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HAILEY
Twelve months later, and it's Summer Solstice once more. A whole year has gone by in what feels like no more than the twinkling of an eye. Grace is five, almost six, and she'll be starting elementary school full time in another two months. She's looking less and less like an infant and more and more like the strong, beautiful woman I feel sure she'll grow up to be. She's even got her first boyfriend, though I don't suppose it will last more than a week or two. My crushes never did at her age. That's how you learn, right?
As for the men—well, Dean might have a few more gray hairs, but I'm not worried about that. Lennon's come out of his shell. He's made friends with the father of another girl at Grace's pre-school, and they sometimes go bowling together. Lennon—who'd have thought it?
Reed has become my gopher. There's nothing that man won't do for me. He still flirts outrageously with every woman between the ages of sixteen and sixty, but I know that flirting is all it is. It's a game he enjoys, but I know he's faithful to me—to us. How do I know? As Grace would say,'I'm a girl. I know'.
Just as we did last year, we celebrated the summer solstice by our lake. We watched the sun rise slowly, the shadows climbingup the three pine trees until—as the top of the third tree was touched—a shaft of sunlight pierced through between the trunks and landed on that same sacred spot on the promontory by the water.
We held hands, sang, and said a prayer—for my mom and dad, for Lennon's departed wife Georgia, for my Aunt May and Uncle Roger, for Reed's brother who'd died at eight years old, all that time ago, for the boys’ fallen comrades-in-arms, and for all the people who have lived in this beautiful valley before us, and all those who will come to live here long after we're gone.
And me? Well, my belly is fat and swollen, because I'm carrying a child. Lennon's, Dean's, or Reed's—I don't know, and I don't care to find out. He or she is our child, and we've already dusted off Grace's old cot, sanded it down, and given it a fresh coat of varnish.
Victor Sinclair is long gone. After cashing in my Amazon shares, the four of us drove down to his farmhouse, sat him at his kitchen table, and made an offer on his land. He refused at first—but I kept increasing the number. He kept refusing... until Dean growled. That was when the old man shakily agreed. To be honest, I don't think he's been himself since the mountain incident last year.
We handed over a cash deposit right then and there and got a written receipt. The next day, my lawyer called to take care of the formalities. So now, between us, we now own about seven hundred acres, which makes Dean very happy indeed. We tore down the fence between my land and the boys' a long time ago and built a proper track between my little cabin and their yard, although of course I live with everyone else now, up in the main house. Once Sinclair's land was officially ours, we renamed the whole property True Heart Farm, and Dean set us all to work, turning it into the success he always dreamed of. It's hard work—but it's better than any life I ever knew in the city.
And one last thing.
On a trip to the old cabin, to look around and remind myself of my mom and dad, I find—sitting beside their wedding vase—a second vase. Same Ute symbols. Same basic design. But this one has four necks, not two.
How did it get there? I don't know. But I remember wondering, when I first came here, how the cabin could look so fresh and clean. How everything seemed to work so well. Are the Ute still here, somewhere, watching over me?
I can't be sure.
I run to the door and stand on the veranda. The sun shines down on the lake, the water dazzling with reflected light.
"Thank you!" I shout as loud as I can.
No answer comes.
But high, high above me, an eagle circles.
THE END