He rested his head against mine and we waited in silence for the final breath of dark to give way to the light. Autumn in the Lowcountry settled softly on the marsh, painting it with strokes of ochre and yellow from the wind-tossed seeds of the cordgrass. Birdsongs changed as new visitors from up North searched for winter homes, and others sought shelter farther south. The wooden tombstones of upended oyster boats in summer had disappeared and were plying the creeks and estuaries, looking for beds to crack.
It seemed as if I’d always lived there, that the short summers and russet autumns of Maine were from another life. In many ways, I thought, they had been. I was confident now in the boat, and had navigated it by myself enough times to not be afraid anymore. I’d seen one alligator and countless dolphins on my journeys, and had learned the landmarks to find my way back. Loralee would probably have had something to say about that, something about the heart bearing a compass that always pointed toward home. I’d have to remember to write that in my own journal, the one I’d started after the night I’d crossed the bridge. I watched as the horizon trembled with new light, and imagined I was on the boat again, trees parting and the river bending into the liquid mystery of the marsh, its secrets submerged and exposed with the patterns of the moon.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Too nervous. What if nobody comes?”
“Of course they will—I’ve never met anybody who could turn down an invite to a Lowcountry oyster roast. Besides, the Cecelia Gibbes Heyward Women’s Shelter is a good cause. And you’re a local celebrity. How could they stay away? Don’t forget, too—Deborah Fuller knows everybody in town and will make sure they’re here and bringing donation checks.”
I closed my eyes and leaned back, his arms firm around me, and knew he wouldn’t let me go. It had taken reading Loralee’s journal for me to find the courage to show Gibbes the letter, to admit to him the kind of woman I’d once been, the kind of person who’d allowed herself to fall in love with a lie. Life doesn’t get easier. We just get stronger. Loralee was right. I was stronger. I’d crossed more than just a physical bridge that night in the storm. She’d been right about so many things. I only wished I’d realized it earlier.
Gibbes had gone with me to the police station with the suitcase, the plane model, and the letter. And never once had he regarded me with Cal’s eyes, making me wonder how I’d ever thought he would. He’d been the one who’d figured out that Cal had wandered California for more than ten years before he went to Maine. An entire decade during which he’d fought his demons, tried to forget his need for retribution. But in the end he’d lost the battle, and had come to find justice and found me instead. I had been an easy substitute target for the rage he felt toward my grandmother and an unpunished crime. A rage that had been twisted and complicated by the unexpected love we’d found together. I held Gibbes closer to me. Edith had sent him away to save him, to make sure he had a happy life. In that one respect, she’d done the right thing.
I tilted my head, breathing in the scent of him. “Thanks for letting me use your house for the roast. I just had no idea how long it would take to paint the outside and inside of a house.” I thought about my newly painted porch overlooking the bluff, each wind chime rehung as soon as the paint had dried according to Owen’s numbering system, which he’d devised so nothing was hung in the wrong spot. Fall flowers shot up from the pots and planters that lined the refurbished brick steps and illuminated the front door with bright splashes of color. Remembering Loralee’s love of gardening, I thought it was a little bit like looking at her smile every time I approached the house.
Gibbes nuzzled his morning stubble against my temple. “I promised Owen that I would never sell this house, because of the dock. And you’ve made all those nice curtains and slipcovers and pillows—although why so many pillows have to go on a bed, I have no idea. They just get knocked to the floor.” I felt him smile. “So I guess we’re stuck with two houses.”
“What are you saying, Dr. Heyward?”
“Well, Loralee did say that if you married me you wouldn’t have to change the monogram on any of your linens.”
I turned around to face him. “Funny, she said the same thing to me.” I tilted my head. “Was that a proposal?”
“Not yet. I need to get Owen’s permission first.”
I kissed him gently on the lips. “Good. That will give me time to think about my answer.” I placed my head against his heart, the strong beat thrumming against my ear, and thought again of paths and compasses. About how our paths had crossed long before we were born, our stories as tangled and meandering as the waterways that had brought us both back to the starting point. Everything happens for a reason. I smiled, thinking of Loralee.