Disclaimer: I don't own.
A/N: The end. :) I just wanted to take a minute to thank my wonderful readers and reviewers. You have made writing this story so very special for me, and I have enjoyed each and every comment. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
And now... enjoy!
Epilogue:
Xylocopa Darwini.
The Galapagos Carpenter Bee—the only true bee in the islands.
I watched it buzz hopefully around the picnic basket near my feet and then fly away before turning my gaze back to my two lovely ladies, both spectacularly dark—dark hair, dark eyes, skin darkened by days in the sun.
Ayla was now a lean and lanky five year old, clearly possessing her mother's bone structure, but the roundness of her cheeks still persisted, whether as a trait she would possess her entire life or the last lingering evidence of her baby fat, we weren't really certain. Still, it made her smile—reminiscent of Jace's, save the gap in her teeth—all the sweeter. She was presently barefoot, toes to knees covered in a light layer of sand, in a shiny blue swimming suit. She had picked it out, and though I'd wanted to talk her into a one piece, they didn't have any that covered her stomach that were this particular color.
"But this is just like the Morpho Menelaus!" She'd protested, referencing her favorite butterfly, the Blue Morpho. …What self-respecting entomologist denies his five year old anything when it's asked in reference to an insect, complete with the proper scientific term?
She was bent over in the sand, working diligently, her hair up in a ponytail and wet from the ocean. It had been an amazing day at the beach—we'd spotted some Marine Iguanas early and Ayla had spent the morning naming them after famous scientists—Einstein, Schrodinger, Keppler, Newton… the list goes on. I had been a little concerned, and turned to Sara at that point, asking if we were raising her to be kind of weird…
She had shrugged and laughed, saying that she doubted the two of us could raise her to be a "normal" child anyway.
Right now, the object of my affections—my wife of four years—was laying beside me, being buried in the sand by our industrious little prodigy. The only thing I could see of her at this point was her hair, face, and the large belly that Ayla was slowly pouring sand over, trying to cover. I chuckled at the image she made and bent to kiss her softly. "Still doin' okay?"
She gives me a sideways grin and nods. "You sound awfully concerned for the man who suggested this idea in the first place…"
"Mo-om!" Ayla whines, and I frown in confusion, but Sara just chuckles.
"Honey, I can't help it if she's kicking the sand off… she can probably feel your hands. She wants to play with you."
Ayla aims a glare at the beach-ball sized protrusion, reminding me forcibly of her mother who did that very same thing this morning, when she was attempting to put on her flip flops without sitting down to do so. I grin between the two and sigh, looking at my watch. "It's probably about time to clean up and get ready to head home anyway…"
"Can we stop and see George on the way? Please!" Ayla chimes in, and I grin, exchanging an indulgent look with Sara.
"Sure—dig Mommy out while I pack up our stuff, okay?"
"Okay!" She giggles, carefully digging Sara out of her sand prison while I fold three beach towels, pile our water bottles and our books—Sara had a romance novel, I had a book of sonnets, and Ayla had brought her first chapter book, which Sara had bought for her the previous day. By the time I'm done, Sara is rolling onto her side so that she can struggle to her feet, and I help her stand. Together, the three of us carry our shoes down and leave them at the edge of the water, submerging ourselves in the warm sea to get the sand off and then stepping into our shoes before trekking back up to our things.
We have a vehicle here, but we rarely use it, because this beach—one that is rarely frequented by tourists—is close to our home and the research center, and those are the places we mostly spend our time. So we walk, sandy and dripping, from the beach and onto the little streets lined with tourist shops until we encounter the Research Center. It's nearing closing time as we let ourselves in the back door, the air conditioning immediately assaulting our damp and sun-heated skin, chasing goose bumps up our arms.
