EPILOGUE
Two years later
THE SCREEN DOOR SLAMMED behind Mackenzie as she let herself into the house. She could hear music playing in the kitchen and she hastened her step, buzzing with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to show Oliver what she had in her purse.
The dogs must have heard the door because she was barely halfway down the long hall when they came running to greet her, Tinkerbell leading the charge. To be fair, neither Mr. Smith nor Strudel had much of a chance to beat her, Tinkerbell’s long legs giving her a distinct advantage. That was what came of having a Doberman for a father.
As always, Mackenzie found herself grinning like a loon as Tinkerbell butted her big, black head into Mackenzie’s belly, demanding an ear scratch. For as long as she lived, Mackenzie would never forget the day Strudel had given birth to Tinkerbell and her three siblings, all of whom had long since found good homes. She could still recall in vivid detail how stunned both she and Oliver had been when they inspected Strudel’s offspring and discovered that instead of long, thin dachshund bodies, courtesy of Mr. Smith, they had huge feet and pure black fur.
Oliver had been very quiet for a few minutes before admitting that before he packed up his wagon and drove south to Flinders, Strudel had been hanging out with Brutus, the Doberman who lived two streets over. Mackenzie had waited until the vet had confirmed their observation that Strudel had, indeed, produced four good-size Doberman-Schnauzer cross puppies before suggesting that Oliver might owe Mr. Smith an apology. A really big one.
To his credit, Oliver hadn’t hesitated, but every now and then Mackenzie liked to remind him of the many lectures he’d visited upon poor Mr. Smith leading up to Strudel whelping. In part because Oliver always came up with new and novel and hilarious ways to express his regret.
Dogs hard on her heels, Mackenzie entered the vast living area at the rear of their new home to find Oliver busy making dinner. Even though she was eager to share her news, she paused for a moment to appreciate the scene—her big, bad man, elbow-deep in spices and herbs, poring over a recipe book as though it held the key to life itself. He wore his hair a little shorter these days, but he hadn’t lost one iota of the appeal of the man who had knocked on her door two years ago. In fact, he’d only grown more appealing.
Once the divorce had been finalized eighteen months ago, he’d lost the tight look around his mouth, and the crease between his eyebrows had eased. The laugh lines in his face had taken over, and the inherent warmth and goodness and humor in him was now evident in every smile, every glance, every gesture.
God, she was lucky.
Never in a million years did she think she would say that about herself. Not after the accident. She’d counted herself supremely unlucky to have suffered that terrible year of pain and uncertainty. But without the crash and recovery, she wouldn’t have met Oliver, she wouldn’t have been ready for him, and she certainly wouldn’t have appreciated him. She wouldn’t have rediscovered Mary and her own passion for documentaries, either, or developed a growing appreciation for simply stopping and enjoying her life instead of sprinting toward the next finishing line.
Oliver glanced up, one finger remaining in the book to mark his place in the recipe. “Hey.” A slow, sexy smile curved his mouth.
A delicious warmth unfurled in her belly and chest at the sight of that smile.
Yeah, she was lucky. The luckiest woman alive.
“How was your day?” he asked as she moved to his side and lifted her face for his kiss.
His arms came around her, pulling her against his chest. She inhaled his familiar smell and made a “more, please” sound when he started to lift his head. After a moment she pulled away. He was in the middle of cooking dinner, after all, and they were no longer in the honeymoon stage of their relationship. She would give him another five minutes, ten tops, before she dragged him off to the bedroom to have her wicked way with him.
“My day was good. It’s better now, of course.”
“Naturally.”
She gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow in response to his teasing. “What are you cooking?”
“I’m attempting to make a marinade for the chicken I bought for dinner.”
“Yum.”
He cocked his head a little. “Why are you looking so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”
She pushed her hair behind her ear. It wasn’t quite back to its former swishy glory, but it was nearly to her shoulders now. Oddly, it had grown back with a pronounced wave in it since the accident. She was still trying to decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing.
Before she could say anything, Oliver’s smile became knowing. “You finished the edit, didn’t you?”
“We finished the edit,” she confirmed.
He reached for the tea towel hanging on the oven handle and dried his hands. “Let’s go, baby. Show me what you got.”
She loved that he was as excited about this film as she was. Loved that he understood without her asking that she wanted to share this moment with him. The disc in her handbag was the culmination of years of work. It was the first thing she’d created that was entirely hers, born of her vision. And she couldn’t have done any of it without him by her side.
“I love you,” she said.
As always, the expression in his eyes grew soft as he looked at her. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”
It hadn’t been easy for them to get to this place. There had been times over the past two years when things had been tense and unhappy. She’d uprooted her life in Melbourne to come to Sydney, and they’d weathered what had turned out to be a messy divorce, thanks to Edie’s ever-changing demands and priorities.
But Mackenzie and Oliver had made it. They’d purged the last of his past when they sold the house he’d shared with Edie, and three months ago they’d moved into this bigger, brighter house by the water in Rose Bay.
In short, life was good. And it was only going to get better with this man by her side.
Taking her hand, he led her into the living room. She slid the disc into the DVD player and they sat side by side on the couch as the screen filled with the credits for her Mary De Garis documentary. Clever, intricate guitar music accompanied the images flashing across the screen, underpinning the moody, slightly edgy vibe the production designer had created.
Oliver’s music, of course. It had taken her four whole months to convince him that she wasn’t “throwing him a bone,” as he called it, commissioning him to create original music for the documentary. It was only when she played him some of the alternative compositions she was considering and he understood how very wrong they all were for the project that he’d given in.
The result, everyone agreed, was wonderful. Subtle, unassuming music that worked with the themes the documentary explored rather than declaring itself and demanding the spotlight. He’d helped give her project heart, plucking at emotion when the narrative needed it, drumming with bravado when Mary was on the warpath, filling the blanks in the story with wordless emotion.
Mackenzie slid her hand into his as the narrator’s voice rose above the music, accompanied by a series of images of turn-of-the-century Melbourne. A thrill raced down her spine as she watched the way it all effortlessly flowed together.
After a few minutes, Oliver lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. She glanced at him.
“It’s really good,” he said.
“God, I hope so. I hope I’m not completely deluded after months of staring at this footage in the edit suite.”
“You’re not deluded. You’re clever and talented and passionate and committed. And you did it, sweetheart. You did it.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Because of you. Everything is because of you, Oliver.”
Because he believed in her. Because he loved her. Because he rubbed her shoulder and hips when they were sore and made sure she ate properly and forced her to sleep when she needed it. Because he was a true life partner, someone who was in the trenches with her, fighting at her side.
Because he was Oliver.
He didn’t say anything, simply pulled her into his arms. They rested their cheeks together, arms tight around each other. For a moment, her love for him was an ache in her chest, a tangible thing.
“Once upon a time, I used to think I was happy,” Oliver said after a moment of perfect silence.
She drew back a little so she could look into his eyes. “And now?”
“Now I know. Beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
She took a slow, deep breath, savoring the moment. There would be many others like this, she knew. But this one was still precious, and she was going to treasure it. She was in the right place at the right time with the right man, and it was good.
Best of all, they’d done enough miles and weathered enough storms to know it. It didn’t get much better than that.
* * * * *