Ethan’s World

by Daphne Childress

Ethan O'brien (formerly Ethan Martin) and his mother live a simple life in a small Southern town... with a twist: She makes dresses to pay the bills and he helps out as best he can.
 

Chapter Fifty: All Things Come Together

 
Life goes on, in new directions.

The Maplewood High School gymnasium had put on its Sunday best and then some. The banners—blue and gold—hung from the bleachers like proud ribbons on a well-loved quilt. Folding chairs ran in perfectly imperfect rows across the varnished floor, touching the painted free-throw circle where so many nervy games had been decided. Paper programs fluttered as hand-fans. Bouquets rustled. There was that unmistakable gym smell beneath the perfume and hair spray: floor wax, balloons, and memory.

Ethan adjusted his cap as Principal Julia Campbell worked her way through the Jacobses, the Johnsons, the Jordans, and the Juarezes. The tassel tickled his cheek. Somewhere beyond the stage lights Colleen was waving—he didn’t have to see her to know it. A mother’s wave is a warm thread tugging at the heart; you feel it even when it’s out of sight. He found it anyway: there she was, chin lifted, eyes bright. Beside her, Penelope sat very straight in a sage-green jacket with a brooch shaped like a miniature sewing machine—her private joke that still made Ethan smile—while Vivian was a cool pillar of monochrome across the aisle, black suit, pale silk blouse, gaze steady.

Behind them sat Ivy and DeeDee and Dani, all whispers and giggles, a conspiring threesome. Thelma and Marianne—and Marianne's husband, Jeffrey—were together further back, whispering and beaming. Ricky, in a pale tie someone had clearly knotted for him, held his hands like he didn’t quite know where to put them—next to him, Niecy, with a camera slung around her neck and the posture of a sixth grade journalist on assignment, which to her mind she absolutely was.

Claire, three seats over, had turned her mortarboard into a neat little canvas with three daisies drawn in white-out. She caught Ethan looking and mouthed: don’t cry. Ethan wasn’t crying. He was holding a breath that felt five years long.

Names tripped forward. Familiar faces passed by: Marcus and Maddy… and then Whitney… then Dylan… Applause rose and fell in predictable waves, a tide against the gym walls. When it was his turn—”Ethan Gallagher O’brien”—he rose, stepped, felt the world tilt just enough to remind him he was alive. Julia’s smile was warm and congratulatory, her wink playful, personal. A photo flashed. The tassel swung. Somewhere in the audience Ivy and DeeDee and Dani and Ricky and Niecy all whistled and stomped, a quintet causing chaos and celebration.

On the other side of the stage, the line of caps and gowns emptied into a river of new beginnings. And there—exactly where he would have stood if he’d planned something dramatic and hadn’t—stood Samuel.

Red bespoke jacket (a Designs by Ethan exclusive), white T-shirt, blue jeans, brown engineer boots planted like he’d just stepped down off a movie screen and into the gym. The haircut was military short and somehow made him look younger and older at once. He had that open grin Ethan remembered from the happiest of the hard days; the smile that said: nothing bad is going to happen on my watch.

Niecy hit him first, which was the only sensible outcome. “He’s my big brother!” she squealed to anyone within earshot, which was everyone within earshot, and grabbed his hand like a victory ribbon. Their eyes met—two pairs, jade green, each glistening with emotion.

Claire all but collided with his other arm, laughing through a little tear that sparkled shamelessly. “We kept a seat for you,” she told him, as if he hadn’t already been seated in her heart the whole time he’d been away.

Samuel leaned forward around them, stuck out his free hand toward Ethan, then used it to reel him into a hug that smelled faintly of khaki uniforms, aviation fuel, and a brand-new future. “Look at you,” Samuel said into Ethan’s shoulder. “Look at you, man.”

As they broke apart Ethan gestured at the females clinging to Samuel’s arms. “Women,” he said, deadpan. “Am I right?”

“You hush,” Claire said, which meant: never stop.

Niecy lifted their tangled hands and presented them to the room. “My brother is a hero,” she announced, and the room, having already suspected as much, approved.

Chief Daniels materialized out of the handshake scrum, tie a little askew, eyes bright with good mischief. “I heard you got selected,” he said, offering a hand Samuel met with a crispness that would’ve passed muster at any ceremony. “I guess when you make lieutenant I’m gonna have to call you sir.”

Samuel tipped his head and grinned. He rolled up his sleeve with a theatrical flourish, revealing the fierce bulldog inked on his muscular forearm, campaign hat cocked just so. “I’ll do you proud, Chief,” he said, and there wasn’t a speck of swagger in it. Just a promise. “You got my word on it.”

“Don’t waste it, son,” the Chief said softly, and patted that forearm like a vow.

Vivian approached, all angles and decisive heels, and for a beat the noise in the gym fell out of focus around her. She had been, in other rooms, in other chapters, the woman the air obeyed. She didn’t command it now; it just happened. “You look… well, young man,” she said, her voice hoarse, eyes shiny. “I still owe you. Anything—anytime, anywhere—you just let me know. I’m here for you.”