I take the sweatshirt I'd had on when we arrived this morning and pass it to Sara, who would normally have scoffed and told me she was fine—but who took it gratefully now. I would never say this so… openly… to Sara, but… I love her being pregnant. No, I mean, I would tell her that. I tell her all the time how sexy I think it is—which is strange, I know, and she gives me strange looks when I say it. I think it's the scientist in me… she's like a living biology project that I get to explore whenever I want… the combination of two great loves. But she would think that was creepy, so I don't say that either.
However, the main thing I wouldn't tell her that I love about her being pregnant is that she allows me to take care of her. She's so independent, which I love, but it means that I don't get to stretch my inner caveman—not the one who wants to drag her off by her hair… although she indulges that one occasionally too, but the one that wants her to let me carry things and open doors and give her my coat and get things for her like she isn't equally capable. And she doesn't allow a lot of those things, but when she's pregnant, she does.
I don't know why that is, exactly, but I don't argue, I just enjoy.
Sara pulls a smaller sweatshirt out of the beach bag and passes it to Ayla, who frowns but slips it over her bony little shoulders without argument before turning her gaze back to George. She can't go inside and see him yet—the Center isn't closed and we really didn't want to explain why not every child could go inside his home. In fact, Ayla herself had spent a year working up to the privilege—not only did she do extra chores and help out at the Center doing what she could… she also had to learn whatever she could about turtles and tortoises, so that when she went into his enclosure, she would know how to be careful of the things he needs. True to form, the first time she'd stepped inside, she'd practically tiptoed, whispering back to Sara and I that he would need this plant for this and the water area for that and he liked these kinds of rocks and those kinds of flowers…
Did I mention how unbelievably proud I am of my little Ayla? It's indescribable.
Despite having to wait to see George, when Ayla catches sign of Sam, she takes off in a run and, hearing the slap! slap! slap! of her flip flops on the floor, he turns just in time to catch her up in his arms in a bear hug. "Hey little lady," the older man greets her. He's become a sort of surrogate uncle, since all of Ayla's real uncles (well, the team, and Jim…) live so far away.
"I get-ta see George!" she tells him, and he grins.
"You think so, huh? …You know, honey, you can go see him, but it's getting close to his supper time so you'll have to be quick about it, okay?"
"Okay." She tells him very solemnly, and then turns to us. "I hafta see him very quickly, because he's getting hungry!"
Sam, Sara, and I all crack grins as Ayla runs over to the window to gaze at him while the minutes gently tick down. Sam turns to us with an appraising gaze. "Day at the beach?"
Sara and I laugh and eye each other—she's got more sand than me, but I'm pink from the sun. She's been on maternity leave with Ayla for the past couple weeks, so the pair of them have had a lot of time to work on their tans. "You could say that."
A beeping filled the room and Ayla jumped and squealed! "That's means we're cloooosed!"
Sam chuckled—"Give them a second, sweetie, to lock the doors and make sure everyone is out for the night."
She's twitching she's so impatient, but she nods and listens—we're lucky to have such a good little girl, although when upset, she still tends to be pretty dramatic… I smile, thinking of the sheer number of theatrical outbursts I'd been witness to in the past five years. There had been… quite a few. Not tantrums, per se, just… everything was a production.
Within seconds the footsteps moving towards us tell us that Roberta is getting ready to leave for the night, which means the front door is locked and the building empty of tourists. A single glance at Ayla tells me that she's head it too, but she doesn't want to ask again—she's trying so hard to be good. I watch Sara give her a stern look that doesn't do anything to tear the indulgent smirk from her lips. "Okay, you can go see George, but you need to be careful, understand? Remember—we have to respect his home."
She nods solemnly and yanks the door open impatiently, hurrying inside… and then immediately slows to a walk, waving cheesily at us through the windows. Sam chuckles again and turns back to us. "Sara, you look good… about ready to pop?"
She laughs, placing a hand on the belly. "Oh, almost. …I'm just hoping I make it through Christmas. I'm not due until the 3rd but…"
"Baby's ready to come early?"
