Chapter 10

The final chapter of a story is supposed to be a resolution. A bow tied neatly. A door closed. A promise kept.

But life doesn't work that way. Life keeps going. It doesn't stop at a chapter break. It doesn't resolve because you want it to.

It was autumn again, a year after I pried open the dumbwaiter panel. The anniversary of the night we found Cora. The anniversary of the night Priscilla saved Bea. The anniversary of the night our family split apart and came back together.

We marked it by planting a tree.

It was a magnolia-Priscilla's idea. Bea picked it out at the nursery, a sapling with glossy leaves and a single tight bud. We planted it in the side yard, near the garden, where the sun hit longest. Bea dug the hole. Priscilla held the trunk while I filled it in. We watered it together.

"What's it for?" Bea asked.

"It's for growing," Priscilla said. "It's for new roots. It's for remembering that things can start again."

Bea thought about that. Then she said, "I'm going to name it Cora."

Priscilla went still. I went still.

"Not because I love her the same way," Bea said quickly. "But because it's a garden, and gardens need all kinds of flowers. Even the ones that are gone."

I looked at Priscilla. She looked at me. And then she knelt down and pulled Bea into a hug.

"That's a beautiful name," she said. "The tree will love it."

We went inside for dinner. The inn was full-guests in every room, a wedding party in the dining room, music drifting through the halls. Priscilla had hired a new chef, a local woman with a gift for Southern comfort food. The inn was thriving. The reviews were good. The bank account was finally balancing.

In the kitchen, Priscilla and I shared a quiet moment. She was chopping vegetables. I was setting the table.

"Do you ever think about her?" Priscilla asked.

"Every day," I said. "But not the way I used to. I don't miss her anymore. I just wonder what might have happened if she had taken her medication. If she had listened to the doctors. If she had let someone help her."

"That's a lot of ifs."

"I know."

Priscilla set down the knife and turned to face me. "Do you regret it? Any of it?"

I thought about that. I thought about the night I bent my shoulder into the crowbar and broke open the wall. I thought about the lullaby. I thought about the days that followed-the hospital, the jail, the courtroom, the storm. I thought about the nights I had spent lying awake, wondering if I had done the right thing.

"I regret that we had to go through it," I said. "I regret that Bea had to see the things she saw. I regret that you spent a night in jail. But I don't regret breaking the wall. I don't regret seeing the truth. And I don't regret choosing you."

Priscilla's eyes glistened. "I don't deserve you."

"You do. You just don't believe it yet."

She kissed me. The kitchen was warm, the food was cooking, and the inn was full of life.

After dinner, I went to check on Bea. She was in her bed, her stuffed rabbit under her arm, her eyes already closed. The night-light cast a soft glow over her face. She was peaceful. She was safe. She was home.

I sat beside her for a while, watching her breathe. And then I noticed something on her nightstand-a small piece of paper, folded into a square. I opened it.

It was a drawing. Bea had made it in crayon. It showed our inn, the garden, the magnolia tree. It showed Priscilla and me, holding hands. It showed Bea, smiling. And in the corner, in the window of the dining room, there was a tiny figure. A woman, with dark blonde hair and a white dress, waving through the glass.

Underneath, in Bea's crooked handwriting, were the words:

Goodbye, Mommy.

I folded the drawing and put it back on the nightstand. I kissed Bea's forehead. And then I stood in the doorway for a long moment, looking at the room that had once been full of secrets and was now just a little girl's bedroom.

The dumbwaiter was gone. The wall was sealed. The voices were silent. But the story wasn't over. It would never be over. It would just keep going-through the seasons, through the years, through the lives of everyone who had been touched by the woman behind the wall.

I walked back downstairs. Priscilla was waiting for me on the veranda, looking out at the river. The moon was full. The water was silver. The inn was quiet, except for the sound of the wind in the magnolia leaves.

I sat down beside her and took her hand.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Everything's okay."

We sat on the veranda until the moon sank behind the trees. And the river ran past, dark and endless and alive, carrying the secrets of everyone who had ever loved and lost and loved again.