“Where will you sleep?” Wren asked, practical as always. “There are only three bedrooms.”
Juniper felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “My room is large enough for two. If we ever get that far.”
Poppy squealed, “They are going to kiss!”
Wesley laughed. “One day at a time, Poppy.”
“One day at a time,” Juniper echoed.
Six months later, in their backyard beneath strings of warm lights, they exchanged vows again. The mountains stood as silent witnesses. Opal cried into her handkerchief. Wren and Poppy wore matching dresses and carried wildflowers they had picked themselves.
As the officiant concluded the ceremony, Poppy shouted with jubilant authority, “Daddy and Mom, you may kiss!”
Laughter rose, and Wesley kissed Juniper, tasting the future on her lips. He understood now. Success was not a skyscraper skyline or a corner office. It was a rebuilt porch. It was two daughters who believed in him. It was the woman who held his heart gently, as if it were something worth protecting.
It was a house at Redwood Springs. It was home.