She groaned. "I dunno… I feel like she should be ready. Last week I passed the weight I was with Ayla when she was born… I thought the second ones weren't supposed to take as long."
"Hali will come when she's ready," I told her, and she gave me an endearing smile. Sam's eyebrows perked up.
"Holly? Is that what you decided on then?"
Sara smiled. "Spelled H-A-L-I. It's Greek… It's more like Hah-Lee…"
He gave her a bemused expression that clearly said he didn't see the difference, but he wasn't about to argue with her. She shook her head. "Plans for the holidays? Heading back to Canada?" The man was a native of Manitoba, and was constantly reminding us that it just wasn't Christmas without snow. He'd been playing Christmas Carols over the speakers at the Center for the last month. Despite this, he'd been wavering between making the trip home or not.
"Yep! I fly out tomorrow evening, actually. Should be home in time for Christmas Eve. When do your people get here?"
"Christmas Eve." I told him, edging over to the window to glance at our girl, who was presently petting George's head much like a dog. …Maybe we needed to get a dog. I mean, not that we didn't love that she loved George, but he was old. There was no telling how long he'd be around and… Well, there'd been some Boxer pups for sale in the paper this morning. It was something to think of…
Sara sighed. "We'd better get her home and into the tub—I'm sure George wants to eat."
Sam got to his feet and stretched, it being his job to feed the Giant Tortoise. "I'm sure he does… Hey, you kids have a Merry Christmas now. I'll bring back some snow for Ayla…"
"Puh-leeeease!"
"No."
I smirked, in the kitchen, popping a grape from Sara's fruit salad into my mouth. She and Ayla were in the living room, in the age-old tradition of negotiating the early release of presents. "But Mo-mmy, Carrie says she gets to open all her presents early if she wants to."
I could hear the smile in Sara's voice when she responded. "…It sounds to me like Carrie is a good story teller. Besides, you don't want to open presents before your Grandma and Grandpa get here, do you? I'm sure they'd be sad they missed it."
I can't see her, but I know she's got her bottom lip sticking out in a pout, and the silence in the room tells me that Sara is wavering. I replace the fruit salad I'd been picking at into the fridge—it was technically for tomorrow, not tonight, but I'd been picking at it since she'd made it. Nobody made fruit salad like Sara. Closing the appliance, I step into the doorway, confirming my suspicions—lower lip out in a textbook quiver, and Sara's pregnancy hormones getting the better of her.
"No, Ayla." They both turn to look at me, and though Ayla looks like she very much wants to stomp her foot and storm into her bedroom, she's also smart enough to recognize a lost cause when she sees one. She sighs and plops back on the couch.
"Can we go get them now, then?"
I glanced at the clock—we would have been leaving in fifteen minutes anyway—and back at Sara. She shrugged indifferently, so we sent Ayla to get her shoes on and within minutes we were inside the rarely used car, headed to the ferry that would take us to Isla Baltra, where the airport was. There was also a road that crossed between the two, but the ferry took a little longer and Ayla always got excited when we took it. By the time we were getting out, we were right on time. Ayla skipped ahead of us, her curls bouncing and the red skirt she was wearing swishing around her knees with each movement. Sara smiled serenely, watching her, and I tried to imagine what she was thinking…
Ayla was happy, healthy, well-adjusted… and she looked every bit a little island girl. In her white tank and the lightweight skirt, you expected to see her building sandcastles or swimming in the ocean… never somewhere urban or too closed-in. I wondered what my mother would think of her, and what Tom would think. My mother had met her, and Sara, when we got back from our honeymoon in France, before we made the move down here. Tom had seen her then as well, although he'd made a trip down here a couple years ago when he and Susan had finally gotten their divorce.
It had taken so much for the man to leave her—no less than a criminal trial following her dismissal from San Francisco university after she'd allowed a seventeen year old freshman take his final… orally… in her office. But he had, and Sara had managed to convince him that what he needed was some time away with people who understood exactly how he was feeling and who wouldn't judge him. The tropical weather, immaculate beaches, and bouncy little three year old granddaughter were just perks. And it had seemed to help ground him, after being so severely disillusioned.