Samuel’s answer was the restrained smile of a warrior meeting the judiciary and recognizing an ally. “Thank you, Judge. I appreciate that.”

He hugged them both—the Chief, the Judge—a son claiming family you can choose.

Around them the graduates spilled into laughter and camera pops, hugs and declarations, half-formed plans shouted over the heads of parents and aunties. Someone’s mortarboard had already been lost, recovered, signed by three best friends and a janitor who deserved the honor. Claire slid her arm through Ethan’s, and Niecy reclaimed Samuel with eleven year old zeal. There would be speeches later over cake. There would be the ritual of caps tossed like bright fish breaking the surface of a blue lake. But the real ceremony had already happened in their glances and their held breaths: We made it. We’re still us. We’re better, maybe. We’ll see.

 

* * *
 

Penelope’s house opened its arms the way it always had, with a door that stuck just enough to remind you you’d been admitted on purpose. The late afternoon light lay in generous rectangles across the polished floor, carrying the hum of summer cicadas and the smell of lemonade. Someone had dressed the dining table in a white cloth and daisied it with sweets: lemon bars dusted like snow, a chocolate sheet cake with “Congratulations Graduates!” piped in a careful hand, a plate of little savory tarts that had Colleen’s disciplined fingerprints all over them.

Gingersnap—the cat who had once tolerated being pushed in a baby stroller—slept under a chair with the sighing contentment of a creature that has successfully outlived all human drama. Relieved of her “Service Dog” vest, Roxanne sat close by, ready, rock-steady for whatever might yet come.

The party was less an arc than a collection of bright slides clicking in a carousel projector.

Click: DeeDee and Smitty staked out a corner near the French doors. Smitty sat with the posture of a man who had been taught to watch a room and never entirely forgot how, even with a toddler tugging on his arm. Liam, apple-cheeked, had commandeered his father’s penlight and was solemnly “checking IDs.” Rose was a storm cloud of curls and purpose in a handmade dress decorated with sunflowers. Each had their mother’s Gaelic energy—and her red hair—along with their father’s devilish grin. They orbited their mother and then slingshotted toward Vivian, whose lap, to the astonishment of the uninitiated, had become a magnet. The “stern aunt,” framed like marble in a museum, was at that moment upholstered in children: one on each knee, one hand captured to be kissed and patted and claimed. She took it with grave attention, listening to Rose’s earnest story about a very brave ladybug like she was hearing testimony in open court.

DeeDee watched this improbable tableau and squinted as if adjusting the focus on a private camera. “I mean, look at her,” she muttered to Ethan, who had wandered by to refresh his lemonade. “She’s still scary as hell. But they act like she’s Mrs. Freakin’ Santa Claus.”

Ethan sipped and considered the elegant line of Vivian’s profile bent to a sticky whisper. “I think that says more about you than it does her,” he said.

DeeDee scoffed, caught between laughter and a maternal growl. “Shut it, Princess.”

From Vivian’s lap, Rose waved at Dani across the room with adoring authority. “Sissy! Come sit!” Dani made a face that said Don’t you ever call me that in public! and then immediately crossed the room to comply, her rebellion evaporating at the whim of precocious pouts and sparkling eyes.

Ethan tried—and failed—not to grin.

Click: Penelope and Gloria Halbrook had formed a babysitting coalition near the parlor windows, trading Marianne and Jeffrey’s daughter back and forth with the solemnity of a loving ritual. Baby Gloria was a warm, drowsy bundle who made small musical noises fashioned entirely of newness. Penelope sang some tuneless little song under her breath about cake and the moon and making good choices.

Ricky hovered nearby, hands tucked, a smile he couldn’t do anything about splitting his face. Niecy, who had declared herself the baby’s social secretary, whispered to him, “You’re as good a big brother as Samuel.” He ducked his head, pleased and shy, because praise from Niecy had the sparkle of a merit badge and the weight of a knighting.

Click: Jeffrey and Ricky together, recognized with a twinkle by anyone who’d seen them on TV, fielded questions from a gaggle of dads about helicopter safety and the best month for storms. Ricky chimed in with serious pronouncements on cumulonimbus formations while glancing at Baby Gloria between sentences as if cloud lore and sister-watching were the same kind of science.

Jeffrey ruffled Ricky’s hair, thinking about scars and loss, and he felt a familiar twinge in between his eyes. He looked over at Marianne and mouthed: “I love this child,” followed by “Love you, too.” Marianne merely smiled and nodded—inside, her heart swelled with gratitude and happiness and a hope that things would always remain as they were right then and there.

Click: Smitty, laughing, introduced himself to a circle of Penelope’s friends with his full dignified legal name, “Jameson Declan Smith,” and Dani, with impeccable comedic timing from the doorway, called, “No wonder they call him Smitty,” and the circle broke into exactly the kind of merriment you want at the end of a long, brave road.

Click: Samuel presenting Ricky with an eagle, globe, and anchor lapel pin—and its twin in the form of a pendant to his sister. Ricky snapping to a brisk salute, Niecy mimicking him; then all three falling into a tangled hug of laughter and tears and joy that would be forever etched into their collective memory.

