums again.

Grace thumps her tail.

Tomorrow, I’ll order the fort—and maybe a second gnome to guard us.

 

Chapter Forty-Three

Izzy

Two damn weeks.
No call. No text. Not even a damn whisper.

As Matt calls it: Mission Silence.
Clare tells me not to worry.
Yeah, right.

I sit at the kitchen table, nursing coffee that’s gone lukewarm.
Grace is curled up by the door, her ear twitching every time a truck passes. She hardly barks anymore, only wags her tail when spoken to.
She’s waiting, just like me.
We’re a sorry mess.

He’s alive, Miss Alice whispers softly. You’d feel it if he weren’t.

I don’t answer.
The silence presses in, heavy and constant.
The coffee tastes bitter. I drink it anyway.

Then the phone rings.
Grace bolts upright, lets out a single bark, then stands guard.
Maybe it’s Joe.

It’s the store.
Disappointment wraps around me once more.

I glance at the calendar. It’s fort day.
Delivery in an hour.

I sigh, push back from the table, and set my mug in the sink.
Time to get it together.

I brush my hair, throw on jeans and a soft flannel, swipe on lip balm like armor.

You don’t need to impress. Just welcome, Miss Alice murmurs.

Forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rings.

Three men stand on the porch, blue shirts with the store emblem stitched on the pocket, tool belts slung low, work boots scuffed. One holds a clipboard. Another’s already eyeing the backyard.

“Morning.” My voice is steady enough. “You’re here for the fort?”

Clipboard guy nods. “It’s a big one. Gonna take most of the day to set up.”

I gesture toward the side gate. “Through here. I’ll show you where I want it put.”

Grace trots beside me, tail low but curious.

The yard is quiet, grass trimmed, a wide space cleared for the fort.
I point to the empty patch near the big oak.

“Right there,” I say. “It’s for my nephews.”

One of the men smiles. “Lucky kids.”

As they unload panels and beams, I retreat to the porch with Grace.
She leans into my leg as we watch the action below.

You’re doing fine, Miss Alice says warmly. You’re building something.

I sip fresh coffee—Joe’s favorite brand. It tastes like his kisses: warm, a bit spicy.

Grace and I watch the fort rise. A huge wooden structure with climbing walls, rope bridges, and a three-story slide.

Okay, maybe I went a little overboard. But the boys will love it.

I play hostess, offering the men water and snacks.

By the time the fort is finished, Joe’s backyard looks transformed. I even had to move Mr. Buttonwillow to a new spot—perfect for watching the boys when they play.

The men leave after a generous tip from me and a wagging tail from Grace.

Both yards fall quiet again.

I walk over to Joe’s—hands in my pockets, Grace trotting beside me—to the fort.

It’s massive.

Maybe I overdid this, Miss Alice.

She laughs in my ear. It’s perfect.

Marty, the mockingbird, perches on the top rope bridge, cawing loudly at the changes to his domain.

“Listen, Marty. It’s here to stay. Get used to it.”

Grace barks up at him, and with one last caw, Marty flies away.

“Thank you, girl.” I scratch behind her ear.

The wood gleams in the afternoon sun.
Rope bridges sway gently in the breeze, four feet over my head.
The climbing wall looks amazing—brightly colored handholds scattered like candy.

I’m gonna try it.

I start slow, but muscle memory kicks in.
Grace watches, ears perked, tail twitching.

When I reach the top, I call softly, “Come on, girl.”

She doesn’t know how to get to me.

So I climb down, guide her up the ladder to the first platform.

From there, it’s all rope bridges between covered platforms.

I step onto the first bridge and call her. “Come on, Grace. You can do it.”

She hesitates—tail tucked, eyes searching for another way.
Then she bravely steps on.

The bridge wobbles under her paws. She freezes.
Then, inch by inch, she crawls forward, eyes locked on mine.

I crouch, whispering encouragement. “You can do it, Grace.”

She makes it across—legs stiff, tail low—but she makes it.

“Such a brave girl. I’m proud of you.”

Grace answers with a flurry of doggie kisses.

Three bridges later, we stand together at the top.

The wind brushes our faces.

I imagine Oliver and Chase up here—laughing, shouting, daring each other to jump.
I imagine Joe on the porch, arms crossed, smiling
My Molly would have loved this, too.

“Come on, girl, let’s take the slide down.”

Three stories of whooshing air and squeaky plastic.

I land in the grass with a thud and a laugh.

Then Grace barrels down behind me—legs splayed, ears flapping, eyes wide.

She lands beside me, stunned.

“Oh my God, Grace. You goof.”

I laugh so hard I can’t breathe.

I sit on the ground, back against Mr. Buttonwillow’s new perch.
Grace flops beside me, panting.

The laugh turns to tears.
Not loud. Not broken.
Just soft and steady.

Damn you, Joe.

You’re doing fine, Miss Alice hums. Let it out.

I do.

After a few minutes of self-pity, I wipe my face, scratch behind Grace’s ears, and whisper,

“They’re gonna love this.”

I pat Mr. Buttonwillow on the head.
“You’ve got the best seat in the house, old man.”

 

Chapter Forty-Four

Izzy

It’s been four long weeks.
Still no call. No text.
Just silence.

But that’s good, right? If there was bad news, we would have been notified. Right?

Today’s not about that.
Today’s about the boys.

I’ve fluffed their pillows, lined up their new books, and tucked a flashlight into each bunk bed shelf. The room looks like something out of a catalog—striped comforters, navy rug, red beanbags with their names stitched in bold white thread.

“Everything’s ready, Miss Alice. I hope they like it,” I say as I double-check the bathroom. Grace has been naughty lately, pulling the towels down onto the floor. I’ve let her keep one of Joe’s old towels—yes, it was dirty too. She drags it from room to room. His smell must soothe her.

The doorbell rings.
They’re here.

Grace bolts downstairs, tail thumping like a drum, towel still in her mouth.

I smooth my shirt, paste on a smile, and open the door.

Matt’s grinning, arms full of grocery bags.
Claire’s behind him, sunglasses perched on her head, holding a tray of brownies.
Oliver and Chase barrel past them before I can say hello.

“Where’s Grace?”
“Where’s our room?”
“Did you get the stars for the ceiling?”

I laugh. “One question at a time!”

Grace is already in the thick of it, bouncing between them like she’s waited weeks for this. Which she has.

I turn to Claire. “I guess we should show them their room first thing. What do you say, boys? Want to see your room?”

Claire and Matt laugh as the boys jump up and down.

I point upstairs. “Okay then, go to the top of the stairs and wait for us there.”

The boys and Grace fly up the stairs, yelling “Hurry up!” from the landing.

When all three adults are upstairs, I tell them, “Close your eyes. No peeking.”

Feels almost like Christmas morning.

They groan but obey, hands over their faces, giggling.

I push open the door.
“Okay. Open your eyes.”

