Epilogue

Sagan

The following Christmas

I find Esme in her room again, perched at the window.

“Baby, have you eaten today?”

She looks up from her typewriter and smiles. “Yes.”

I lift her chin, checking for dark circles under her eyes.

My wife doesn’t need me to fuss over her as much these days, especially now that the portions of Bryant Estate reopened to the public have helped generate enough funds to hire more full-time staff. We have people overlooking repairs and maintenance; any questions the Wood family can’t answer, go to me.

I’ve also hired a director of social responsibility who coordinates with outside planners for charitable events. All Esme has to do is attend—when she feels up to it.

Esme is feeling good, but I still make a fuss. It’s what I do.

“I gotta keep checking on you when you’re writing. You don’t take care of yourself.”

“I know. But I ate up every bite.”

“Good girl.”

Her cheeks flush, and I lean in for a kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.

It’s Christmas morning, and we both know about our traditions.

The house is awake, milling around the foyer in their hiking gear.

Briar and Rowan, Taylor from the tattoo parlor and her new beau, Buck Wood and his family, Dr. Daisy with Owen and their brood.

The bunch of us hike through the refurbished hiking path down the side of the mountain.

“God, this is fun, but it’s gonna be so much worse when we climb back up,” Taylor complains. She complains like that every year, and every year, we laugh about it.

Cressida left a packed fridge before leaving for her two-week holiday break despite me telling her we could all cook for ourselves.

The last thing we do before we go inside for Christmas breakfast is the same thing we always do.

“Snow angels!” Esme calls out.

She’s the first to fall backward into the snow, and I’m the next one to follow.

Above us, the sky is bright blue, and the sun glistens on the ice-covered branches of the pines. The air is crisp. It might be the best Christmas yet.

I turn to look at my wife, making snow angels and laughing as snow gets into her hair, inside her hood.

She sees me staring.

“I love you, Mr. Fisher.”

“I love you too, baby girl.”

Someone makes a pretend-gagging noise, and we laugh.

I roll over toward her, and she rolls to me. We come together in a cold, warm, wet kiss, with snow-covered mittens, red cheeks, and steaming breath. We will always do this, we will always make our own little island to block out the world.

“No more ghosts?”

She smiles up at me.

I ask her this every Christmas.

And every Christmas, she replies the same.

“All gone. It’s nothing but my angel now.”

“Angel?” I ask, laughing.

“My guardian angel,” she says, then kisses me like no one can see us.