Standing nearby, Ethan fingered a small piece of silver under his shirt, grateful for his modest role in making this moment happen.

Click: Marianne, Thelma and Julia, in a conspiratorial coffee clutch, chatting excitedly. “It’s true,” Thelma whispered, “Colleen got the call last night. It’s a period film, and they need more than fifty gowns for a big ballroom scene. Hoop skirts, corsets, plus outfits for the maidservants, the whole thing. And… they want us on the set to customize the fittings for the stars.” She grinned, eager but nervous. “It scares me, but she’s confident we can make the deadline.”

Marianne: “Well, if Colleen says we can, we can. We’ve got the facilities now…”

Julia: “Just think what this means—costumes for movies and television, live theater, in addition to your regular lines. You’ll have to hire more people.”

“It’s a good problem to have,” Thelma said. “It’s not just the jobs. It’s something greater. It’s… purpose.”

They looked over at Colleen and Ethan—who were holding hands and talking—then grinned at one another. Their thoughts drifted off, each pondering their individual what ifs and whens and whatever lay beyond.

Click: Chief Daniels and Samuel and Smitty comparing tattoos. Like the others, Smitty sported the bulldog wearing the campaign hat, but just above it—on a rather impressive bicep—was new ink: a pinup girl with a suspiciously familiar smirk and red-hair, striking a Rosie the Riveter pose.

Nearby, DeeDee beamed, not a cigarette in sight.

Click: Colleen and Ivy slipped into the breakfast nook, a small sanctuary gated by a bowl of cherries and a stack of linen napkins. From the doorway, if you didn’t listen too hard, you might have thought they were discussing patterns and shipping, thread weights and invoices. But the air had changed, gentled by something that wasn’t quite a secret and wasn’t quite public yet either.

“He’ll be magnificent at it,” Ivy said, fiddling with a cherry stem as if testing the tensile strength of a promise. “He’ll love the pace and the newness and the ideas. He just—” She smiled an almost private smile. “He just loves home, too.”

Colleen’s laugh came low and fond, the sound of pie cooling on a sill. “He thinks he’s supposed to save the world,” she said, lifting her shoulder in that half-shrug that meant both pride and patience. “Or at least save me. And maybe even you. We just have to remind him every now and then to take care of himself.”

“I hate the idea of him going away,” Ivy said, eyes flicking toward the open archway where Ethan’s laugh had just rung like a bell. “Now that I’m back and all. But… isn’t college the best thing for him?”

“Perhaps. And perhaps not.” Colleen reached across and touched her hand like a benediction. “Just take your time, my love,” she said. The words were not a command or even direction; they were an invitation and a promise to help lift the corners of a tapestry that two young people were trying to shake out and see.

Click: The Chief stood by the mantel with Vivian, discussing some town business disguised as gossip. He gestured with a tart and she tilted her head and whatever they were planning—fundraiser, charity ball, a scholarship they’d swear wasn’t theirs to brag about—settled quietly into that part of her mind that would follow up on it later.

“We did good with them, didn’t we,” she murmured. “I mean, we do good—or try to, every day—don’t we? But this group… him in particular. I have a feeling…”

The Chief smiled. He glanced over to where Samuel was standing with Claire and Ethan, and he chuckled to see Niecy hanging on Samuel’s arm.

“Why Judge, you surprise me. Is that pride I detect?”

“I’m allowed.” Vivian cleared her throat. “I mean, despite the rumors, I am human, you know.”

“That you are,” the Chief replied warmly. “I’m just happy to hear you say it.”

Click: Niecy had marched Samuel to the porch swing and installed him like a favored statue. She swung with her heels not quite touching the floor, showing him photos on her camera and narrating the entire graduation ceremony back to him as if he had not been bodily present: who tripped and who didn’t, who cried and who pretended not to, who decorated their mortarboard like a little garden. His time at home was limited—duty called—but he patiently and carefully listened like a man who knew the preciousness of making yourself available to a child’s report… all while remembering a time when no one heard him.

Every few sentences, however, he glanced through the doorway, making certain of Claire. Every few sentences Claire glanced back, making certain of Samuel. And every few sentences both of them in their separate orbits found Ethan… and smiled.

Click: In the parlor, someone had opened the piano as if the keys needed air after a long day. There was a rumor that Emily had once played in this room like a small storm passing through; the rumor was true, and the piano remembered. Today a girl from the sewing floor—a quiet one who didn’t yet realize how loved she was—found middle C and stitched a little waltz over Penelope’s soft humming. Vivian walked past and, without stopping, touched the piano’s flank like greeting an old ally, and whispered encouragement into the girl’s ear.

Snapshots. Laughter. The smell of lemon and coffee and ribbon. The season outside pressed warmly against the windows. Inside, a lifetime’s worth of little reckonings were being handled with cake and conversation.

 

* * *
 

Toward dusk the party thinned into rings and then into pairs and then into a final trio that had put this conversation off not out of fear but out of respect. Ethan found Samuel and Claire near the big flowering hydrangea, where the light made everything a little gentler, as if the evening were on their side.

