DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. No profit is being made.
It's all for fun.

Epilogue: Close the Circle

Spring 2009

Jordan hurried through the back door of the small Cape Cod she and Woody had finally bought a few months ago. Her nose told her he'd made dinner. Her stomach reminded her she was hungry. "Sorry, I'm late!" she called out. "I had to wait at - uh - D'you have a good day?"

"You don't have to shout, Jo."

She jumped and turned around.

Woody stood in the doorway to the dining nook. He came to her and put his arms around her, mindless of the packages she held. He kissed her softly then laid his mouth against the cup of her ear. That still made her shiver. Three years later and he was still finding ways to thrill her body. And soul. "You know, it's just marinara. I haven't started the pasta. It could wait."

With resignation, she pulled away. "No. I have some things I want to show you after dinner."

"And?" His eyes twinkled.

"I'm impatient, remember?"

He rolled his eyes in surrender. "As if I could ever forget." He kissed the crown of her head. "All right. I'll start the pasta."

"Salad?" She asked.


"I'll get it ready as soon as I change." She hurried up the stairs and changed into her sleep t-shirt, sleep shorts and old, pink robe. From her shopping bags, she pulled out a medium sized gift bag. The other items she removed and placed on the old oak dresser they'd found and restored together, despite Woody's initial misgivings that she would somehow, someway find some crime connected with the furniture and feel compelled to solve it.

Woody's eyebrows arched when he saw her. "That's definitely more comfortable."

She gave him a shrug replete with a nonchalance she didn't feel at all and then dashed through to leave the gift bag next to her chair. She found, when she came back into the kitchen, he had made the salad too. She thanked him and kissed him. A lot. The pasta was not quite as al dente as either of them would have liked, but it was worth it.

They ate and chatted about the generalities of their day. Early on, Woody had banned the specifics. "I've got to eat, Jo," he'd told her.

Out of the blue, Jordan put her fork down. "Guess who called me today?"

Woody made several joking guesses.

After each, Jordan shook her head. Her demeanor was serious. "Karen Devaney. You remember?"

Woody nodded. "Never forget. How is she?"

Jordan nodded. "She's good. Working her way through UMass - business major. She works for an accountant downtown. He says he'll hire her when she's done."

"That's good. Great."

"She's dating. He's a little older, has a little boy. His ex moved somewhere in the middle of Africa so he's got full custody. Karen sounds really taken with both of them."

"She's a pretty strong girl."

Jordan smiled. "She was mad we didn't invite her to the wedding."

Woody laughed. "Did you tell her we invited the guy who did the ceremony and two people who happened to be walking by on the beach?"

Jordan's grin lit up her eyes. Nearly a year later they were still getting flak from their friends and co-workers about how their romantic Caribbean getaway had turned into a wedding.

"So is that why you went shopping?"

"Kind of," she told him. "I got you something."

Woody's eyes narrowed. "It's not my birthday. It's not quite our anniversary. God, Jo, did you get fired?" His eyes glittered with humor.

"How do you know I didn't get a promotion?" she demanded, her eyes laughing.

"So what'd'ya get me?" He rubbed his hands together, a gleeful little kid.

Hesitantly, she handed him the bag that had burned her feet all though dinner. He took it, his brow creased at her mysteriousness. He pulled the two items out and, pushing aside his plate, laid them before him. He bit his tongue for a moment, trying to understand. He glanced over at her. Her gaze was a mixture of nervous anticipation and excitement. He looked down again and memory flooded over him. He looked back at her, his jaw slack.

She spoke haltingly. "I don't know - I mean, not yet - and maybe you don't want to know - so, I got both."

Woody nodded. He stood up and reached out his hands to her. "The dishes!" she exclaimed.

"We'll do them tomorrow," he told her, his voice thick.

They talked long into the night, making plans, hoping hopes that Jordan, at least, had taken so long to begin to hope. On their dinner table, still and forgotten for the moment, but treasured nonetheless, lay two footie suits.

One blue.

One pink.