Alexander looks at Lucian. “Your father is a very persuasive businessman. But there was someone else who helped change my mind.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“The woman who runs the historical society,” he says.
“Mrs. Nelson?” I say, aghast.
“There were several people in town instrumental to this, but she started calling my office, then followed by sending me things. Historical documents. Old letters. Pictures of my ancestors.” He pulls out a picture of a family standing in front of a house.
Lucian points at it. “I saw that picture when I was helping Clément fix something at his house. I didn’t know she gave that to you.”
“I don’t think anyone knew what she was doing behind the scenes,” Alexander admits. “She put human faces to what I considered an impersonal business deal.”
Alexander pulls out a folded letter from his pocket that I immediately recognize. “A copy of this letter was emailed to me first. But Mrs. Nelson sent it to me directly. I think she knew holding it in my hands would be like holding a piece of history.”
“Victor’s letter to Catherine,” I say. “After reading it, I returned it to the historical society, afraid it would get lost again.”
“One of many letters Victor wrote to Catherine before they were married,” Alexander says. “Reading his words, I realized I was about to destroy the very thing my ancestor treasured most.” He pauses for a moment. “Which is why I’ve dropped all land claims. After firing Hunt, I told the mayor that all the money the town raised can go toward improvement projects and charity—basically, to do with as they please. My only request was designating part of the park as ‘Heritage Green’ to honor Victor and Catherine.”
Charles lifts his eyebrows. “You’re giving up?”
“I’d call it giving back, Mr. Lowe. This letter helped me understand that Victor didn’t just want land—he wanted to build a life here, a legacy.” He holds out a folder to Charles. “Would you give all of this to Mrs. Nelson when you see her? All the historical documents she sent me belong with the historical society in the town where this story began.” Alexander turns toLucian once more before leaving. “Your father’s a good man, Lucian. I hope you know that.”
He looks at his dad for a second before turning back to Alexander. “I do.”
We watch in silence as Alexander heads to his black sedan and drives away as quietly as he arrived.
Charles shuts the door, then studies the folder. “Well, that was unexpected. I have a feeling this is going to make Mrs. Nelson’s day.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say. “This story is going to be town gossip for the next decade. Mrs. Nelson will probably have it published in the historical society newsletter by Christmas.”
Charles laughs. “I have a feeling she’s going to enjoy telling this story even more than giving me that tour.” Charles checks his watch. “You don’t mind if I leave you alone for a few hours while I take these over to Mrs. Nelson?”
“Not at all,” I say as he puts on his coat. “Dessert will be ready when you come back. And make sure Mrs. Nelson knows she’s invited.”
“I will,” he says as he heads next door.
As he leaves, the timer on the cupcakes goes off and I head to the kitchen to unload the last of the maple-glazed pumpkin cupcakes onto the cooling rack. When I finish, an arm slides around my waist from behind.
“Well, that was quite the surprise,” Lucian whispers as he nuzzles my neck.
“I know,” I say, leaning into his embrace. “I don’t know if I can take any more surprises today.”
“Are you sure about that?” he whispers against my ear. “Because there’s one more surprise that might be totally worth it.” He drops one last kiss on my cheek.
I turn to face him, studying the man whose blue eyes still make my heart skip a beat, who looks at me like I’m the most wanted woman in the world.
“Another surprise?” I ask. “You know you don’t have to give me anything else, Lucian.”
“I want to give you everything, Neesha Gilmore.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the door.
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t tell you just yet,” he says with that smile that makes me melt. “But I promise you it will be worth it.”
The drive to Maple Lake takes only ten minutes, but my curiosity builds the closer we get. When we pull up to the familiar dirt road that leads to our dock, I’m filled with gratitude for this place that’s seen so much of our story—memories of Mom, our first real kiss, the night everything changed between us.
“Lucian, what are we doing here on Thanksgiving?” I ask as he parks and comes around to open my door.