Claire cleared her throat, which was funny because she was never shy. She took Ethan’s hand in both of hers and then turned to Samuel as if she couldn’t talk to one without the other listening.

“I was hurt and jealous back then,” she said, steady as a nurse reading a chart that mattered, “and I didn’t know what to do. So I did things I’m not proud of. I put you in an awful spot, Ethan, and I’m sorry for it.” She then looked into Ethan's eyes, apology arcing like a carefully thrown ribbon. “But instead of coming after me—and hating me—you showed that you knew me better than I knew me. And you helped me find my way back to myself. Back to Samuel.”

Samuel shook his head and gave Ethan that crooked grin that had once made Emily blush and Ethan bristle and then learn how to do both without falling apart.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “For picking on you back then. For—” He laughed softly at his own clumsy grace. “For falling for Emily like a dumbass without understanding what that would do to your head. Didn’t mean to mess with your mind, man. Looking back, it’s all just so weird.”

Ethan took them both in—their open faces, their fine, careful contrition—as if they were part of the view he wanted to keep.

“Well, it wasn't like I was an unwilling participant.” He paused, remembering. “I was experimenting, I guess. You can be quite charming when you try.”

Samuel bit his lip, shrugging—it was rare that he didn't know what to say. Claire smiled ruefully, looking away.

“Hey, we were all just kids.” Ethan felt relief in saying it, like setting down the last heavy box in a house that had just become a home. “I could have done things differently, too. Maybe. But I have no regrets for any of it. None at all. I think everything that happened made us better. Yeah, we had our ups and downs, but I love my life now, and I hope you guys love yours.”

He stepped back and tilted his head, measuring them with the tailor’s eye he’d earned and the friend’s eye he’d always had.

“Just look at you two,” he said fondly. “I only see great things ahead for you both.”

Samuel pulled him in with an arm around the shoulder, the red jacket like tissue around a gift. “I love you… man.”

“Back atcha, big guy,” Ethan said, and managed not to sound choked up about it, which was a small private miracle.

“You two,” Claire said, hands on hips, their favorite scold, “go get a room!”

Ethan widened his eyes at Samuel. “See? There she goes, trying to set us up again.”

“I know,” Samuel said, winking, perfectly shameless. “So whaddya wanna do? You wanna call her on it?”

Claire swatted Ethan’s arm in a way that landed like a hug. “Oh, you! Nobody is setting anybody up with anybody!” She reached for Samuel’s arm and leaned into it, proprietary and tender, two notes in one chord. “Except you with me.”

They laughed—at themselves, at the past that had somehow turned into future without breaking them, at the sheer silly grace of still being here. Inside, someone called that the coffee was fresh. Outside, the cicadas tuned up for the evening. From the piano, the shy waltz found its way into something confident.

The three of them—boy and girl and the boy who had learned to be both and exactly himself—stepped back into the house, into the chatter, into the next room, into what comes after.

 

* * *
 

A few days later….

The old Singer Sewing Machine factory had never looked so alive. Two stories of red brick, its windows newly polished to a river’s shine, threw back the late-afternoon light like applause. A sign cast in bronze—Colleen’s Creations, Designs by Ethan—arched across the entrance, and a temporary stage rose from the parking lot with bunting and borrowed magic. Folding chairs spilled into standing-room-only; the Mayor, the Police Chief, half the school board, the Chamber of Commerce, and three generations of Maplewood families and dozens of out-of-towners pressed shoulder to shoulder. The air smelled like hot pavement, lemon ice, and fresh cotton.

The press was there, too, in full force, including television, local papers and a dozen fashion podcasters. Most visible among them, of course, was Marcel, ponytail flying, multi-colored scarf trailing behind him as he bounded about with the grace of a wounded moose, his arsenal of cameras clattering about, in search of his next muse and the perfect shot.

“So much time, so little to do,” he sang, clicking away happily. He paused for a second, chuckling over his own ridiculousness. “Drat you, Marcel—strike that, reverse it!”

Backstage, the hum was old and new at once: the quick snick of scissors, the friendly clatter of hangers, the flutter of garment bags, laughter in a dozen registers. If you listened close you could almost hear the factory’s ghosts—the wartime workers—setting down their long-ago weariness and taking up pride instead.

The banner over the truss read: Celebrate With Us! The sound system was the sort of monster you rent when you dare to think big, and its test thump made the front row giggle and the back row sway.

Colleen stepped to the microphone with Thelma, Marianne and Julia to her left, Estelle and Joanne to her right, and Eleanor standing easy behind them like a pillar wrapped in chiffon. Colleen wore a dress that didn’t announce itself so much as behave perfectly: dove-gray with a bias-cut skirt and a narrow belt, the kind that makes people say, Oh, that’s how you do it.

“Good evening, Maplewood,” she said, and the town answered like a choir. “You’ve all watched us sew our dream together—piece by piece, stitch by stitch. Today we open these doors not only to make beautiful clothes, but to open something bigger: possibility. We’re here to earn a living, yes, because good work should provide good lives. But we’re also here to give—through Niecy’s Closet, now in every county across the state, and through apprenticeships and steady jobs for folks who need a hand. We remember who worked in this building before us, and we honor them by doing right with what we’ve been given.”