They were both going to be on the same flight from San Juan—our little airport didn't get that many flights going in and out. We'd told each of them what the other looked like, so hopefully they had managed to finagle seats next to each other and had someone to talk to on the trip—they might not know each other well, but my mother knew nothing of Susan, so there shouldn't be any awkwardness.
We waited a few minutes, Ayla wiggling impatiently the entire time, until the plane finally touched down and pulled up to the gate. The three of us stood together, Sara waddling a little humorously, a little deliciously, and we moved up closer as people began filing out. Ayla, of course, had seen pictures of both of her grandparents, but she didn't remember spending time with my mother, and only had vague memories of Tom's visit, so this would be quite an important Christmas for our little family—not least because they were both staying a few weeks. With any luck, they'd be here for Hali's birth and get to meet her.
They walked off together, and Ayla caught sight of them first, taking off for them at a run—she was not shy. As soon as they saw her, they broke into twin grins and crouched down. She caught them both in her arms, hugging them tight, and then pulled back and all but dragged them both over to us. My mother, a few inches shorter than me with shoulder-length white curls, looked particularly good for her age. Though, at the moment, she looked a little… embarrassed? Tom had aged a bit—his salt and pepper hair had become more salt than pepper, but somehow it looked good on him. And he certainly looked more put-together than the last time we'd seen him.
Hugs were exchanged all around, and both rubbed Sara's belly immediately after releasing her, gushing and swooning and baby-talking the bump. Sara blushed at this, but allowed it with a smile, and then Ayla was getting impatient, wanting to show her grandma and grandpa her bedroom and her club house in the back yard and her favorite spot on our beach and her George.
It was everything we could have hoped for—we made fresh seafood for Christmas Eve dinner and we opened our presents that night, because that was one of Sara's few unblemished childhood memories. We made hot chocolate, despite it being quite warm still, and sat out on the screened in porch talking into the night. Ayla tried valiantly to stay up with us, but eventually fell asleep against my chest after sleepily making me promise not to forget to leave Santa his cookies.
And when talk turned to the baby, and our names, Sara leaned against my free side and sighed happily. "Well, we picked Hali because… It's Greek for 'Sea,' and Ayla is Hebrew for Oak Tree. …We… our first kiss was under…against…" she blushed, glancing at my mother, who gave her a knowing, glittering smile that made Sara laugh and continue. "Against an Oak Tree. And then, we found each other again on the Ocean… We wanted something to reference that, like with Ayla."
My mother sat up straighter in her chair, preparing to speak. I recognized the action, because it was second nature to her now—sometimes people had trouble understanding her voice because her pronunciation wasn't perfect due to deafness. "Will she have a boy's name, then, for her middle name? To match Ayla's…?"
Sara smiled and glanced at me and, at my nod, sat up too. "Actually, uh… Yes, we were… we were planning to call her Hali Jace." My gaze flickered between my mother, who seemed touched, and Tom—but Sara had eyes only for her surrogate father. He drew in a slow breath, and his stoic face wrinkled, briefly, revealing the depth of his emotion before he nodded, slowly.
"I… That's…" He seemed uncertain what to say, and ended up just nodding again. "Thank you."
In a moment Sara had crossed the space to wrap her arms around him, tears sliding slowly down her cheeks, and I sighed softly. Never would I have expected that we could be so comfortable in our relationship—so confident with each other—that we could have used his name without… weirdness. In the past, we might have felt obligated, and it would have always been there, between us. Which was why it was good that we'd waited a while, before having another baby… We were better adjusted, now. And when the idea to use Jace's name had come up, it hadn't been one of the first suggestions, and it hadn't felt forced or required… but it just seemed to fit. Even in memory, Jace was no longer a threat—and I had the utmost respect for him.