They do.
And the house explodes with joy.

“Whoa!”
“Is this all ours?”
“Are those our names?”

Oliver looks up. “My stars!”

They run from bed to bed, flopping on the beanbags, opening drawers, testing the nightlight.

Claire leans in the doorway, smiling.
Matt whistles low. “Damn, Iz.”

I shrug. “They’re only little once.”

Claire gives me a look.
The kind that sees through everything.
I look away, unable to meet her eyes.

“Come on. There’s more.”

Matt groans. “More?”

I poke him. “You’re going to be so jealous you didn’t have one of these when you were growing up.”

We head out back.

The fort looms behind the oak tree, sunlight catching on the rope bridges and the gleaming slide.

The boys freeze.
Their mouths drop open.

“What is that?” Oliver breathes.

I grin. “That? That’s from Uncle Joe. He ordered it before he left. Said you two needed a proper base of operations.”

They scream.
Not words—just pure, unfiltered delight.

They take off running, Grace right behind them. She barks once, then bounds up the ladder like she’s done it a hundred times.

Chase is halfway up the climbing wall before Matt can even shout, “Be careful!”
Oliver’s already on the rope bridge, laughing like a maniac.

Claire watches them, arms crossed, eyes shining.
Then she turns to me.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Of course.”

She doesn’t believe me.
But she lets it go.

Grace barks again, this time from the top platform.
The boys cheer.
And for a moment, the silence doesn’t win.

The boys are outside in the fort, shrieking like pirates. Matt’s out there “just in case.”
Grace is right in the middle of it all, tail wagging, single ear flapping, barking like she’s leading the charge.

So good to see Grace happy again.

Inside, my kitchen is warm with the smell of spaghetti and garlic bread.
Claire and I move easily around each other—chopping, stirring, plating.

Miss Alice used to call this kind of meal linner.
Late lunch, early dinner.
Perfect for days like this.

Claire sets a large serving bowl of pasta down and glances at me as she shreds fresh parmesan on top.

“You really okay?”

I keep my eyes on the salad bowl.
“The days are fine. It’s the nights.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

“I’m not sleeping well,” I admit. “Bad dreams. Too quiet.”

Claire wipes her hands on a towel and leans against the counter.
“Come stay with us for a few days. The boys would love it. You could sleep, breathe, not be alone.”

I shake my head.
“I’m not ready for that. Besides, I’ve got my garden to tend. Joe’s too.”

She lets me off the hook. “Okay. But the offer stands.”

We eat together at the kitchen table—Matt, Claire, the boys, me. It’s a bit crowded, but it feels perfect.

Laughter fills the room. Oliver tries to twirl the spaghetti and ends up with a red streak painted across his cheek. Chase laughs and declares it was a battle wound, probably from a bad guy out on Uncle Joe’s fort.

My breath catches at that—just a little bit. Uncle Joe’s fort.

Grace, tired from play but still in the game, flops under the table, tail thumping every time someone drops a crumb—or in this case, a meatball.

Afterward, while I clean up, Matt and Claire slip outside while the boys watch a movie in the living room.

I watch through the window—Matt and Claire, standing close, heads together, talking quietly, smiling.

When they come back in, they’re both wearing matching smirks.
They’re up to something.

I narrow my eyes. “What are you two up to?”

Matt grins. “We’re staying.”

Claire smiles and nods. “For the whole week. The boys are on school vacation, and Matt can commute from here.”

I blink. “You’re staying next door? In Joe’s house?”

Matt shrugs. “Why not? It’s empty. Besides, the boys want to sleep in their new room.”

Claire adds, “You won’t be alone. Not at night.”

“And you can help me finish up decorating the house.”

Claire claps her hands. “Perfect.”

Something loosens in my chest. Not relief exactly.
But something close.

Let them stay, Miss Alice says.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”

 

 

Chapter Forty-Five

Izzy

6:00 a.m. Day three of Matt’s family staying at Joe’s.
There’s a knock at my back door.
Not a loud one—just three soft taps. I glance at the clock on the stove. Six a.m. exactly. The coffee hasn’t even finished brewing.

I tighten the belt on my robe and pad barefoot across the kitchen. When I open the door, Oliver is standing there in his pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, clutching a stuffed dinosaur under one arm. His bare feet are pink from the cold porch wooden slats.

“I came to talk to Grace,” he says solemnly, eyes puffy as if he’s been crying.

Something’s wrong.

I blink. “Does your mom know you’re here?”

He shakes his head. “She’s still asleep. Dad’s in the shower.” His bottom lip quivers as he adds, “Chase was being mean.”

I glance past him toward the side yard, but the morning is still and empty. No sign of Chase. No sign of anyone.

“You walked over here by yourself?”

He puts his hands on his hips and gives me the evil eye. “I’m a big boy. I can open the back gate myself.”

I hold up my hand in a peace sign. “Okay, okay. You know you can come over anytime.”

“I needed to talk to Grace. It’s portant.”

I smile at his slip back into little boy talk.

I sigh, then smile. “Alright, then.” I call back into the house, “Gracie girl, you’ve got a visitor.”

Grace, who’s been snoring on her dog bed in the corner, lifts her head at the sound of her name, thumps her tail, and does her morning stretch routine. When she’s done, she trots over and gives Oliver a huff hello before pushing past us and out the door.

Oliver follows her out and sits on the top step of the porch, cross-legged, the dinosaur tucked in his lap. Grace settles beside him, her one ear perked and tail wagging.

Grace has come back to life with the boys here these last few days. It’s so good to see.

I watch as he leans in and whispers something in her ear. She listens like she understands every word.

I grab my phone from the counter and text Matt and Claire:
Oliver’s at my place. All good. Just wanted to talk to Grace.

No reply yet. Probably still mid-shower or mid-snooze.

I watch them for a moment longer—boy and dog, heads close, the porch bathed in soft gold light. Whatever he’s telling her, it’s important. I won’t ask. Some things deserve to stay secret.

I turn back to the kitchen and start pulling out eggs, bread, and a skillet. If Oliver’s here, Chase won’t be far behind. And if I know these boys, they’ll be hungry.

I’m cracking eggs into a bowl when I hear raised voices outside.
I freeze, spatula in hand.

It’s Chase. His voice is sharp, indignant. Oliver’s is louder—hurt, not angry.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head for the door.

When I step onto the porch, they’re standing nose to nose at the bottom of the steps. Grace is between them, tail stiff, ear flicking like she’s trying to referee.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

Chase crosses his arms. “He thinks Uncle Joe is coming back. That’s not true. He’s dead.”

His words hit me hard. My knuckles whiten on the railing. My breath catches.

Oliver’s face crumples. “He’s not dead. It takes a long time to save the world.”

“He’s not coming back,” Chase insists, his voice cracking. “That’s what Mom said.”

“Izzy said he’s still here,” Oliver shoots back. “In the fort. In Grace. In the garden.”