She glanced toward Thelma and Marianne. “These two are the heartbeat of our floor—keeping us honest, teaching, minding the line. And Principal Julia Campbell,” she nodded, and the crowd cheered like homeroom just got extended, “keeps us connected to our girls. Our business partners, Eleanor and Joanne and Estelle, of course, have been amazing in making sure these clothes find their people.”

Colleen tilted the mic toward the three businesswomen; Joanne and Estelle deferred, pushing Eleanor forward.

“We can’t add a thing,” Eleanor said, eyes bright. “Except thank you, Colleen and Ethan, for making our jobs a joy. We’re expanding across the state because of you—and because Maplewood knows a good thing when it sees it.”

They all hugged—work-sisters—then Colleen turned back, just a little flushed. “And now,” she said, “it’s time for the show!”

The speakers bloomed with sixties sunshine—handclaps and bright harmonies about reaching out and finding one another—and the stage filled with a parade you could feel in your ribs.

🎵 I think it's so groovy now

That people are finally getting together

I thinks it's wonderful and how

That people are finally getting together 🎶

First came the employees: women and girls in day dresses and aprons cut from ginghams and florals and smart solids, skirts that swished and sleeves that meant business; slacks with crisp seams for the pattern-room ladies who preferred a pocket to a purse.

The Niecy’s Closet contingent burst through like a bouquet: teens and younger, mostly girls (but more boys than you’d think for such a small town), some shy and some born for this, all wearing pieces they’d helped cut or hem or finish. They danced—some true, some enthusiastic—and the audience stood up for them instinctively. Mothers cried. Daughters preened. The Chief stood up and clapped like a pro, beaming.

“Look at them,” Penelope breathed, hands clasped in the exact way a prayer and a cheer share. “Just look at them all—”

The second movement drifted in like a memory—strings and a trumpet singing a promise about the world—

🎵 I see trees of green

Red roses too

I see them bloom

For me and you

And I think to myself

What a wonderful world 🎶

Niecy came out with her ballet class in tea dresses that floated like sighs: soft tulle layered over cotton, waists neatly set, hemlines skimming the knee. Ballet slippers scuffing along the stage floor, spotlights filtering through skirts and fairy wings setting the stage aglow in a rainbow of pastels. Each child’s dress had a different neckline, a different design pattern, and a ribbon detail like a secret.

Niecy led the littlest ones with the solemn gravity of a future swan queen, counting under her breath, touching a shoulder here, a hand there, spinning into her solo with the easy grace of someone who knows the floor is on her side. When she finished—arms lifted, head tipped, smile bright enough to light the second-story windows—the applause was a ringing, happy storm.

Samuel whistled and shouted: “That's my little sister up there!” Thelma, her arm looped through his, radiated maternal love and pride.

On stage, Niecy kept her composure, but her heart swelled more with joy than pride—though no one would have faulted her if it had been the other way around.

Ethan, watching from the wing, remembered another small dancer in Penelope’s living room and he blinked hard.

Then the sound system punched the beat forward, a backseat rhythm with a grin: rockabilly, Chuck Berry-style. The stage turned into a sock hop ripped from a jukebox. DeeDee hit her mark in a Colleen’s Creations staple, a red polka-dot halter top dress with a circle skirt that did exactly what it was told; and just as Penelope had once pronounced, her legs looked smashing! She projected trouble in the best possible sense, one hand on her hip, one hand yanking Smitty forward by his collar. She then did an impressive shimmy-shake that sent her boobs to wobbling and caused eyes to widen. Smitty—hair slicked into a heroic pompadour, sunglasses doing their best to hide the fact that he was laughing—worked the crowd with a respectable set of hips and a better smile than he’d ever shown in his life.

Downstage, Jeffrey and Marianne two-stepped in swaggering sweetness—Marianne in a poodle skirt with the neatest chain-stitch leash this side of 1958, and fuzzy little Jolie herself pranced at the end of an actual leash with adorable charm. Roxanne paw-tapped and hopped happily about—her big German shepherd smile reassuring and charming even the most reluctant of dog lovers.

From her chair, Mrs. Halbrook cuddled Baby Gloria and declared to anyone listening, “Doesn’t my little sweetie look good on stage? And Mommy and Daddy are cute, too!” which was generous of her.

Ricky then cut in, owning the stage like a comic tornado, doing his own thing—a mashup of The Twist, The Batman and The Running Man with unexpected, delightful skill—popping and clowning without ever once missing the musical joke. His dance partner, Niecy—still in her ballet costume—tried to keep her steps prim and graceful, failed on the second eight-count, and dissolved into giggles that made the front row fall in love with her on the spot.

Julia Campbell flashed past in a sleek ’50s sheath—Colleen and Ethan’s joint mischief: demure in front, scandalously clever gores in the skirt to enhance her naturally enhanced figure—and a high ponytail that knocked the lights prettier. Her partner—Steve Canyon, because a man with an aviator’s jaw that handsome had to have a handsome aviator’s name—spun her with military precision and spontaneous joy. Marianne and Jeffrey winked at each other, and the school board applauded like somebody had just announced higher test scores.

