Epilogue:
Piper fiddles with her wedding ring as she waits for the last of the women she's gathered to say their goodbyes. Even though she's been wearing this diamond-encrusted band for the better part of three years, she still sometimes wishes for the old keyring that's tucked in her jewelry box back in the upstairs apartment that she shares with Alex. The same upstairs apartment where she worked tirelessly the last week to coordinate travel and lodging for the more than twenty women from Clean Makers that wanted to attend the funeral of their benefactor and adopted mother, Claudette Pelage.
From behind, Alex wraps her up and rests her chin on Piper's shoulder. "You did good, kid."
Piper lets herself smile a little as she watches two of the women embrace, wiping away their tears as they chuckle at a memory. Another woman holds the hand of a small boy and together they toss yellow roses down onto the casket. It had taken every single bit of Piper's hard-earned policy knowledge and advocacy skills to convince the Department of Corrections to grant Ms. Claudette's compassionate release after her diagnosis, but she'd finally fulfilled her promise to free her mentor.
She is enormously grateful for these last eighteen months together. For every morning that she pushed Ms. Claudette around the city on a walk. For the afternoon naps that she watched Ms. Claudette take with their new Boston Terrier puppy nestled against her side. For every last meal fantasy that she made come true and for every book that they finished late into the evening with Ms. Claudette wrapped in a quilt staring at the stars out of a window without any bars.
She's thankful for each of the women who bravely marched into their own pasts to grant Ms. Claudette the closure and fulfillment she deserved at seeing the many lives she touched. The older woman loved nothing more than getting cards in the mail from the girls she'd raised with photos and notes about their lives. Piper compiled them all into a scrapbook that Ms. Claudette kept on her nightstand. The same book that Alex patiently flipped the pages of–her raspy voice softly narrating a life well served–while Piper sobbed into her lap on that last night.
Alex. God, is she grateful for Alex. Alex who never questioned Piper for cramping their already tiny apartment with medical equipment and hospice nurses, nor complained about the interruption to their long-awaited future. Alex who helped her wash Ms. Claudette's body and pick out a casket. Alex who was beside her still, injecting her with the strength to see this through to the very end.
When the last of Ms. Claudette's girls hugs Piper and departs the burial site, it is Alex who sinks down beside her onto the soft ground between Ms. Claudette's plot and Diane's. They are quiet for a long time, staring at the boats coming into the marina and eating the little tin of homemade cookies they brought.
"I'm glad they're together," Alex finally breaks the easy silence with a chuckle. "I would pay good money to have a beer with those two, wherever they are..."
Piper laughs then reaches across to grab Alex's hand and thread their fingers together. "Think of the stories they have!"
Alex laughs, too, squeezing Piper's fingers at the old line. Her eyes are regaining that old Alex sparkle, and Piper thinks even with all the time in the world, she could never be tired of staring into them. Too soon, though, Alex is glancing at her watch.
"Should we go?" Piper asks.
"Cal will be by with the kids in a couple of hours, and we might hit traffic in the city," Alex sighs. "You know what the munchkins will be like if we don't have pizza waiting."
The familiar warmth swells in Piper's chest every time she hears Alex talk about their niece and nephews. They keep them like this once a month or so, Goodall and the twins. It's a nice break to the grind of the bookstore and Piper's projects for the foundation. Tonight after she closes up shop, Alex will come banging up the stairs with an idea for some grand city adventure like ice cream or taffy from the candy store around the corner. They'll carry the kids back sticky and exhausted. Piper will assemble a giant pallet of blankets and pillows on the floor where the kids will collapse in a heap to the low drone of a Disney movie. Alex and Piper will end up with a three-year-old in each lap and Goodall curled between them. They'll glance at each other over the heads of the sleeping children with identical thoughts of: maybe and someday.
The next morning Alex will get up early and make cinnamon rolls from scratch while Piper teaches the kids a new card game or lets them sucker her into endless rounds of Go, Fish. The dog will chew up some adored stuffed toy and Piper will rock away the ensuing tears while Alex makes ridiculous faces behind her back, earning uproarious and healing giggles. They'll pull out the sewing kit and Goodall will supervise Alex's live-saving operation of said toy while Piper and the twins take the rambunctious puppy for a romp around the block. Later, they will drop the kids and the dog at Cal's with enough time to have a late lunch together before they catch their flight to Milan.
The sun is so warm on her face and that horrible night in the snow is so, so far in the past that Piper feels a giant wave of gratitude roll over her. She stands and says another silent thank you that these women–these mothers–are watching over them, together.
Beside her, Alex runs her fingers across the letters spelling out Diane's name. "I can't believe how much I still miss her."
Piper nods. There is no hurt between them anymore. She tucks herself into Alex's side and takes a last, long look at the spot where Ms. Claudette's casket lies nestled in the freshly dug earth. Alex starts to tug her away, but Piper resists. She spins the other woman into a full-bodied embrace. She reaches up and wraps her arms around Alex's neck and feels the cozy rush as the other woman's hands find their place on Piper's hips, pulling her close. Alex hums into the kiss and Piper lets loose her biggest smile. The one that means I love you and I promise and always.