Tom smiled. “I might get chatty if I was filled up with your mother’s cooking.”

Rafe smiled back, mollified. “Consider yourself invited every Sunday at two. Bring Liza.”

“She’ll like that.” Tom pushed his chair neatly beneath the table. “I’ve got to go. Text me when Amos wakes up? He’s a good guy.”

Mercy walked him out, again like she belonged here, and that made Rafe smile. He was still smiling when she came back and sat beside him. “What?” she asked.

“He’s besotted,” Farrah said with a happy laugh. There were still shadows in her eyes, but that was to be expected. She’d suffered a near-death experience the day before. André looked slightly better, but Rafe knew they needed to get back to New Orleans, where family could help them heal.

“And if I am?” Rafe asked her, completely okay with being besotted.

Farrah became serious. “Then I’m happy. I’d be happier if you lived in New Orleans, but . . .”

Mercy cleared her throat, hesitant. “I’m going back for Quill’s celebration. Rafe said he’d go with me.”

“I’ll go, too,” Gideon said. “I want to meet Farrah’s family. And of course John and the others.”

“And then you’re all coming back here, including Mercy,” Farrah said calmly. She squeezed Mercy’s hand. “I figured that out already. It’s okay, Mercy. I understand.” She smiled then, and it was a true smile that brightened her eyes. “You’ll come back to see me, because we’re having a big family. You know that you’re going to be a godmother eventually.”

André’s eyes widened. “She is? I mean, we are?” His deep voice actually squeaked. “When?”

“Not now, thank God. That would be really bad timing with that bastard causing us all this stress.” Farrah shook her head. “But soon, okay?”

André looked at her like she was the moon and all the stars. “More than okay.”

Mercy wiped her eyes. “Darn it, Farrah. You had to go and make me cry.”

“But good tears,” Farrah said smugly.

Mercy laughed. “Very good tears. Now, once Amos wakes up, everything will be perfect.”

EPILOGUE

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, MAY 28, 3:00 P.M.

Karl Sokolov tapped a spoon to his glass of sparkling cider. “I’d like to make a toast.”

Rafe was so happy that he didn’t groan—not even on the inside. His father was one for toasting and typically embarrassed whoever was unlucky enough to be the toastee, but he knew his father wouldn’t embarrass Mercy. Maybe me, but not Mercy.

In six weeks she’d wrapped his father around her little finger, and Rafe loved it. He loved her. He hadn’t said the words yet, but they battled for freedom every damn day. At first he’d resisted because he didn’t want to rush her, but now he was waiting for the perfect moment. Because she deserved every bit of perfection he could muster.

“I’m going to need a chair,” Damien muttered. “Move over, Meggie.”