I step down onto the grass, heart thudding.

Claire told the boys Joe’s dead. Why?

“Okay, okay,” I say gently. “Let’s take a breath.”
Keep it together. You can cry later.

But Oliver’s already moving. He runs to me and wraps his arms tight around my legs, burying his face in my robe.

“I don’t want him to be dead,” he says, voice muffled and shaking. “I told Chase he was coming back.”

I crouch down and hold him close, one hand on his back, the other brushing his wild hair.

“I know, sweetheart,” I whisper. “I know.”

Chase stands a few feet away, arms still crossed, but his chin is trembling now too.

Grace noses at Oliver’s shoulder, then turns and bumps her head against Chase’s leg. He doesn’t move at first. Then he drops his hand to her head and lets it rest there.

I look up at him. “You okay?”

He nods, barely.

“Come on. Let’s go inside. I’ve got eggs ready to cook and toast waiting in the toaster.”

Oliver sniffles but doesn’t let go. I scoop him up, dinosaur and all, and carry him in.

Chase follows, quiet now, Grace at his heels.

The kitchen smells like breakfast and something else—grief, heavy as steam in the air, softened by cinnamon toast and the sound of feet on linoleum.

We eat in silence for a few minutes—just the scrape of forks on plates, the occasional sniffle, and the soft clink of mugs.

Oliver’s still tucked close to me, his dinosaur wedged between us. Chase sits across the table, eyes on his cinnamon toast, not quite meeting mine.

I take a sip of coffee, then set the mug down and clear my throat.

Miss Alice, give me strength. Help me say the right thing.

“Okay, I’m going to talk to you both like the big boys you are. No baby talk here.”

They look up. Chase straightens a little. Oliver leans in.

“I want to tell you the truth. The real truth. About Uncle Joe.”

Chase’s mouth tightens. Oliver’s eyes go wide.

“I’m sure your uncle is still alive. He’s out there, working hard for our country. And I know in my heart he’s doing everything he can to come home to all of us.”

Chase frowns. “But Mom said—”

I hold up a hand. “I know what your mom said. And I understand why. It’s hard not knowing. It’s scary not hearing anything. But here’s the truth, sweetheart—”

The back door creaks open.

Claire steps in, hair damp, sweatshirt half-zipped, eyes still puffy from sleep. She pauses when she hears my voice, one hand still on the doorknob.

I don’t stop. I want her to hear this.

“But here’s the thing, sweetheart—if your Uncle Joe had been killed in action, the Army would’ve come to the house.”

Claire stays frozen in the doorway, listening.

“They would’ve sent officers,” I continue, not breaking eye contact with the boys. “That’s how it works. That’s the rule. They don’t send a letter. They don’t call. They come in person.”

The boys give their mother a brief look and then put their attention back on me.

“No one from the Army has come—not to me, not to your mom, not to your dad. Not to anyone. So until that happens—which I pray never does—Uncle Joe is still out there. And he’s working hard to come home.”

Oliver watches my face like he’s memorizing every word. Chase doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop just a little.

I glance up at Claire. She’s still standing there, eyes glassy, one hand pressed to her chest.

She doesn’t speak. Just walks quietly to the table and sits beside Chase, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

I pour her a cup of coffee and slide it across the table. She takes it with both hands, but doesn’t drink.

We finish breakfast like that—together, quiet, holding onto something that feels a lot like faith.

Chase finishes his last bite of toast and looks over at Oliver.
“Wanna go play in the fort?”

Oliver perks up instantly. “Yeah!”

Claire sets down her coffee and gives them both a look. “Not in pajamas, you’re not. Go home, get dressed first. Shoes too.”

The boys groan but obey, sliding off their chairs and heading for the door. Claire follows, then pauses beside me.

She leans in, voice low. “I’m so sorry, Izzy.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not ready.

She squeezes my shoulder and leaves with the boys.

The kitchen is a mess—crumbs, dishes, half a skillet of scrambled eggs cooling on the stove. I don’t touch any of it.

I can’t, Miss Alice. Not now.

I climb the stairs and step into my room.

I mean to get dressed. I do.

But I only make it as far as the edge of the bed when the tears hit.
Hard.

I sit, then fold forward, hands gripping the quilt. My chest caves in. My throat burns. My tears soak into the fabric, muffling the sound of my sobs.

“Joe,” I whisper. Then louder. “Joe, why haven’t you called? Where are you? I need you.”

I yell it into the mattress, into the silence, into the ache that’s been building for weeks.

“I just can’t lose anyone else.”
“Joe, I need you.”

I cry until my body gives out. Until the sobs turn to hiccups, then to sleep.

I wake to noise downstairs.
Soft clatter. A cupboard closing. The hum of someone moving around.

I glance at the clock.
Damn, I’ve been asleep for hours.

You needed it, sweetie, Miss Alice butts in.

I sit up slowly, eyes swollen, throat raw. I pull on jeans and a sweater, run a brush through my hair, and head down.

Claire’s in my kitchen.
The dishes are done. Counters wiped. She’s standing at the stove, brow furrowed, flipping through my recipe binder like she’s trying to figure out what to make for dinner.

She glances up when I walk in, but doesn’t say anything.
I don’t either.

The air between us is quiet. Not cold. Just… tentative.

Then the back door bursts open.

Chase and Oliver tumble in, laughing, breathless, each holding a crown of wildflowers and twigs. Their hands are sticky with sap, petals clinging to their sleeves.

“We made these for you,” Chase announces.

“This one’s for Mom!” Chase declares, placing his creation on Claire’s head.

“And this one with lots of purple is for Izzy!” Oliver says, climbing onto a chair to reach me.

He settles the headdress gently on my hair, twigs scratching lightly, petals brushing my cheek. Then he beams.

The back door pushes open again and in comes Grace, her head held high, proudly showing off her flower‑and‑twig collar.

Claire laughs—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. The sound fills the kitchen.

I laugh too. For the first time in weeks, the silence feels less sharp.

We’re going to be okay.

 

 

Chapter Forty-Six

iZZY

A week after Matt took his family home

The garden is too quiet.
The boys’ laughter is gone. No thudding feet, no wildflower crowns, no dinosaur tucked under one arm. Just wind through the trees and the creak of the old bench as I sit down, mug in hand, heart heavy.

Joe’s bench. Our bench.

I set the mug on the armrest and press my palms to the slats, grounding myself in the worn wood. The grooves are smooth from years of use, warm from the late sun—his hands once rested here. The sun is low, casting long shadows across the garden beds.

Grace lies nearby, chin on her paws, watching me like she knows something’s wrong.
She’s not wrong.

I haven’t slept well since the boys left. Their questions still echo—Chase’s cracked voice, Oliver’s trembling hope. I told them Joe was still out there. I believed it. I still do. But belief doesn’t stop the nightmares.

Steven. Molly. The baby.

