Page 126 of Let It Be Me
“Wanna check it out?”
Tally blinked at me. “Charlie. I just opened a business. We can’t afford a house.”
But we could.
Because that steel drum she threw up in the night we met? It led to thirty commissions. Apparently, divorced women love cathartic art. Their friends did too. And their lawyers. And their therapists. Word spread, and I’d worked steadily ever since. I hadn’t just scraped by. I’d saved. I’d planned.
“I wanna peek inside,” I said casually, pushing the stroller toward the steps. “Libby’s fighting her nap anyway. No idea where she gets this stubborn streak from.”
“Probably her auntie Magnolia,” Tally muttered, but she followed me up the porch.
Inside, the air carried the sharp tang of fresh paint, mingling with the faint, comforting scent of old wood. The fireplace looked as if it had always belonged here, framed by built-in bookshelves that held nothing yet promised everything. Tall windows let in a soft, golden light that pooled across the wide-plank floors, which groaned softly under her weight as she moved through the space. She lingered in the kitchen, letting her fingers brush over the smooth marble counters, then leaned slightly toward the window, watching the backyard stretch out beyond the glass.
“There’s a swing set,” she whispered. Then, “Wow—look. A carriage house.”
“It would make a great studio,” I said, already picturing where I’d put my tools.
She wandered deeper into the house, her eyes tracing the way the old-world details met modern touches—the carved trim running into sleek door frames, the soft light catching on brass fixtures. The air seemed to hum with quiet possibility. But when she stepped into the primary bedroom at the back, something about the space made her pause, rooted to the spot.
There, leaning against the wall, was the sketch. The twin to the one she kept beside her rocking chair. Her silhouette stretched against the river, her bump rounded beneath a flowy dress, the Waving Girl statue standing quietly in the distance. She reached out, fingers brushing the edge with care. “Oh my god, Charlie,” she whispered. “You finished it… wait, what did you do?”
“It needs a frame,” I said, bouncing Libby on my hip as she grabbed a handful of my hair, tiny fingers tugging and pulling with all the determination only a toddler could manage. “But we can handle that once we get the rest of our stuff in here.”
Tally turned to me, her eyes soft and shining, reflecting every late night, every fight, every storm we’d weathered that brought us to this shore. Together. The room felt impossibly still around us, like the house itself was holding its breath.
I kissed Libby’s cheek, inhaling the faint scent of her baby shampoo and cake frosting, then met my wife’s gaze.
“I love you girls,” I whispered, my chest full, the words small but heavy with everything we’d endured to get here. “Welcome home.”
THE END
