Sunsets are like snowflakes. No one is the same, my mom said. We miss too many of them rushing around. They are celebrations because every day is an accomplishment, a blessing of epic magnitude that we all take for granted. No matter how difficult a day has been, a sunset proves that there is still hope and good things can happen tomorrow.

See how slowly they seem to take, and then how quickly they fade? my dad asked. Sunsets are really metaphors for life, which is why we should slow down to enjoy them. Which is why I always want you to appreciate them.

I wake with a start, my body chilled. Evan is shaking me.

“Mom?” he says.

I open my eyes, and my son is standing over me.

“Here,” he says, handing me a hoodie. “I brought some wine.”

“Oh, my gosh,” I say, sitting up with a start. “What time is it?”

“Almost time for sunset,” he says. “Look.”

The sun is melting like a Dreamsicle into the water, a puddle of orange on the horizon. Evan pours two glasses of wine and takes a seat on the beach towel, Sonny curling up beside him.

“What are you doing down here?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Evan shoots me a confused look. “It’s sunset. Most important rule, right?”

I nod.

He remembers, I think. Our cottage rules, our family, our history, and he will never forget. I look down at the paperback and think of the passage I’d read earlier.

“You were dreaming,” Evan says. “About what?”

I look at my son and then at the magnificent sunset.

“This,” I say.

EPILOGUE

Rule #14:

Shake the Sand from Your Feet,

But Never Shake the Memories of Our Summer Cottage.

It Is Family!

July 2019

“You’re wearing white?”

Trish laughs. “Just kidding,” she says, grabbing my hands. She gives them a tight squeeze and when I look up, her eyes are filled with tears. “You look beautiful.”

I can feel my heart rise in my throat. “Thank you,” I say. “Don’t make me cry. I don’t want to look like a raccoon on my wedding day.” I release my hands and flutter my fingers over my eyes to dry any potential tears.

“What a difference a year makes,” Trish says. “You and Scooter. This inn. A totally new start. The old Adie Lou is back!”

“I know,” I say. “Oh! What you just said—old and new—reminds me.” I look at Trish. “Ready? Something old...”

“Watch it,” Trish starts.

I laugh. “Not you,” I say. “This. Look.”

I lift the bottom of my wedding dress. A tiny swatch of satiny fabric I found from Sadie’s time capsule has been sewn inside the hem.

“Perfect,” Trish says. “Just perfect. And speaking of which, I have the rest of the equation.”

She turns and retrieves a small box from her bag. “Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” she says. “Okay, open.”