They come back in my sleep, vivid and cruel. Steven’s last smile. Molly’s laugh. The silence after. I wake gasping, sheets twisted, throat raw, reaching for a phone that never rings.

I haven’t told anyone the nightmares are back. Not Matt. Not Claire. Not even Grace.

But I tell Miss Alice.

“Miss Alice,” I whisper, “I’m not okay.”

The wind shifts and I hear Marty the mockingbird cawing loudly from somewhere in the neighbor’s yard. Grace lifts her head, ears pricked, searching for the noise.

I speak out loud—not sure who I’m talking to, but I just need to get it out. “I keep seeing them. Steven in the doorway. Molly on the playground at school. The baby I never got to—”

My voice cracks. I press a fist to my mouth.

“I’m trying to hold it together. For Joe. For the boys. For this house. But it hurts. It hurts so much.”

Grace nudges my knee. I reach down and stroke her ear, grateful for the warmth.

Then I hear the soft pad of paws behind me.

His Royal Highness appears, tail high, eyes half‑lidded with disdain and affection. He hops onto the bench beside me, flicks his tail against my arm, circles once, and settles with a regal sigh.

“Well, look who decided to grace me with his presence,” I murmur.

He blinks slowly, then rests his head on my thigh.

“I’ve been dreaming about them,” I tell him as I pet him. “Steven’s voice. Molly’s laugh. The baby’s cry that never came.”

Grace shifts closer. The cat purrs.

“I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to let go.”

The wind rustles the lilac trees. A petal drifts onto my lap.

Then I hear her.

“You don’t have to let go, sweetie.”

Miss Alice’s voice is soft, steady, like the hum of the garden itself.

“You just have to let it live beside you. Not inside you.”

I close my eyes. “It’s hard.”

“Of course it is. You loved them. You still do.”

Tears slip down my cheeks.

Miss Alice adds, “But you’re still here. You’re still loving. That’s the miracle.”

I press a hand to my chest. “It doesn’t feel like a miracle.”

“It is,” she says. “Every time you make breakfast. Every time you hold Oliver close. Every time you tell the truth with kindness. That’s love surviving.”

The cat purrs louder. Grace thumps her tail once.

I breathe in the scent of mint and soil and sun‑warmed cedar.

“I miss them.”
“I know.”
“I miss Joe.”
“He’s with you. In the garden. In Grace. In the boys’ laughter. In your strength.”

I open my eyes. The garden glows gold. The bench is warm beneath me. His Royal Highness stretches, then hops down and disappears into the bushes.

Grace nudges my hand again.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. “Not perfect. Not healed. But okay.”

She licks my fingers once, then settles beside me.

I sit there until the sun dips below the fence, until the shadows stretch long and the air cools. Then I gather my mug, brush the petals from my lap, and head inside with Grace at my side.

Tomorrow, I’ll make breakfast. I’ll call Claire. I’ll water the garden.
Because Miss Alice was right.

 

Chapter Forty-Seven

Two Weeks Later
Izzy

The morning starts like any other—coffee brewing, Grace snoring in the corner, the garden damp with dew.
Like every night lately, sleep eluded me. Rather than toss and turn, I got up and did a much‑needed load of laundry. I gave Grace a bath yesterday and by the time I was done, I’d used seven towels—three to dry Grace, four for the floor.

I’m halfway through folding when a whining creak cuts through the quiet.
It’s not the wind. Not a squirrel. It’s the gate.

I freeze, half‑folded towel in my hand, breath caught in my throat.
“Miss Alice, someone’s here.”

Goosebumps race up my arms. What if it’s a burglar?
“Damn, the door’s unlocked.” I let Grace out earlier and didn’t relock it. Never relock it during the day—damn.

Footsteps move quickly up the steps, then across the porch. The door opens slowly.

Joe.

His clothes look like he slept in them, and it’s been awhile since his face saw a razor. But even a walking mess, he looks like a miracle to me.
He gives me a big smile. “Hi, Iz.”

Relief floods through me—muscles that have been tense for weeks go slack, my knees weaken. I grip the table to keep from collapsing.
“Oh, thank God.”

He steps into the kitchen like he never left—same quiet presence, same eyes scanning exits, cataloging the room. He sniffs the air. “Oh, I missed this… it smells like home.”

He drops his duffel bag with a thud that echoes in the stillness.
“It’s over.” His voice is low. Final.

I don’t move. Can’t. My hands clutch the towel like it’s a lifeline.

Grace, unlike me, acts fast. She bolts upright, barking, then whining as she scrambles across the floor toward Joe. Her tail thumps wildly, her whole body vibrating with joy.

Joe kneels. “Missed you, girl.”
She launches herself at him, licking his face like she could erase the months apart.

“She really missed you,” I say, my voice thin. “She pouted for days.”

That’s when I see it—the way he favors his left side, the way his shirt pulls tight across his shoulder.
“You’re hurt. What happened?”

“Gunshot.” He puts his hand on his chest. “Through and through. Left shoulder.”

I don’t speak right away, but the look on my face says enough. Anger burns hot—at his absence, at the silence, at the risk he took.

“It’s healing. I’m sore, but I’m okay.”

I stare at him, knuckles white around the towel. My jaw tightens, breath shallow. Then the dam breaks.
Snap.
The towel cracks through the air, sharp as my tears spilling free.

“You said you’d call.”
Another snap.
“You promised.”

He jumps back at the second swat. “I know. I couldn’t. The mission went dark. No outside contact allowed.”

“I was so scared—no, I was really pissed you didn’t call. Pissed and scared.”

“I knew you would be. I thought you’d hit me with your rolling pin when I walked through the door.”

I smack his good arm. “Careful, buddy. I still might.”

Grace noses his knees as I step closer, fingers brushing against his chest. “You big dummy. I missed you, so damn much.”

“I missed you, too.”

I guide him to the table, slow and careful, like he might vanish if I moved too fast.
“Sit.”

He lowers himself with a grunt, favoring his left side. Grace settles at his feet, head resting on his boot.
“She’s never letting you out of her sight again.”

“She’s a sweetheart.”

“You really okay?” My fingers trace lightly over his chest.

He nods, shrugs with his good shoulder. “Doc says I’ll heal fine. No nerve damage. Just sore. And you know I won’t take the damn pills.”

I glance at the bandage peeking from under his shirt. “Still stubborn. Let me see.”

He hesitates, then unbuttons his shirt slowly.

I peel back the bandage, eyes narrowing. The wound is clean, healing, but deep. My fingers are gentle. My silence is fierce.

“You’re lucky,” I murmur.

“I know.”

I rewrap the bandage, press my palm to his chest. The throb beneath my hand is steady, alive.
“You’ll live.”

 

Chapter Forty-Eight

Joe

She’s holding it together, but I see it—the way her fingers tremble, the way her breath catches when she touches me. Her silence is louder than words.