After that, talk had slowed, so we moved inside, slowly turning off lights and setting out the unnecessary cookies, simply because I had promised her. My mom, a much smaller person than Tom, would be sleeping in Ayla's twin bed while Tom took the guest bedroom and Ayla slept between us. And when baby came, she would probably be on the pull out section of the couch. Either that, or we'd put up her Dora tent in the living room and she'd have a camp out on the floor.
We wished each other Merry Christmas and parted to our own rooms for the night. In bed, in the silence, I was going over my plans for the next morning—I had a quiet alarm set for early, and Sara had been sleeping deeply through most of her pregnancy, so I could only hope she would sleep through it. If she didn't, I at least had the excuse of getting up early to start the turkey.
I had called the man selling the puppies in the paper, and he'd been surprisingly willing to accommodate me—I was going to pick up the only male he had left early Christmas morning and have him in a box under the tree as a "From Santa" present for Ayla and Sara. I mean, okay, a puppy might be a lot to take on when we were about to welcome a newborn into the house, but Ayla needed a puppy, and we were going to have help…
Besides, when I imagined the looks on both of my girls' faces, I couldn't resist.
The problem was, I didn't wake up to my alarm. I woke up to Ayla shaking me. My eyes fluttered open and she pushed me gently again. "I gotta go potty, Daddy!" she whispered, frantically, and tried to climb over me. I helped her, watching her pad out of the room and down the hall, to the bathroom. Sleepily, I eyed the clock and, having at least a couple hours before I had to be up, I rolled up against Sara, snuggling against her warmth. I was just about asleep again when I felt… wet.
I sat up, at first thinking that Ayla hadn't made it to the bathroom and had wet our bed… But no, the wetness was growing, and Sara was waking, looking startled.
The next fifteen minutes were a frenzy of activity—helping Sara change, getting her suitcase, finding Ayla on her way back from the bathroom and sending her to get a blanket from the hall closet and sleep out there, because Mommy and Daddy's bed was wet, and finally heading to wake up our guests. I let my mother and Tom know that we were leaving Ayla with them, and left directions for them to find their way to the hospital in the morning as well as where the Santa gifts were hidden, and had the foresight to pour out Santa's milk and tuck his cookies into my jacket pocket before I found Sara again and ushered her out to the car.
We made it to the hospital, though just barely—I had been telling her for weeks that Hali would come when she was ready, and apparently that was true—when she was ready, and not a second later. By the time Ayla bounded into the room at 7:30, Sara was sleeping, Hali had nursed, and she was curled up in my arms. If Ayla was the spitting image of Sara, Hali was me—and selfish as it seems, I kind of hoped she would retain at least some of those traits. Her head was covered in dark blonde curls, her eyes were blue, just like Ayla's had been, and I was pretty sure she had my nose and mouth, too.
Ayla's entrance was following shortly after by her grandparents… who seemed to be walking closer together than casual acquaintances usually did. I raised an eyebrow at my mother, and she blushed, confirming my suspicions even as I slid Ayla into my lap so that I could help her hold her baby sister. …I wasn't sure what to think about it. On the one hand… I was extremely happy for Tom, who needed to find a decent woman. And I wanted my mother to be happy, though I wasn't sure if that was betraying my father or not…
But considering my already twisted relationship with Tom…
You know what? It was probably best not to give it too much thought—hell, it might not amount to anything. My mother was very reserved. …Although, I hadn't seen her look so… amorous… since I'd been a child.
I frowned, and turned my eyes instead to my girls—one sleeping, sweaty curls pressed to her head, another holding the littlest of the three with wonder in her eyes. A Christmas miracle if I ever saw one—and the happily ever after I'd been seeking out since I was nineteen. …Despite the wait, and the obstacles between here and there… I had more now that I could have ever dreamed of having, back then.
Sometimes in life, you just get lucky.