The music suddenly changed gears: there was a loud TING! over the sound system, followed by a girlish giggle and then a coy, flirtatious “Oopsie!” The musical stylings of an all-girl pop group kicked in just as Claire and a dozen other girls pranced onto the stage, all wearing the latest in Designs by Ethan. Claire showed off a body-hugging little black dress with a ruffled hem and an outrageous satin bow in the back, mincing into the spotlight like a supermodel about to speak before the United Nations.

Maddy and Tara sported cute sailor-style mini-dresses that showed off their long legs and feminine silhouettes, looking like characters from a campy magical girl anime; Whitney and Lindsey followed in psychedelic tops and mini-skirts straight out of a 1960s Paris fashion show. The other girls showed off a colorful medley of vintage-but-futuristic dresses and gowns and skirts and tops that would be trending all over social media before the night was over.

“Amazing,” Ivy whispered to Colleen. “So many dresses, so many styles, but they’re all done his own way. He’s so talented. I can’t even!”

“Neither can I.” Colleen laughed softly, her eyes shining with pride.

The music was infectious, as was the girls’ dancing. They each took their turn in the spotlight, flaunting not just their dance moves but giving the audience a good look at Ethan’s creations. Bare midriffs, wiggling hips and thigh-high stockings caught the eye, as did the spectrum of textures and colors. Adding to the fun—every time the ditsy TING! Giggle “Oopsie!” came over the sound system, Claire and her friends would all freeze in position, make a pouty face at the audience, give a little wink, and then—cued by the music—continue on dancing and laughing at their own silliness, spreading joy that overflowed the confines of the factory parking lot and spread throughout the town.

A delighted Penelope nudged Vivian, her voice mischievous and fond: “That song certainly brings back memories, hmm, Your Honor?”

Vivian snorted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, balancing her emotions with the same precision she used to balance Liam and Rose on her knees. Penelope noted with no little satisfaction that The Judge was nodding her head and quietly singing along with the music.

Back by the amp stack, Dani’s absence sat like a missing power cable. DeeDee scanned the wings and muttered, “I haven’t seen that girl since this morning. I swear to God, if she bugged out on us—”

Before the worry could finish its thought, the sound system growled alive: an ear-splitting burst of feedback, then a low electric bass guitar rumble, a road unspooling, the high octane roar of a 400 horsepower V-8 engine starting somewhere in the blood. A voice, bright with sassy dare and gleeful laughter, rolled over the crowd:

“Y’all ready for this?”

The first guitar riff snapped the evening into neon.

🎵 Get your motor runnin'

Head out on the highway

Looking for adventure

In whatever comes our way 🎶

Two red-haired dancers—gorgeous, grinning, incandescent—stormed the stage in flowing, color-drunk dresses—one a bold muscle car red, the other a supernova yellow—that moved like fire caught in silk. They mirrored each other at first—hips giving the beat its due, feet talking, arms carving the air—and then began to trade solos like sisters swapping daredevils. One tossed a scolding finger as the other—in that bold, luminous yellow—performed a familiar (and naughty) DeeDee-inspired shoulder shimmy that sent the audience cheering and made Colleen slap Ivy’s arm and whisper:

“That’s our boy!”

Ivy giggled so hard she snorted: “He’s so cute—I just can’t...”

The dancer in red then pranced across the stage like she owned it—hips twisting, blowing kisses—kicked off her high heels and launched into a clean, breathtaking run of acrobatic footwork—cartwheel, aerial spin, slide, a split she popped out of like a spring—sending the crowd to its feet.

🎵 I like smoke and lightnin'

Heavy metal thunder

Racing with the wind

And the feeling that I'm under 🎶

Painted lips flashed. Arms and legs flew. Booties shook. Red tresses gleamed: one cut in a flippy bob, the other a longer mane that swung like a victory flag. Penelope forgot herself entirely and hooted. Vivian stood and clapped—no small thing with the twins clinging to her like honeysuckle to an old oak tree—her applause a crisp, proud sound that meant verdict delivered.

🎵 Like a true nature's child

We were born, born to be wild

We can climb so high

I never wanna die 🎶

When the track hit its final, delirious chord, the dancers caught hands, bowed, and—because there are some habits you never quite let go—curtsied.

The stage inhaled.

“It’s Ethan!” someone shouted, and then everyone knew the bobbed redhead in yellow was the boy who didn’t wear a wig anymore, except when a good story asked nicely. He smiled and waved and hugged his partner so hard those in the back row could feel it.

The other dancer—panting, laughing, flushed with victory—was Dani. The impish tomboy, the one with scraped knees, scuffed sneakers and sarcastic voice. The one who could be merciless in her teasing but unbreakable and loyal when the time came. The one who showed her love and bravery through deeds, not words. That very one, now clad in crimson, in a costume she would have once eschewed, despised even—glowed gloriously, triumphantly in the divine, shining light of self-discovery.

The cheer that followed knocked leaves loose from the nearby trees and maybe from a few carefully guarded hearts.