I stand, slowly, careful of my shoulder. “I hope you’re not too mad at me. ’Cause I’m ready for a proper welcome home.”

She moves to meet me, cheeks red, eyes still damp.

I pull her into my arms, firm but cautious. She fits there like she always has—like no time has passed, like the months apart were just a bad dream.

She pushes back a bit, searching my face, making sure.

“Yeah, Iz. It’s really me.”

I tilt her chin up and kiss her—soft, steady, anchoring myself to this moment. The taste of coffee lingers on her lips, familiar, grounding.

“I dreamt about you every night,” I whisper.

She kisses my neck. “Me too.”

“And I plan on staying—forever—if you’ll have me.”

Her breath catches. Her eyes fill, but she doesn’t cry. She nods, slow and sure. “I’ll have you.”

I pull her close again, and this time, I feel it—the weight lifting, the ache softening, the promise settling in.

Grace whines, trying to wedge herself between us, tail thumping against my leg.

“You jealous, girl?”

“Woof.”

“Better get used to it, Gracey girl. Izzy and I will be doing a lot of this from now on.”

“Woof.”

Izzy pulls away first, practical as ever. “Have you called Matt? Does he know you’re home?”

“No. I wanted some alone time with you first.” I kiss her again, and this time she relaxes fully into my arms, returning the kiss with no hesitation.

“I came straight here. Didn’t even stop at my place.”

She spins around, eyes bright. “You haven’t seen anything yet?”

I shake my head. “Not a thing.”

Her grin widens. “Good. Come on.”

She grabs my hand, tugging me toward the back gate like a kid with a secret. Grace trots ahead, tail high, one ear perked. I follow, stiff from the flight and the healing shoulder, but lighter already.

We step through the gate, and I stop cold.

The fort.

It’s massive. Three levels, rope bridges, a slide, a lookout tower. Not a playset—a fortress. A kid’s dream made real.

“Holy hell. This is… incredible.”

Izzy beams. “Right? I told the boys it was from you.”

I glance at her, eyebrows raised.

She shrugs, not even pretending to be sorry. “I told them a little white lie. Said you ordered it before you left. They needed something to hold onto.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

Izzy plants her foot on the first yellow foothold of the climbing wall. “They love it. They’d be out here every day if they could. Claire says they beg her to drive them here daily.” She climbs another step. “The boys wanted to sleep in it, but Claire drew the line.”

I laugh, picturing Oliver curled up with his dinosaur, Chase pretending he wasn’t scared of the dark.

Grace bolts past us, claws scrabbling up the ladder like she’s been waiting for this moment. She reaches the top platform, trots across the rope bridge like a show pony, and barks down at us with unmistakable pride.

Izzy laughs. “She thinks it’s hers now.”

“She’s not wrong. Best view in the county.”

We stand there a minute, just watching. The fort, the trees, the sky. Familiar, but better. Like someone took the bones of what I left behind and filled them with joy.

I glance around. Something’s missing.

“Where’s Mr. Buttonwillow?”

Izzy points to a flowerbed near the steps. There he stands—and right next to him, a new gnome.

“A G.I. Joe gnome?”

“Yeah,” she says, grinning. “I thought you’d like him.”

“I’m naming him Tigs. After my old commander.”

“That’s perfect.”

Izzy nudges my arm. “Come on. There’s more.”

She leads me around to the front of the house. “You need to go in the front door.”

The moment I step inside, I stop again.

The living room is finished. The library is finished. Floors. Ceiling. Furniture. Curtains. Shelves. A rug that actually fits. Walls painted, windows clean, light warm and golden.

I blink. “What is this?”

Izzy grins. “Surprise.”

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. “Feels like I walked into one of those home makeover shows.”

She laughs. “You kind of did. Only with a lot more cursing and paint in my hair.”

I look at her—really look. She’s glowing. Tired, maybe, but proud. Strong. Steady.

“You did all this?”

“Me and a few helpers. But yeah. I wanted the house ready. For you. For the boys. For all of us.”

Words fail me. Gratitude. Awe. Something deeper.

I reach for her hand, squeeze gently.

“You’re amazing.” My eyes catch the lavender hearth, the soft purple accents. “You left the purple.”

She laughs. “Miss Alice insisted.”

“Thank you, Miss Alice. I love it.”

Izzy shows me the kitchen next. The basics were done before I left, but now it has plants, pots and pans, even salt and pepper shakers. A dog bed in the corner.

“Now you can cook and stop ordering takeout.”

“I’ll have to learn how to cook.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

Upstairs, the boys’ room is exactly what they wanted—stars on the ceiling, toys in place.

My room no longer looks like a college dorm. It’s put together. Warm. Wonderful.

Izzy wraps her arms around my neck, leaning close.

“I had to stay busy,” she says softly. “Or I was going to go crazy. Fixing up this house saved my sanity.”

I hold her tighter, heart full.

She saved more than the house.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Joe

The kitchen smells like heaven. My kitchen. With real food.
Potato leek soup simmers on the stove, steam curling into the air like the house itself is exhaling. Izzy moves with quiet purpose—stirring, tasting, slicing the sourdough bread she baked yesterday. Grace is curled in the corner on her dog bed, tail thumping a steady drumbeat every time Izzy passes.

I sit at the table, watching her. The room is warm, garlic and herbs thick in the air. The whole house feels lived in. Safe. Not a house anymore—it’s a home.

“I still can’t believe you did all this.”

She glances over her shoulder, smiling. “Silly, you haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“I mean the house. The fort. The gnome.”

She laughs, then sets a bowl in front of me. The ceramic clinks against the wood. The soup is thick, creamy, flecked with herbs. The bread’s still warm, crust crackling as she slices.

I take a bite and close my eyes. “Okay, now I believe it.”

She sits across from me, her own bowl in hand. “Are you allowed to tell me anything about what happened?”

“A little. I was in Eastern Europe but I can’t say what country.”

She doesn’t press. Just waits.

“It took a long time to find him. The target. He kept moving. Changing names. Hiding in places you wouldn’t believe.”

“Were you alone?”

I shake my head. “Joint mission. CIA and Army. Small team. Good people.”

She watches me carefully. “You can’t tell me anymore.”

“No. I wish I could. But I can’t.”

“You were shot during the takedown?”

“Yeah. It was fast. Loud. I didn’t even feel it at first.”

She flinches, spoon tightening in her hand, breath catching just slightly.

“I spent a day in the military hospital in Germany,” I add. “They patched me up, cleared me to fly. I flew through the night to get here.”

She’s quiet for a moment, spoon paused halfway to her lips. Her eyes glisten. “I’m still angry you didn’t call.”

I look down at my bowl, shoulders sagging, then back at her.

“I’m so sorry. But when a mission goes dark it means no calls. No messages. Nothing. I had to obey the rules.”

She nods again, but her eyes are wet. “You get to explain it… to Matt, Claire, and the boys.”

