What would a man like that want with someone like her? She’d be another scandal. Another name in the tabloids. And Violet?—
She imagined lawyers in expensive suits. Custody battles dragging through the courts. Her daughter shuttled between Blueberry Hill and Milan, growing up in a world of paparazzi and privilege. Christina had seen what that world did to people. She’d watched her father chase status and money until he’d thrown away his entire family for a woman that could have been Christina’s friend, after all, they were the same age. Mandy had come to her senses and left Christina’s dad, but then he married an even younger woman, Brittany, some kind of influencer. It was a short marriage.
Violet deserved better. She deserved a mother who loved her, a grandmother who would teach her to sew and cook and find joy in the simple things. She deserved this town, these people, this life.
She didn’t need a father who would forget her name between supermodels.
“Christina?” Evan appeared beside her, concern on his face. “You look pale. Everything okay?”
“Just tired.” She made herself smile. “Long day.”
“Beautiful day.” He glanced toward the dance floor where Emily swayed with Grace in her arms. “Mom looks happy.”
“She does.”
“You should dance. Ryan’s been practicing. He’ll only step on your feet twice, maybe three times.”
Christina managed a real laugh. “Maybe later.”
She watched her brother walk back to his wife and daughter. Watched her mother spin in Will’s arms. And watched Sam sketching the scene with quiet confidence, her artistic gift finally flourishing.
This was enough. This had to be enough.
Tara
The champagne filled Tara with a pleasant warmth, nothing too strong, just enough to soften the edges of the day. Will had gone to help James carry something to his truck, and Tara had slipped onto the front porch for a moment of quiet.
The buzz of her phone made her check the screen. The text made her freeze.
It was from Diane Whitmore. They’d served on the same charity board for years in Miami, attended the same parties, orbited the same social circles. Not a friend, exactly. More of an acquaintance who enjoyed delivering news—good or bad—with equal relish.
Thought you’d want to see this! Harry’s at it again. Guess the third time’s the charm.
Three photos were attached. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She should delete it. Put the phone away and return to her own wedding reception, to the man who was probably looking for her right now. She opened the photos.
The first showed Harry at a rooftop restaurant, champagne glass raised. An engagement party, based on the silver balloons in the background. She scrolled to the next. Her ex-husband stood with his arm around a woman Tara didn’t recognize. Blonde, thin, wearing an expensive designer dress. She looked younger than Mandy had been. Younger than Christina. A snort escaped. At least she was old enough to drink, judging by the glass in her hand.
First Mandy—the personal trainer half his age who’d given him a son and came to her senses and left him. Then the influencer he’d married whose name Tara never bothered learning. Now this one.
She zoomed in on Harry’s face. He wore that photogenic smile he’d perfected for business events, but even through the screen she could see the tension around his eyes. His fingers gripped the champagne glass too tightly. His jaw clenched beneath the grin.
The woman beside him was looking off-camera, her expression glazed with boredom. She’d probably been promised a yacht, Tara thought. Or a house in the Hamptons. Whatever bait Harry was dangling this time.
For a moment—just a moment—the old hurt surfaced. Thirty-three years of marriage, three children, a lifetime of memories, and he’d thrown it all away for this. This endless chase for something that kept slipping through his fingers. A younger woman, a newer car, a flashier life. As if happiness were something you could purchase if you just spent enough.
She thought about her birthday, the laundry room. The giant flower wallpaper. The way he’d said, “I’m in love with Mandy,” as if he were reading from a script. The weight of “she’s pregnant” and “I want a divorce” landing on her chest like stones.
Then Tara thought about the months after—the numbness, the shame, the terrible certainty that she should have seen it coming. The way her children had rallied around her while Harry jetted off to his new life without looking back.
If Patty had been alive, she would have called immediately. Would have said something sharp and funny that made Tara laugh despite herself. Would have reminded her that Harry’s misery was his own making, and that the best revenge was a life well lived.
But Patty was gone. And somehow, standing here on the porch of the inn, Tara could almost hear her friend’s voice.
Look at what you built, honey. Look at where you are.
She thought about the past year and a half. Learning to use power tools. Planting her first garden. Standing in Aunt Frida’s cottage and realizing it felt more like home than the Miami mansion ever had. Finding purpose in her clothing business, satisfaction in teaching, peace in the mountains she’d never expected to love.
Tomorrow she would plant another rosebush in Patty’s garden. One for the wedding. One more thing her friend would never see but somehow still felt part of.
