EPILOGUE

Journeys end in lovers meeting.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

My son, Couper, was born on a cold January morning. He came into the world kicking and screaming, convincing me that he was ready for whatever life would bring him. I knew without looking that he would carry the identical birthmark on his forearm—like his mother and sister. The doctor asked me if I wanted it removed. I shook my head fiercely and told the doctor it was part of my son’s heritage and that he would keep it for life.

I spent most of his first two years preparing. I diligently took Couper to the pediatrician for his checkups and vaccinations, and spent a good portion of my afternoons in the library in the astronomy section, charting the different comets in their orbital time periods until I found the right one.

I prepared my parents as best I could, telling them that my son and I would be going on a long trip and not to worry about us. They were instructed to keep Phoenix Hall in good shape, always in readiness for our immediate return. Just in case.

By the autumn of his third year, I was ready. I left Sarah’s sprig of dried rosemary on the dressing table in my room for my mother. I carried with me two bottles of Children’s Tylenol and a recent edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. But that was all. Everything else I needed was there, waiting for me on the other side of time.

We found Stuart outside the barn, brushing Endy’s gleaming dark coat. We stood in the shadow of an old oak tree, our feet crunching on fallen acorns. The horse whinnied in greeting, and I put my finger to my lips. The sound of children’s laughter and a dog barking carried to us on the crisp air, and I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the tug of the wind on my hair and smelling a wood fire burning in the distance. I shivered with cold, the air seeping through my cotton sweater and jeans.

Stuart didn’t look up but bent over the horse’s legs, examining the shoes. A brisk wind struck us, making Stuart’s hair dance and scattering leaves about our feet. I stared at the mass of dark hair, realizing how much like Couper’s it was.

Couper slid down off my back and stood beside me. He looked up at me with piercing blue eyes and I nodded. Slowly, he walked toward Stuart and stood directly behind him. My heart skipped a beat as I saw them next to each other for the first time, father and son.

Stuart picked up a bucket of water and began emptying it into the grass.

“Excuse me.” Couper’s little face looked up at Stuart as Stuart swung around, splashing his boots and pants with the water.

I stepped back behind the tree, leaning out only enough to see.

Not expecting to find anybody behind him, Stuart nearly tripped over the little boy. He caught himself and looked at the child, his brows knitted tightly together. “Who are you?”

“I’m Couper.” He peered out from around Stuart’s legs. “Is that your horsie?”

Stuart’s eyebrows lifted. “Couper?”

“Yeah. Can I pet your horsie?”

Stuart kneeled in front of the child, a hand on each shoulder. “Couper, who are you?”

He wouldn’t take his eyes off the big black horse. “I told you. I’m Couper. Now can I pet your horsie?”

Stuart lifted him up in his arms and approached Endy. “Be very gentle. You can pat him right here,” he said, and indicated the neck with the mane blowing in the breeze.

Stuart moved his head back to get a better view of Couper’s face. “Where are your mother and father?”

Couper’s pudgy fingers were busily entwining themselves in the thick horse’s mane. He tilted his head as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “I don’t know about my daddy, but my mommy’s over there.” He stuck out a sturdy arm in the direction of the oak tree.

I stepped out from my hiding place as Stuart turned, his son in his arms. I saw the color drain from his face, and then he started to shake.

I rushed forward to take Couper, afraid Stuart might drop him. Stuart moved away, shaking his head, clutching the child tightly.

“Laura.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Hello, Stuart. It’s been a while.” My voice was barely stronger than his.

His eyes widened, but I saw a ghost of a smile around his pale lips. “Yes, you could certainly say that.” He looked at Couper and his expression changed suddenly. It was as if he were looking in a mirror for the first time. “Are you this handsome young man’s mother?”

I gave a small laugh. “Yes. I’d like you to meet your son, Stuart Couper Elliott the Second.”

Stuart glanced from me to Couper and back. His face was still handsome, but there were deep creases in his cheeks that hadn’t been there before. “I can’t believe this.”

I walked closer to him, my eyes searching his. “Believe it. We’re here to stay.”

He opened his arms to me and I walked into his embrace, smelling the autumn air in his clothes and feeling the beloved scratchiness of his cheek.

Couper squealed, his active three-year-old body rebelling at being hugged so tightly. “Hey, stop! You’re mushing me!”

Stuart squeezed us even harder as I felt his tears on my head.

The wind picked up momentum, whipping my hair around my husband and my son and sending the fallen leaves airborne once again in the direction of the beautiful white house. It stood, strong and silent, still beckoning me. The sun made shadows of the front columns on the lawn, like arms welcoming me back.

I had come home.