“I wanted to call. Every day.”

She reaches across the table and takes my hand, her fingers warm, steady.

“I’m glad you made it home. I love you, Joe.”

“I love you, too.”

We eat in silence for a while—just the clink of spoons, the hum of the fridge, the soft breath of Grace under the table.

She’s clearing the dishes, moving with that quiet dignity she always has—stacking bowls, wiping counters, humming under her breath.

I stand behind her, watching her shoulders, the curve of her neck, the way the light catches in her hair. My pulse quickens. My shoulder aches, but the ache feels worth it.

“Izzy.”

She turns, smiling. “Yeah?”

“I need you upstairs.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The dishes—”

“Leave them.” I kiss her neck, lingering. “Seriously. I’ve waited long enough.”

She laughs, soft and surprised. “You’re not even going to help me clean up?”

“I was going to sweep you off your feet,” I admit, stepping closer. “But my shoulder reminded me I’m not invincible.”

She grins. “You tried?”

“I thought about it. Got halfway there. Then my body shut me down.”

She sets the towel down and walks into my arms, careful of the bandage. “You don’t have to sweep me anywhere. Just take me with you.”

And I do.

We climb the stairs slowly, her hand in mine, Grace tilting her head from the kitchen like she’s giving me permission.

Upstairs, the house is quiet. The boys’ room is dark, stars glowing faintly on the ceiling. My room is warm, soft, no longer the half-lived space I left behind.

I kiss her in the doorway. Then again by the bed.

And then we let go.

We make love like we’ve been waiting years. Because we have. Once, then again, laughter and tears tangled together. Her hands in my hair. Mine on her back. The ache in my shoulder forgotten—or maybe just worth it.

Later, she lies curled against me, breath steady, fingers tracing the scar beneath the bandage.

“You’re really home,” she whispers.

“I am.” I listen to the rhythm of her heartbeat against my chest. “And I’m here to stay.”

 

Chapter Fifty

Izzy

It’s early morning, and the house smells like coffee and fresh air. Grace is already pacing by the door, tail wagging, nose twitching like she knows something’s up.

Joe’s leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee, eyes still sleepy but happy. I reach for my mug and bump his hip with mine.

“You need to call Matt.”

He groans. “I know. I know. I just… maybe we go over there instead? Surprise them.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”

He nods, setting his mug down. “It’s Saturday. They’ll be home, right?”

“Yeah. Claire’s off today, and the boys are probably bouncing off the walls since breakfast. They’ll lose their minds when they see you.”

Joe grins. “Then let’s go make their day.”

We pile into Joe’s old truck, Grace hopping in and takes her place, her head hanging out the window, ready for action. I slide in next to Joe, close enough that our legs touch.

The drive feels easy. Familiar. Sunlight flickers through the trees, dust rising on the road. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like we didn’t just spend months apart, wondering if we’d ever get back to normal.

I rest my hand on his thigh, thumb brushing the seam of his jeans. “Matt and Claire stayed in your house for a whole week while you were gone.”

“I figured they might. I’m sure it was an experience.” Joe wiggles his eyebrows at me.

“It was. A great one. I fell in love with the boys, and Claire and Matt were wonderful to me. I even braved the grocery store with Claire.”

Joe glances over, eyes warm. “Wow. The grocery store.”

“Crazy, huh. Claire cooked a lot and Matt helped paint. The boys played in the fort every day.”

He smiles. “What did they play at? Soldiers?”

“They played pirates for a while, but their favorite was army soldiers. They made guns out of twigs and tried to ambush each other. Claire was not thrilled.”

“She never did like pretend violence.”

“Chase tried to tape a stick to Grace’s back and call her a missile launcher.”

Joe snorts. “That’s my boy.”

I shake my head, smiling. “They missed you. So much.”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “I missed them, too.”

We pull into Matt and Claire’s driveway, and Grace lets out a bark like she’s announcing our arrival. Joe cuts the engine and turns to me.

“You ready?”

I nod. “Let’s go surprise our family.”

Joe knocks once at the front door then steps back.

The door flies open before I can even blink.

“UNCLE JOE’S HERE!” Chase screams, voice cracking with joy as he launches himself forward and clamps onto Joe’s legs like a human bear trap. “UNCLE JOE!”

Joe stumbles a little, laughing, steadying himself with one hand on the doorframe. “Hey, buddy!”

Oliver barrels in next, arms wrapping around Joe’s thighs, face pressed into his jeans. His voice is hushed, reverent. “You’re really back,” he whispers, like he’s afraid it might be a dream.

My throat tightens at the sound.

I step aside as the rest of the house erupts.

Claire appears from the kitchen, tossing her dish towel onto the counter, eyes wide and shining. Matt’s right behind her, barefoot and stunned, breath caught like he forgot how to use it.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just crosses the room in three long strides and clamps Joe into a hug so fierce it rattles the air. Stubble scrapes against stubble, his grip digging into Joe’s shoulder, and for a moment it feels like the whole house is holding him up.

“Damn,” Matt chokes out, voice thick. “I missed you, bro.”

Joe’s eyes close. He doesn’t say anything either. Just holds on.

Claire’s smile says everything she doesn’t need to say out loud—relief, joy, gratitude. She looks at her boys, still clinging to Joe’s legs, and then at Matt, and I swear her shoulders drop for the first time in weeks. Like she’s been holding her breath and finally lets it go.

Grace pushes past me and noses her way into the pile, tail wagging like mad, whining until Joe reaches down and ruffles her ear.

“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing through the emotion. “I missed you too, fuzzball.”

Matt finally pulls back, swipes at his eyes, and gives Joe a playful shove. “You look like hell.”

Joe grins. “You should see the other guy.”

Claire steps forward and wraps her arms around Joe’s good side. “Welcome home,” she says softly.

Joe nods, voice low. “It’s good to be back.”

Before we even make it through the doorway, Oliver pipes up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I wanna go to your house and play in the fort. Can we?”

I blink. “Buddy, we just got here.”

Joe laughs, ruffling Oliver’s hair. “Sure. Let’s go back to my house and you can show me your battle plans.”

Chase gasps. “You know about the battle plans?”

Joe grins. “Of course I do. I’ve been waiting to see them.”

The boys erupt into cheers, already halfway down the steps before anyone else can say a word. Grace bolts after them, tail high, her one ear flapping like she’s leading the charge.

I glance at Claire and Matt, trying to put on my grown-up voice. “You two want to come back with us?”

Claire snorts, arms crossed, eyes twinkling. “Like I have a choice.”

Matt just shakes his head, smiling as he watches his sons disappear down the driveway. “They’ve been waiting for this since the day you left.”

Joe slings an arm around my shoulders, careful of his bandage. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

And just like that, we’re piling back into cars, engines rumbling, laughter spilling out the windows, heading home again—but this time the convoy is complete.

