Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~5 min read
Chapter 24: Five Years
Cole
Five years after the cabin, Cole wakes up on the anniversary and makes a decision.
“We’re going back,” he tells Quinn at breakfast. “To the cabin. This weekend. Just us.”
“What about the girls?”
“Margaret is literally begging to take them. She said something about ‘you two need alone time before you forget you’re married people and not just parents.'”
Quinn laughs. “Your mother is subtle as always.”
“My mother is correct. When’s the last time we had a full weekend alone?”
“Sophia’s birth? Maybe?”
“Exactly. We’re going to the cabin. I’m packing emergency supplies and good wine and absolutely nothing work-related.”
“Can we really just—leave? For a whole weekend?”
“We’re business owners. We’re allowed to take time off.”
“I have three client calls scheduled—”
“Reschedule them. The world will survive without us for forty-eight hours.”
Quinn studies him. “You’re serious about this.”
“Completely serious. We need this. Time together without kids or work or obligations. Just us, remembering why we chose each other.”
So that weekend, they drive to the cabin—renovated but still rustic, still isolated, still the place where everything began—and Quinn relaxes in a way Cole hasn’t seen in months.
“I forgot what quiet sounds like,” she says, standing on the porch looking at mountains.
“We should do this more often.”
“Escape to a cabin in the woods?”
“Take time for just us. Remember we’re partners in more than just parenting and business.”
They spend the weekend like they did five years ago—talking, cooking together, making love without worrying about waking the kids, existing in a space where they’re just Quinn and Cole instead of Mom and Dad and business owners and all the other roles they’ve taken on.
“I love our life,” Quinn says Saturday night, both of them by the fire. “I love our daughters and our business and everything we’ve built. But I also love this. Just being with you without any of the chaos.”
“Same. We’re good at the chaos. But we’re also good at this.”
“Maybe we should make the cabin a tradition. Every year on the anniversary of getting trapped together, we come back here for a weekend.”
“I like that. Annual reminder of where we started.”
“And how far we’ve come.”
They make love that night with the fireplace crackling and snow falling outside—gentle winter storm, nothing like the blizzard five years ago but enough to feel full-circle—and Cole thinks that this is what marriage should be.
Not just the daily routines and responsibilities.
Also these moments of reconnection.
Remembering why they chose each other.
Choosing each other again.
On Sunday before they leave, Cole gives Quinn an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside is a deed—the cabin, officially transferred to Quinn’s name.
“Cole—”
“It’s yours. Ours. I had it put in both our names officially. This is where we fell in love. Where we built our family. It should be legally ours.”
Quinn’s crying now—happy tears, overwhelmed tears. “This is—thank you. This is perfect.”
“You’re perfect. Our life together is perfect. This cabin is just acknowledgment of that.”
Back in Cedar Ridge, Emily and Sophia have apparently convinced Margaret that they need a dog, and Cole and Quinn return to a puppy situation that nobody approved.
“Mom,” Cole says, staring at the golden retriever puppy destroying his living room. “What did you do?”
“The girls made a very compelling argument about responsibility and companionship. I may have made an executive decision.”
“You bought them a dog without asking us.”
“I facilitated their pet ownership dreams. You’re welcome.”
Quinn’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe, and Emily and Sophia are already in love with the puppy—named Biscuit, apparently—and Cole realizes this is his life now.
Two daughters.
A puppy.
A business partnership with his wife.
A mother who makes unilateral decisions about pet ownership.
And he loves all of it.
Hart-Fitz continues to grow—they open an office in Colorado, hire ten more employees, win contracts for major sustainable developments across the Western United States—and the Hartford-Fitzgerald partnership becomes nationally recognized.
“We’re getting consultation requests from the East Coast now,” Quinn says, reviewing emails. “Boston developer wants us to assess a project. New York firm wants our model for urban sustainable development.”
“Can we handle East Coast expansion?”
“If we hire the right people and maintain our standards, yes. If we just grab contracts to grow revenue, no.”
“So we grow carefully. Like we’ve always done.”
“Exactly like we’ve always done.”
They hire carefully—environmental consultants who share Quinn’s philosophy, construction managers who understand Cole’s standards—and Hart-Fitz expands across the country while maintaining the collaborative approach that made them successful.
And through it all, Cole and Quinn maintain their partnership.
Equal voices in business decisions.
Equal partners in parenting.
Equal builders of the life they’re creating.
“You know what I realized?” Cole says one night, both of them reviewing architectural plans while Emily does homework and Sophia colors and Biscuit chews a toy.
“What?”
“This is exactly what I wanted without knowing I wanted it. Not just the business success or the beautiful family. The partnership. Having someone who challenges me and supports me and builds things with me instead of just cheering from the sidelines.”
“That’s what I wanted too. What I didn’t know I could have.” Quinn looks around their living room—chaos and noise and mess and perfection. “We built this. You and me. Against all odds and logic.”
“Best terrible decision I ever made.”
“Same.”
And Cole thinks that maybe the point of life isn’t avoiding terrible decisions.
It’s making the terrible decisions that lead somewhere beautiful.
Like falling in love with your enemy.
Like building a partnership that changes an entire industry.
Like creating a family in Montana when you never planned to leave Seattle.
All terrible decisions.
All absolutely perfect.
Together.
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