Tender Mercies
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Epilogue
Epilogue, Spring 1946
The apple trees were blooming.
Clarice stood at the pasture fence, one hand resting on the weathered wood, the other on the swell of her belly. Six months now, maybe a little more. The baby moved under her palm—a flutter, then a stronger kick.
She smiled.
Behind her, she heard Scotty’s voice in the barn, talking to the cows as he finished the morning milking. His French had improved considerably over the past year, though he still mangled certain words in ways that made her laugh.
“Doucement, Marguerite,” she heard him say. Gently. “You don’t need to kick the bucket over just because I’m not Clarice.”
The orange barn cat—the one who’d saved their lives with spilled milk a lifetime ago—wound around her ankles. She bent awkwardly to stroke his head, her belly making the movement difficult.
“Bonjour, mon ami,” she murmured.
A year. It had been a year since the surrender. Since Scotty emerged from the cellar into daylight. Since their wedding four days later in the convent chapel, with Sister Marguerite crying openly and half the village in attendance.
A year of learning to be married. Of Scotty learning cheese-making and Clarice teaching him which cows had which temperaments. Of letters to his family in Michigan—shocked at first, then gradually warming. His mother had written that she hoped to visit once travel became easier. I want to meet the woman who captured my son’s heart.
A year of rebuilding. The farm was thriving again. The cheese cellar—no longer a hiding place but simply a cellar—was full of aging rounds. They’d added three more cows. Scotty had repaired the fences and the barn roof.
A year of healing.
She still visited Henri’s grave every Sunday after Mass. Still wore his ring on a chain around her neck, under her dress. Still spoke to him sometimes, in the quiet of her heart.
I am happy, she would tell him. I hope you know. I am keeping my promise.
And she was.
“Hey.” Scotty’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He crossed the pasture toward her, milk pails in hand, that smile on his face—the one that still made her stomach flip. “You okay? You’ve been standing here awhile.”
“I am perfect.” She took his hand, placed it on her belly. “Feel.”
The baby kicked, right against his palm.
His whole face lit up. “There he is. Little troublemaker.”
“Or she.”
“Or she.” He kept his hand there, marveling. “I still can’t believe this is real sometimes. You, me, the farm, the baby. All of it.”
“Believe it. It is very real.” She leaned against him. “Your mother’s letter came yesterday. I forgot to tell you.”
“Yeah? What’d she say?”
“That she and your father are coming in July. They want to meet their grandchild before he or she arrives.”
Scotty was quiet for a moment. “You nervous?”
“Terrified.” She smiled. “But also ... glad. They should know their grandchild. And I should know them.”
“They’re going to love you. How could they not?” He kissed the top of her head. “My mom’s going to try to teach you to make apple pie, fair warning. She’s very serious about her pie.”
“Then I will learn.” She turned in his arms, looked up at him. “I have been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She swatted his chest. “About names. If it is a boy.”
“Yeah?”
“Henri. For the middle name.” She searched his face. “If that is alright with you.”
His expression softened. “Of course it’s alright. It’s perfect.” He paused. “And if it’s a girl?”
“I was thinking Marie. For my sister. But...” She touched his cheek. “You choose the first name. Boy or girl. Your choice.”
“You sure?”
“Very sure. This baby is ours. Both of ours. Your family should be honored too.”
He pulled her close—as close as the belly would allow. “I love you, Clarice McDermott.”
She still wasn’t entirely used to her new name. But she liked the sound of it.
“Je t’aime, mon mari.” My husband.
They stood there in the spring sunlight, the apple blossoms drifting on the breeze, the cows lowing contentedly in the pasture.
A year ago, the war had just ended. Scotty had just emerged from five months in darkness. They had just begun to believe in a future.