 

 

Chapter Fifty-One

Joe

We barely pull into my driveway before the boys explode out of the car like they’ve been launched from a cannon.

Chase yells, “TO THE FORT!” and they’re off—twig rifles slung over their shoulders, Grace barking and sprinting after them like she’s their four‑legged backup.

I watch them scramble up the ladder, boots thudding, laughter echoing through the trees. The fort sways just a little under their weight, but it holds. Built solid. Like Izzy.

Matt and I hang back, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with matching grins. Claire and Izzy follow behind, slower, already talking about lunch.

After a few minutes of watching the boys reenact what I’m pretty sure is a full‑scale jungle ambush, Izzy nudges Claire and says, “Come on. Let’s go make lunch.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “You mean actually cook?”

Izzy laughs. “Okay, let’s go order lunch.”

They head toward her house, arms linked, already debating pizza toppings before they hit the porch.

I stay outside with the boys, who are now arguing over who gets to be the commander. Chase plants his feet, puffing out his chest. “I’m the oldest. That means I’m in charge.”

Oliver scowls. “Does not. We should vote.”

I settle it the old‑fashioned way—by grabbing a stick of my own and declaring, “I outrank all of you.”

Chase gasps. “You’re joining our squad?”

“Damn right I am,” I say, tucking the twig under my arm like a rifle. “Now move out, soldiers.”

We run a few drills—mostly them yelling and me pretending to be serious. Grace plays along, darting between us like she’s sniffing out landmines, tail wagging like a signal flare.

Eventually, I call it. “Alright, troops. Guns down. Wash up. Report to the mess hall in five minutes.”

They snap to attention, saluting me with their dirt‑covered fingers. “Yes, Top!”

“Top?”

Chase grins. “That’s what you are. Like in the movies.”

The word lands heavier than I expect. Top. First Sergeant. A title from another life, one that carried weight and responsibility I can still feel in my bones. For a second, I hear echoes of real voices, real salutes, the cadence of boots on gravel. The memory presses sharp against my chest, a reminder of men I led, men I lost. Then I shove it down, because right now, it’s just two kids and a dog looking at me like I’m their hero.

Claire and Izzy appear in the doorway, pizza boxes in hand, the smell of melted cheese drifting across the yard.

Izzy laughs. “Wait—what’s ‘Top’?”

I set my twig rifle against the wall and stretch my sore shoulder, the bandage tugging. “Top’s short for First Sergeant. The senior enlisted guy in a unit. Keeps everyone in line. Keeps the officers from screwing things up.”

Claire smirks. “So basically, the one who actually runs the place.”

“Exactly, and these two? They’re my new recruits.”

Chase and Oliver puff up with pride, then bolt inside to wash their hands—still carrying their rifles like they’re reporting to chow in a combat zone.

Izzy leans against the doorframe, her hip pressed to the wood, smile tugging slow at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes linger, steady, like she’s seeing more than just a man with two recruits and a sore shoulder. “You’re good with them.”

I shrug, though the warmth in my chest betrays me. “They make it easy.”

Her smile deepens, soft but intent, and for a second, everything feels exactly right.

 

Chapter Fifty-One

Joe

We barely pull into my driveway before the boys explode out of the car like they’ve been launched from a cannon.
Chase yells, “TO THE FORT!” and they’re off—twig rifles slung over their shoulders, Grace barking and sprinting after them like she’s their four-legged backup.

I watch them scramble up the ladder, boots thudding, laughter echoing through the trees. The fort sways just a little under their weight, but it holds. Built solid. Like Izzy.

Matt and I hang back, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with matching grins. Claire and Izzy follow behind, slower, already talking about lunch.

After a few minutes of watching the boys reenact what I’m pretty sure is a full-scale jungle ambush, Izzy nudges Claire and says, “Come on. Let’s go make lunch.”

Claire raises an eyebrow. “You mean actually cook?”

Izzy laughs. “Okay, let’s go order lunch.”

They head toward her house, arms linked, already debating pizza toppings before they hit the porch.

I stay outside with the boys, who are now arguing over who gets to be the commander. Chase plants his feet, puffing out his chest. “I’m the oldest. That means I’m in charge.”

Oliver scowls. “Does not. We should vote.”

I settle it the old-fashioned way—by grabbing a stick of my own and declaring, “I outrank all of you.”

Chase gasps. “You’re joining our squad?”

“Damn right I am,” I say, tucking the twig under my arm like a rifle. “Now move out, soldiers.”

We run a few drills—mostly them yelling and me pretending to be serious. Grace plays along, darting between us like she’s sniffing out landmines.

Eventually, I call it. “Alright, troops. Guns down. Wash up. Report to the mess hall in five minutes.”

They snap to attention, saluting me with their dirt-covered fingers. “Yes, Top!”

I blink. “Top?”

Chase grins. “That’s what you are. Like in the movies.”

The word lands heavier than I expect. Top. First Sergeant. A title from another life, one that carried weight and responsibility I can still feel in my bones. For a second, I hear echoes of real voices, real salutes, and the memory presses sharp against my chest. Then I shove it down, because right now, it’s just two kids and a dog looking at me like I’m their hero.

Claire and Izzy appear in the doorway, pizza boxes in hand.

Izzy laughs. “Wait—what’s ‘Top’?”

I set my twig rifle against the wall and stretch my sore shoulder. “Top’s short for First Sergeant. The senior enlisted guy in a unit. Keeps everyone in line. Keeps the officers from screwing things up.”

Claire smirks. “So basically, the one who actually runs the place.”

“Exactly,” I say, grinning. “And these two? They’re my new recruits.”

Chase and Oliver puff up with pride, then bolt inside to wash their hands—still carrying their rifles like they’re reporting to chow in a combat zone.

Izzy leans against the doorframe, her hip pressed to the wood, smile tugging slow at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes linger, steady, like she’s seeing more than just a man with two recruits and a sore shoulder.

I shrug. “They make it easy.”

Her smile deepens, soft but intent, and for a second, everything feels exactly right.

 

Chapter Fifty-Two

Izzy

The boys devour the pizza like they haven’t eaten in weeks, working in perfect unison sneaking Grace slices of pepperoni under the table.

When Matt calls them on it, Oliver pipes up, “Grace is a soldier too. She needs trion.”

Claire laughs, shaking her head. “The word is nutrition, Oliver.”

Oliver frowns, then repeats carefully, “Nu-tri-tion.” He tries it again, slower, until Claire nods in approval. Grace wags her tail like she agrees, thumping the floor in rhythm.

After a while, the boys get restless and bolt back outside, rifles in hand, Grace hot on their heels. The house quiets, leaving just the grown-ups around the table.

We talk about how much fun it’s been having everyone here, how the house feels alive with laughter and footsteps. Matt says it’s the kind of place you don’t want to leave, and Claire agrees, her eyes warm as she looks around, shoulders finally relaxed.

