Page 57 of My Favorite Lost Cause (The Favorites #2)

SIX YEARS LATER

We arrive at Riverbend on a warm mid-April day. I breathe deep as soon as we step out of the car. Though we spend most of the year in New York, our holidays and summer break are always spent here. It feels more like home to me than anywhere else.

The twins—petite female versions of Charlie—unbuckle themselves and scramble out, with the dogs at their heels, while I lift Rosemary—blonde like me but with Charlie’s ability to fall asleep anywhere.

She buries her face into my neck drowsily while Charlie, carrying our five-month-old in her car carrier, bends down and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“I hope that deep breath you took was a good one, because it’s probably the last rest you’re going to get this weekend. ”

I smile. “Wait, are you trying to tell me that Easter weekend with the entire family plus three young kids and a newborn won’t be restful? I wish you’d said something sooner.”

He places his free hand on my back as we move toward the stairs. “It’s mostly putting up with your mother that I’m worried about. She makes one comment about your weight and it’s over. ”

I laugh. It hasn’t happened in five years, not since I gave birth to the twins, and Charlie flew into such a rage it hasn’t come up since. Yet he’s still mad.

“I’m used to my mom. It’s just the idea of playing hostess to ten people aside from us that I’m worried about.”

“Maybe the house ghost can help you with hosting duties.”

I elbow him with a laugh. Even after everything that happened, Charlie still does not believe the house is haunted. As long as Margaret doesn’t mind his disbelief, I don’t either.

Martha, who watches the house when we’re gone and helps us when we’re in town, swings the door open, and the twins dive at her.

“My girls are home at last,” she says, with tears in her eyes as she holds them close.

I rest my head on Charlie’s shoulder, grateful that we hired her.

She is far more of a grandmother to them than Ulrika, who actually suggested that I might want to switch the twins from breast milk to skim milk because they were getting too heavy.

They were two months old at the time.

By the time Charlie and I get into the house—its refinished floors gleaming in the sunlight—the twins and Rosemary are already out of it, rushing toward the grassy backyard where we are planning to play croquet this weekend at last. Charlie starts assembling the goal he brought so the girls can practice their soccer drills, and I laugh at his disappointment when they decide they’d rather spin until they’re dizzy and fall on top of each other instead.

He shrugs and takes the seat beside me. “I’ll let them get it out of their systems.”

“We’ve got all weekend,” I laugh. “Plus, you know, the next thirteen years.”

“We really don’t, though, hon,” he says, lifting Mae out of the car carrier as she wakes. “Did you read that article I sent you? If they’re not on travel soccer by age nine, they’ve got virtually no chance of being recruited.”

I doubt the version of Charlie I first came here with years ago—the one who drank himself stupid most nights and couldn’t remember who he’d brought home—would recognize himself these days, but I do.

Charlie has gone full #GirlDad, but he always had that side—sweet and fiercely protective, and hell-bent on keeping the people he loves happy…

and getting them recruited by Ivy League colleges, if possible.

Mae begins to fuss, her tiny pink mouth sucking at air. “You keep focusing on getting them into Stanford while I feed this one,” I say, lifting her as I rise.

“Stanford isn’t even an Ivy!” he calls. “Read the article!”

He runs into the grass just as the twins start kicking the ball and I head upstairs to Margaret’s room, which is now our nursery.

Two cribs sit along the wall where the mirror was—between me and Kit, there is almost always at least one baby in the house and often two, as there will be this weekend.

She and Miller just had their second child in January.

I take a seat in the rocking chair, slipping down the flap of my nursing bra, and Mae latches on greedily.

I slowly rock the chair back and forth while she drinks and then falls into a sated sleep, her mouth still ajar.

I stare down at my beautiful daughter as I fix my shirt, marveling at how it all worked out.

I love our life, but just as importantly…

Charlie does too. Every time he smiles at me over our sleeping children’s heads, I see it in his eyes.

He’s already talking about having one more kid.

He really wants a boy, but I suspect he’d be pretty happy with five daughters.

Provided they go to Harvard. On full scholarships.

I close my eyes for just a moment, feeling the weight of my daughter in my arms, with her quick sleeping breaths, and suddenly…a trickle of quiet contentment eases through me. Not my contentment, though I’m very content.

“Thank you, Margaret,” I say aloud. “Thank you for all of this.”

Charlie would say it was my imagination, but I swear I can feel her pat my shoulder—as if in seeing me get my happy ever after, she’s finally gotten hers too.

THE END