Chapter 21

That night, Quinn dreamed of Abby.

She was wearing the pink dress — the one with the bow she'd been so proud of. She was perfectly clean, and entirely whole, and her eyes were clear and bright and completely without fear.

She ran to Quinn.

"Don't be sad, Mama." Her small hands came up to Quinn's face. Careful. Deliberate. "Abby knows it wasn't Mama's fault."

Quinn couldn't speak. Sound wouldn't come. Something else did instead.

"Mama is the best mama in the whole world." Abby pressed her forehead to Quinn's chin, the way she used to when she was small enough to fit there. "The best mama Abby ever had."

Quinn opened her mouth. What came out was a sob.

"Abby doesn't want Mama to be sad forever." The small voice was steady and certain, the way children sometimes are about the most important things. "Mama's life is still so long. You have to keep going. You have to be happy every day."

She kissed Quinn's cheek — once, twice, the way she always had when she was being particularly solemn about something.

"Abby will be watching from up there. Promise."

She started to blur.

"Abby—" Quinn lurched forward. "Don't—"

She woke up.

She lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.

Just a dream.

She got up slowly, washed her face, and walked out to the living room.

Julian was already awake. He looked up when she appeared and poured her a glass of warm water without asking. He handed it over quietly, watching her.

"Last night," he said, after a moment, "someone found Holden at Elmwood Cemetery. He'd taken a lethal dose. By the time the paramedics reached him—" He stopped. "He didn't make it through the night."

Quinn sat with that for a while.

She said: "He left a will. I'd imagine it specifies you as the primary heir." Julian's voice was careful and steady. "You don't have to deal with any of that now. Or ever, if you don't want to."

Holden had wronged her daughter. Had wronged her. He'd carried that with him to the end, and at the end he'd decided he couldn't outlive it.

"It's okay," Quinn said.

Not forgiveness. Just: it was over now.

She looked at her glass. Drank.

Julian said nothing for a long time. He was watching her the way he always did — quietly, with patience, without expectation.

Then he stood up.

"Come outside for a minute," he said. "The garden's nice in the morning."

She followed him out.

The yard behind the townhouse was modest by Julian Wyndham standards — a small square of grass and a few rosebushes, nothing like the estates he owned. He'd never seemed to mind.

He stopped in the middle of the grass. Turned.

Quinn registered, slowly, that he was dressed well. Better than usual. The jacket was one she didn't recognize — new, tailored, almost formal. His hair was different. He looked like he'd been preparing for something.

He reached into his pocket.

He went down on one knee.

The ring he held out was a single stone set in gold, nothing showy — it was exactly what Quinn would have chosen, had she been the one choosing.

"I did this backwards," he said. "I know that. Registration before courtship. A marriage of convenience that — turned into something else, somewhere along the way." A pause. "So I want to do this properly now."

He looked up at her. "Ms. Ashford. Quinn. Will you marry me? For real this time?"

Abby's voice came back to her.

Your life is still so long. Keep going. Be happy.

I'll be watching.

Quinn thought about what it meant to keep going. What it meant to choose something on purpose, eyes fully open, without fear.

She thought about a man who had run toward her in a rose garden. Who had held her in the Atlantic. Who cooked for her when she couldn't eat. Who had never once, in all the time she'd known him, asked her to be less than exactly what she was.

She reached out her hand.

"Yes," she said.

She was smiling.

"Julian. I can't wait."