Joe excuses himself, promising he’ll be right back.

While he’s gone, I tell them about his shoulder—the way he hides the pain, the stubbornness that keeps him pushing through. Claire listens closely, her expression softening, and Matt shakes his head like he’s not surprised.

The door opens and Joe steps back in. There’s a look on his face—something’s up. He doesn’t sit. Instead, he crosses the room, kneels beside me, and pulls a small jewelry box from his pocket.

My breath catches.

He flips it open, and inside, a diamond ring gleams in the light, catching the glow from the kitchen window like fire.

“Izzy,” he says, voice steady but eyes searching mine, “will you marry me?”

The world tilts, narrowing to just him. His shoulder, his stubborn grin, his heart laid bare in this moment.

“Yes,” I whisper, then louder, smiling through the tears that spring hot and fast. “Yes.”

His relief is visible—shoulders dropping, eyes shining. He slips the ring onto my finger, and the room erupts with cheers from Claire and Matt.

The noise carries, and seconds later the boys burst back inside, faces flushed from play. “What happened?” Chase demands.

Claire grins. “Uncle Joe is marrying Izzy.”

I laugh through the tears, surrounded by family, by joy, by love. And Joe, still kneeling, still holding my hand, like he never intends to let go.

The boys cheer like they’ve just won a battle. Oliver pumps his fist and announces, “That means we get to call her Aunt Izzy now!”

Grace spins in circles, darting from person to person, licking hands and faces, tail wagging so hard her whole body shakes. She kisses everyone like she knows exactly what’s happening.

Then, as quickly as they arrived, the boys rush back outside, rifles in hand, shouting about their mission. Chase calls over his shoulder, “We have to save the President!” Grace barks and barrels after them, as if she’s already on the detail.

The house quiets again, laughter fading into the yard.

Joe straightens, still holding my hand, his expression shifting from joy to something more deliberate. He looks at Matt and Claire, then back at me.

“Izzy marrying me is only part of the plan.” His voice is steady, but there’s a weight behind it. “I want you, Matt, Claire, and the boys to move permanently into Miss Alice’s house. I’ll move over here with Izzy. We’ll make this the Romero compound—where we can all be together, and you can share the boys with us.”

Matt stares at him, astonished. “You know… it would work. My commute to work is actually shorter from here. And the boys? They’ll be thrilled.”

Claire tilts her head, practical as ever. “How are the schools here?”

I answer without hesitation. “They seem good. But if we need to, we can always send the boys to private schools.”

Matt looks between us, still processing. “Are you sure?”

Joe’s gaze meets mine, and I squeeze his hand. “Yes,” I say, voice steady. “We’re very sure.”

Matt looks over at Claire. “You want to do this crazy thing?”

Claire gives us all a huge smile and a nod. “Hell yeah, I love the idea.”

“Then we’re in.” Matt reaches out and shakes Joe’s hand. “The boys are going to go nuts.”

The words settle in the room, solid and certain, like the foundation of something new being laid right beneath our feet. The air feels charged, like the start of a mission—but this time, it’s one built on love, laughter, and belonging.

 

Chapter Fifty-Three

Izzy

Three months later, the compound feels alive in a way none of us could have imagined. Matt and Claire have settled into Miss Alice’s house, the boys race through the halls like they own every inch of it.

Much to Claire’s dismay, the fireplace insert is still lavender. She’s argued more than once about painting over it, but Matt always shakes his head. “It stays,” he insists. “It was Miss Alice who brought us all together.” So, the purple endures—stubborn and bright, less like bad taste and more like a beacon, a reminder of the woman who started it all.

As for Joe and me, we’re married now. No big ceremony, no fuss. Just the two of us running off to Vegas, laughing the whole way, saying our vows under neon lights. It was exactly right for us. Simple. Ours.

The compound hums with life: the smell of fresh‑cut grass drifting in from the yard, boys shouting from the fort, Grace barking in response, Claire muttering about muddy floors while Matt grins at her stubbornness. And Joe—my husband—standing beside me, his hand warm in mine, his shoulder healed enough that he doesn’t wince when he pulls me close. His heartbeat is steady against me, no longer shadowed by pain.

I look around and see it clearly: family stitched together by chance, by love, by Miss Alice’s purple fireplace. The Romero compound. Home.

The boys burst back inside, faces flushed, twigs still clutched like rifles. “Mission accomplished!” Chase yells. “The President is safe!”

Oliver adds proudly, “And Aunt Izzy too!”

Grace bounds in behind them, fur damp with dew, tail wagging like a metronome, licking hands and faces, scattering dirt across the floor.

We laugh, the sound filling the house, spilling into the yard, wrapping around us all. My chest tightens, then loosens, like a knot finally undone.

And I realize, standing there with Joe, with the boys, with Claire and Matt, with Grace weaving between us, that this—our laughter, our bond, our future—this is everything. With the gnomes protecting us and an occasional visit from His Royal Highness, life is wonderful. It is exactly what Miss Alice meant when she told me years ago that she had a wish for me—that I’d find happiness again.

“Miss Alice, your wish has come true.”

And the wind, like a whisper, answered: “You’re very welcome.” The curtains stirred, the air shifting just enough to feel like her hand brushing past.

 

Epilogue

Miss Alice never lived to see the compound filled with laughter, but her touch is everywhere—the purple on the fireplace, the house that became a home, the garden and the gnomes all carried her wish for us to find each other.

In the end, it wasn’t just her gift of a place, but her quiet hope that we’d build something lasting inside it.

Standing here now, surrounded by family and joy, I know we’ve kept faith with her. The garden hums with bees, the gnomes stand watch, and the lavender hearth glows in the evening light.

This life, this love, this home—it is, and always will be, Miss Alice’s Wish.

 

Afterword

Miss Alice

I suppose it’s time you heard from me.

I’ve always been here, you know—woven into the walls, the garden, the laughter that fills the rooms. But don’t call me a ghost. I’m not that. I’m something quieter, kinder. A wish that never faded.

I’ve watched you all, and I’ve smiled every time you let the purple fireplace stay. That color was never about fashion—it was about memory. About leaving a mark that said, I was here, and I loved you enough to want joy in your future. Thank you for honoring that.

And since we’re being honest, I’ll tell you a secret: Joe didn’t just stumble into this place. I picked him. At the auction, when the house was waiting for its next chapter, I made sure he was the one to carry it forward. I saw something in him—strength, loyalty, a heart that needed a home. I knew he’d find Izzy, and together, they’d build what I could only dream of.

Now look at you. A compound alive with children’s laughter, with family stitched together by choice and love. Gnomes standing guard, Grace chasing missions, the lavender hearth glowing like a beacon. My wish has come true.

I don’t need thanks. Just promise me you’ll keep living loudly, loving fiercely, and letting the wind carry your laughter through these halls. That’s all I ever wanted.

—Miss Alice