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What’s going on, Gracie? I thought we were done with the memoir.

The editor wants us to add on an epilogue. She needs it right away, so she said to just dictate one and she’ll take care of typing it all up once she gets it. Now take a seat. I’ve already started recording. (Clears throat.) A little over three months have passed since Noah walked off the pitcher’s mound under a downpour of rain—

And straight into a downpour of love. Hey, that’s good. Maybe I should be the romance writer.

Are you done interrupting?

Just making sure you get the details of my memoir right, babe.

Oh, but this is our memoir now, babe.

Why do you think it’s officially become my favorite story to tell? By the way, I love it when you call me babe.

I know you do. Now can we focus on finishing? These readers have lives, you know.

Couldn’t be more focused if I tried. Oh shoot. I need to check on the special Valentine’s Day dessert I’m making us. Go ahead and keep telling our story. And don’t worry. The boys at the firehouse are already on standby.

That actually makes me more worried. Well, as you can see, dear reader, not a lot has changed between Noah and me. And yet, so much has changed.

The morning following that infamous rain-delayed World Series victory, Dad took his final breath on this earth. He was surrounded by his biggest fans and will forever remain one of my all-time favorite heroes.

I’ve heard bereavement experts say you should wait at least a year before making any big decisions after the death of a loved one. Well, don’t tell the experts, but Noah and I remarried less than a month after Dad’s death. In our defense it didn’t feel like a big decision. It felt more like undoing the bad decision we made five years ago when we didn’t know how to handle our grief at that time.

We’re working on handling things better now. Which is to say we’re working on handing things over to God better now. Both our griefs from the past and our hopes for the future.

What exactly are those hopes for the future? Good question.

We were able to hunker down and shut out the world for a little while after Dad’s death, but it didn’t take long for the world to start elbowing its way back in. And right now, the world wants Noah.

Before the parade confetti had even settled, the Mariners were offering Noah some sort of “special assistant to baseball operations” position, which they hinted would help pave the way to a future manager job. (Dusty decided to stay on and manage the Mariners one more year.) ESPN calls once a week, asking Noah to work as one of their MLB analysts. A few days ago Noah even got invited to be a future contestant on a dance competition reality show. (Matt and Rachel have both volunteered to go in his place, but I’m pretty sure not even reality TV is that desperate.)

So far Noah has turned everything down. But not because he’s done with baseball. (Didn’t I always say he’d never be done with baseball?)

Noah has it in his head he wants to build up the baseball program in our little Alda area. From T-ball to high school. A program that mentors and trains. He wants to upgrade all the little neighborhood parks with baseball fields and better playgrounds. He’s even been talking about how to spruce up the hospital with a new recreational area named after Buck, so patients aren’t stuck staring at the same gloomy walls every day.

When I asked him why this pressing desire to pour so much money and effort into a dot on the map the rest of the world couldn’t care less about, he simply shrugged and said, “This is our home, Gracie. Whether we ever have kids or not, I still want to make it a great place where kids can grow up and couples can grow old together.”

I’d say that’s a dream worth sharing.

Okay. I’m back. Nothing’s on fire yet. Did you start talking about the new story you’re working on?

I’m still talking about you.

Readers have surely heard enough about me. Let’s talk about something fun. Like the new romance you’ve been working on with your new special writing cat.

It’s true. I have a cat now. Noah talked me into adopting him from the animal shelter a few weeks ago, and I couldn’t love him more. Same way I couldn’t love my new romance story more. My editors gave me a new deadline and thankfully the words are flowing this time. (Probably because there’s no time-traveling horses this time.)

I came up with the title.

We don’t have a title yet.

It’s called Rain Delayed Love .

Probably won’t be the title.

It’s about a writer wooing back her super-sexy ex-husband.

Not at all what the story is about.

And they end up living happily ever after together.

That part is true.

What about our story? Don’t you think it’s time we wrapped up this memoir with our own happily-ever-after?

I don’t know if we can. This is a memoir, not one of my romance stories. Pretty sure someone once told me that everything can’t be tied up in a neat bow by page three-twenty-two.

Wise words indeed. But why don’t you give it a shot anyway?

Okay then. (Clears throat.) This is life. This is love. The pages keep going.

So far so good.

There’ll be heartache and disappointment and probably more tears. The end.

Well, they do say first drafts are always terrible. Want to try again?

Perhaps one more rewrite. All right. (Clears throat.) This is life. This is love. The pages keep going. No, we don’t know what awaits us on those pages, but Noah and I do know this. Whatever happens in the chapters to come, we’ll never stop clinging to God. We’ll never stop clinging to each other. We’ll never stop clinging to hope.

I’d say we found our perfect ending, babe. Now come on. Let’s eat dessert and celebrate. We’re finally done with this memoir.

But not with our story. And oh, dear reader, how we thank God for that.