A/N: This is the final chapter, and I'm blown away by the amount of feedback this story got - thanks so much to everyone who's taken the time to read. Smooches!
EPILOGUE
Emma squinted, angling the paintbrush clockwise a little, and took one last swipe against the tape. There! Letting out the breath she'd been holding and sitting back on her heels, she looked with admiration on her work. After three weeks of scraping paint on evenings and weekends, then another two of standing on ladders with a pole or a paintbrush, the front porch was finally done, even the wooden bits that sat right against the siding.
"Moooooom! I need help!" came the insistent call from inside the house, making her start. But then she laughed, shaking her head as she recognized that tone of voice.
With a groan, she rose to her feet, scraping the paintbrush off into the can before setting it aside and trooping into the house. Henry was sitting at the dining room table, head in his hand, frowning down at his homework.
"Algebra, or English?" she inquired with a smile, peering over his shoulder. She'd made a not altogether unsuccessful pot of borscht for dinner, and felt a warm jolt of elation to see that he'd gone back for seconds, a red-splattered bowl and napkin sitting off to the side. Take that, Regina! she thought triumphantly. Who says I can't cook?
Her son sighed. "Algebra," he said, grumpy. Emma could see the long equations marching across the page, and felt a pang of sympathy. Then he looked up, face splitting in a reluctant grin. "Wow, Mom, nice makeup."
Emma blinked, then touched her face. "Oops," she said with a laugh, feeling the swath of paint across her forehead. "Listen, kid, I didn't hear you offer to help."
"Because I have homework," Henry insisted, but he was laughing, too. Emma felt a warm twist of love and sympathy at the same time; his voice was starting to break. God, he was a teenager already!
She stood over his shoulder for a few minutes, helping him with the algebra problem. She'd never liked exponents much, either, but she'd started reading through his textbooks at night to re-acquaint herself, so at least she could lend a hand.
At last he had the problem solved correctly, at least according to the book. "High five, kiddo," Emma declared, and Henry obligingly smacked his palm against hers.
He slammed his book shut with satisfaction. "That's the last one. Can I go over to the library now?" he asked, wheedling.
Emma groaned, pretending to be exasperated, and he grinned. "All right, but put on a sweater first," she ordered sternly. "It's going to chill off out there once the sun goes down."
As he scampered away, books in hand, vaulting up the tiny curved stairs two steps at a time, Emma leaned back and yelled, "And I want you back by eight!"
There was an agreeable sort of loud grumble in return, and the door to his little attic bedroom slammed. Emma drew a hand across her forehead, wiping away a stray bead of sweat and tucking a stray hair behind her ear. She looked down at her clothes. They weren't in much of a better state than her face, sprayed with tiny dots of white paint from the roller and smudged here and there from the brush. Luckily she had worn an ancient oversized t-shirt, tied into a knot at the waist, and the pair of pants Henry called her 'mom jeans,' so it would be no great loss if she couldn't get the stains out.
She wandered into her little bedroom, absently pulling the t-shirt over her head and tossing it into the hamper, wiggling out of the ugly jeans. She snorted to see herself in the mirror; her hair was a wreck of tangled, sweaty curls, and a swatch of pastel blue paint arced over one eyebrow. She would probably have to take baby oil to that before she showered, if not something stronger.
For the moment, she settled for pulling on a grubby old sweater and some yoga pants, and retying her ponytail into some semblance of order. Padding back out to the porch, she re-gathered the painting supplies, setting them on a tarp to one side for the time being. Tonight was dishes and laundry, and the weather was supposed to stay fair: she could put the buckets and brushes back into the basement tomorrow afternoon, once her early shift at the station was over.
Her hands on her hips, she heaved a sigh of satisfaction, looking once more at the round balusters with their alternating soft beige and blue, the smooth planes of the floorboards, the newly repaired steps braced by square railings. She could hear the rumble of a large engine from down the street; probably one of the big boats coming back from a late-season fishing trip. Summer was fast fading into autumn, the leaves of the big maple tree in the front yard already fading to a pale green-yellow, and a cool wind was whipping the flag in front of the municipal building.
Emma smiled at the sight. After David had hired her back as a deputy last winter, she had managed to apply for a mortgage (a dreadfully subpar one, but still) and buy this house, located barely a block away from the sheriff's station… and right across the street from the mayor's office.
Still, somehow her feud with Regina had finally ended: in part due to the distraction of the mayor taking a new lover, an inexplicably cheerful widower with a young boy of his own. Emma didn't like shared custody any more than the other woman, but they grudgingly got along for Henry's sake—since he did seem to like switching back and forth between the mayor's mansion and the deputy's bungalow.
She heard the pounding of feet on the stairs and through the hallway, and Henry suddenly stood next to her, breathless, wearing his favorite old backpack. "Okay, I'm going now," he announced.
The noise of the boat engine had somehow grown louder and less distant, taking on a familiar sort of rumble, but Emma ignored it. She and turned to face her son, smoothing back his unruly hair and putting her arms around him for a tight hug. He was probably getting a little too old for public hugs with his mom, but squeezed her back nonetheless.
Soft gratitude filled her heart—he was such a sweet kid. "Have fun," she said warmly.
Henry nodded and pulled away from her; but he paused at the edge of the porch, craning his neck. "Who's that?" he asked curiously.
Emma, who had bent to pick up her painting knee pads, turned to see what he was looking at. Her heart suddenly skipped a beat at the gleam of chrome and shiny black metal. A long tractor-trailer, parked just short of the municipal sign that read Storeybrooke. No trucks ever drove right through the center of town.
The engines cut out just as she recognized their comforting cadence; and with a clunk, the driver's door of the rig opened, a lean figure hopping out into the street and slamming the door behind him. It was a flatbed hitched to the rig this time, carrying an enormous yellow backhoe; she wondered briefly if one of those Oversize Load signs was on the back.
She realized Henry was looking at her strangely, waiting for an answer. "It's, uh… a friend, actually," she said, her mouth dry.
She watched as the figure turned about, holding up his phone in front of him and comparing it to the houses on the street. She had texted him a picture of the bungalow back in March, bursting with pride and wanting to share her happiness with someone who would genuinely, selflessly appreciate it. In turn, he'd shot back a selfie, his face creased in a dorky grin—with the Iowa 80 rest stop sign in the background, no less.
"Oh," Henry said, already bored, and sidled off the porch towards his beloved library. "Well, I hope he's cool. See you later, Mom!" Emma smiled at him, and he jog down the sidewalk, backpack bouncing.
She glanced back to the man in the street; at last, he turned in the direction of the bungalow, lowering the phone as he recognized the building. Emma raised a tentative hand and waved.
It was too far away to see the brilliant blue of his eyes, but she could make out the giant grin that split his features as he lifted his own arm and waved back, sunlight cheerfully flashing off the metal of his hook. All the hesitation and worry dropped from her heart, filling instead with joy, as Jones starting walking, then jogging toward her. The knee pads fell to the floor boards with a clunk as she tossed them down, her feet pattering on the front steps, carrying her swiftly across the lawn toward his waiting arms.