DeeDee stared like she’d been hit with a glitter bomb. “I thought her hair smelled funny this morning,” she blurted, hand to her chest. “Like she’d actually shampooed it. I just figured I had a stroke. She's actually wearing a dress! Wait—is that… lipstick? Mother Eff—”

“Mother Eff!” squealed the twins, perched on Vivian’s knees. They giggled and yelled even louder: “Mother Eff! Mother Eff! Mother Eff!”

Smitty howled and everyone nearby laughed and clapped so hard they made thunder.

The Judge, chagrined, tried to contain Liam and Rose’s enthusiasm—and finally gave up. “For once in my life I don’t know what to do,” she muttered.

Onstage, the cousins crashed into an embrace that felt five years overdue and right on time. Dani kissed Ethan’s cheek, laughing into his ear at her own absurdity.

“Now I get it,” she whispered. “Just don’t call me Sissy.”

“Too late—you’re my Sissy now,” he murmured back, and if that wasn’t love, it was the closest cousin to it.

The show rolled on—more dresses, more gingham and florals and polka dots with pretty secrets, more tulle and chiffon and voile and silk and satin… more dance, more joy, more laughter—but the evening had already done the thing it came to do: prove that families can make a difference and one boy, if he’s strong enough and brave enough—and creative enough—can pull those families together.

The sky softened. The brick held the day’s heat like a fond memory. The sign over the old factory’s door looked like it had always been there, waiting for them to catch up.

Epilogue

The sound system pumps out a groove while models and aunties and bosses and kids swirl into a happy stew of dancing. Dani—with her hair still looking fabulous, still in that most improbable, extraordinary Mustang-red dress and a candy apple lipstick that had just convinced her of several new truths—steps downstage. She’s squinting past the footlights, and up through this very page where you, the reader, are following these words.

She puts her hands on her hips, wags her eyebrows in that oh so mischievous way she’s done so many times throughout our tale—

And she is now addressing you:

“So, here’s how this story ends,” Dani says, her eyes twinkling. The crowd nearest the stage blinks at the odd angle of it, the way you do when someone greets a friend you can’t see.

“Our buddy Ricky? Don’t worry about him. He doesn't quite get over his brain injury—not completely—so he never gets to fly his own jet. But that doesn’t keep our boy down. He’s the best big brother ever, and he continues on as Jeffrey’s airborne side-kick for the TV station and gets famous as Red Johannson, Sky Whisperer—which thrills Marianne. He and Jeffrey make a great team, on the ground and in the air. They fly around talking clouds and fronts and all the cool kids pretend they’re not jealous. Turns out he’s a meteorological savant and his predictions drive the weather pros nuts. He grows a huge following on social media, too—people like being told the sky’s about to put on a show by someone who loves life as much as he does.”

There’s that grin again. “By the way, you might have noticed over the last few chapters how Ricky and Niecy have grown to be best friends. That never dies. Give them a few years… when she’s old enough and they’ve figured things out… well—” she says with a wink— “I’ll just leave it at that.”

“Aw, come on Dani, you’re not supposed to tell everything you know,” Ricky calls out. “Geez, this is embarrassing…”

A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd. Niecy giggles and buries her face in Samuel’s shoulder; Thelma beams, proud and happy; and Marianne hugs her son just like she did when he was a little boy.

Dani snorts and goes on: “Speaking of our girl—Deniece Jackson dreams ballerina, and I wouldn’t bet against her if I were you. Until then Niecy’s busy being a kid and modeling occasionally for Aunt Colleen—‘Just like Emily!’—and this magical girl becomes the face of Colleen’s Creations. She’s all over the website and billboards and all those catalogs you keep meaning to recycle but don’t because they’re pretty to look at.”

“Also, between us,” she grins, “she’s pretty decent on a skateboard.”

The audience ooooohs at Niecy, who steps forward and bows like a professional troublemaker.

“Samuel graduates the Naval Academy,” Dani continues, ticking fates off on manicured fingers she would never admit were hers, “and goes on to fly for the Marine Corps. In a few years he saves a lot of lives as a rescue helicopter pilot—you’ll read about him in the news and a big plaque down at Resilience Park.”

She raises an eyebrow, her mouth a crooked curl: “And back when Ricky called him ‘The General?’ Forecaster boy nailed it—the rank comes eventually, but not before Samuel and Claire get married and raise a bunch of kids. Get this: one’s named Ethan and one—yep, you guessed it—is called Emily.” She shakes her head and snorts. “Those two—they have the weirdest sense of humor.”

Claire pretends shock, Samuel pretends he’s not hearing a word Dani says, and the town enjoys knowing secrets about its future.

“Mama and Smitty?” Dani shrugs fondly. “They stay together the rest of their days. Not always easy, but solid. Smitty’s a good guy, goofy as heck—don’t tell him, but I love that guy like he’s my dad. I love the twins, too, but I gotta tell you, those little rugrats drive me crazy. I wonder sometimes… was I that much trouble when I was a kid? No wonder my mama’s half-crazy.”

From somewhere by the soundboard, DeeDee cups her hands and bellows, “I heard that!”

“Mrs. Campbell?” Dani says, grinning over the laughter. “Or should I say, Principal Campbell? Well, thanks to Marianne and Jeffrey playing matchmaker, she gets hitched to that flyboy she was twirling with just now—Steve Canyon… is that even a real name?—and breaks the hearts of a thousand teenaged boys. Then she goes on to become school superintendent. And, of course, she keeps right on being best friends with Thelma and Marianne and Aunt Colleen and half this town.”

There is a hush at the next name, anticipatory, a drumroll you feel under your ribs.

“Aunt Vivian,” Dani says with relish, “goes on to become governor and then senator. Still busy, still scary if you don’t know better, but she keeps tabs on us and shows up for the babies. The best news is that Mama doesn’t call her a bee-otch anymore, and they almost like each other now. Funny how life works when you’re not looking.”

Vivian looks precisely like a woman who has just been praised and gently roasted in the same sentence and approves of both.

“Penelope stays Penelope,” Dani says, and the music suddenly goes soft. “A safe, welcoming port in any storm. In a few years she leaves us, as we all do in time, and Ethan inherits her house and her share of this very factory. The rest of her rentals become The Whitaker Welcome Center—Thelma, Julia, Marianne and Aunt Colleen run it together—a place for girls and women who need a home that holds.”

Penelope touches her throat and blows kisses nowhere and everywhere at once.

“Ethan?” Dani rolls her eyes affectionately. “Well, he never makes it to Australia. Instead, he and Ivy get married—duh—and move into Penelope’s house. They have two kids—Danny and Penny—because fate has a sense of humor. They make a power couple the nice way: the shop thrives, the town shines, and they still dress up and sneak off together for sherbet like teenagers. Believe it or not, Ethan still models sometimes—yeah, despite all the big talk, Emily will show up when there’s a good reason—and the kids think it’s hilarious. He’s a good dad. A really good one. A whole lot better than his old man could never imagine.

Colleen sets a hand on Ethan’s back, and he stands a little straighter without meaning to.

“Aunt Colleen,” Dani says, wiping her eyes just so, as to not ruin her mascara, “enjoys being a grandmother and hands the keys over when it’s time. She keeps her apron on anyway, because no one teaches like she does, and because she loves working the line with the girls—the hum of a sewing machine and a good day’s work.”

Dani’s smile now turns wicked. She tosses back her hair and puts a hand on her hip—and she looks at you with that smart-ass smirk you know so well by now.

“And me? Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, this has been my story all along. No surprise here: I go on to become a legendary Olympic skateboard champion, lead my soccer team to the World Cup, make millions off celebrity endorsements and set up my own custom skateboard line. In my spare time I go into politics and become the first woman president.”

The crowd laughs and cheers as Ethan now strolls into Dani’s light from stage right, his bobbed hair gleaming red, earrings sparkling, bright yellow skirt swirling, his eyes rolling. He is, as Colleen always likes to say, radiant.

“You’re such a liar,” he says, not unkindly. He’s now looking up through this page at you, dear reader, shoots you a playful wink and tilts his head at his cousin. “The truth is, tomboy here busts her knee one time too many showing off for Liam and Rose. Then she decides to go to law school. Just like Auntie Vivian.”

Dani pouts. “Pfft! Details.”

Ethan laughs. “Yeah, hard to believe, but it turns out my cousin is smarter than she looks—”

“Hey! I resemble that remark!”

“—and this former soccer punk goes on to become a judge with quite the reputation.”

Dani grunts: “Why don’t you give a spoiler alert next time, Sissy.”

“Speaking of which—” Ethan leans in and nudges her with his shoulder. “Tell us, cuz, in case our friend here missed it earlier—what is it your little brother and sister call you all the time?”

Dani folds her arms, her bottom lip in a pout. “Don’t you make me say that word.”

“I’ll say it if you don’t,” Ethan says, grin blooming. “I dare you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Double dog dare?”

“Yup,” he says, savoring it. “I double dog dare you.”

She sighs, hands to hips, stage-wise and happy. “Okay, okay. I give. The kids… they call me… Sissy.”

“Sissy!” squeal the twins. “We love our big Sissy!”

The audience laughs and hollers in chorus: “We love you too, Sissy!”

Dani hip-checks her cousin, not gently. “I hate you sometimes.”

Ethan laughs, pure and easy. “No you don’t. You love me. Almost as much as I love you.”

“Almost,” Dani allows. Music swells behind them. Lights warm. These final few paragraphs are holding onto the fading rays of sun. “What say we go back to the celebration? I feel another dance number coming on.”

“Anything you say… Sissy.”

“Hey,” she snorts, backing toward the stage. “I’m not the sissy—you’re the sissy.”

Ethan is now looking past her, past his mother and Ivy, past the fading sun and the stage lights, past this page and up at you—our dear, faithful reader—on through to the place where stories end and keep going.

He takes a deep breath, wipes away a happy tear and brushes his hair back over his ear; then—after fifty chapters, seven hundred and seventy-two pages … and more than a quarter of a million words that we’ve all traveled together in this journey—he blows you a kiss… and gifts you these final, precious words:

“And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

 

The End.