She pressed the power button.
The screen lit up instantly, bright in the dim morning room. Notifications blinked across the top—messages from Ally, a link Emily had shared, a reminder for her next prenatal appointment.
Then the feed refreshed. And everything inside her stilled. Front and center was a glossy entertainment article. The headline was bold, impossible to miss.
“Castellano Heir Spotted Partying in Miami — Who’s the Mystery Woman on His Arm This Time?”
Beneath it, a photo loaded.
Marco, smiling that familiar, disarming smile. Standing next to a woman so stunning she didn’t look real, dressed in a gold dress that belonged on a runway.
The room seemed suddenly too quiet. Christina’s heart gave a single, painful thud. She should have turned the tablet off. Should have walked away. But her eyes stayed fixed on the image—on him, on the world he lived in, the glittering, untouchable universe she’d brushed against for one night and had been running from ever since.
Another picture loaded beneath the first. Marco again, laughing, champagne in hand.
He looked nothing like the man she remembered in the Miami nightclub, leaning closer to hear her over the music, telling her she had a smile that could ruin him.
This man was a stranger. A public figure. A headline. Someone who could never fit into the quiet little world she was building for Violet.
Angus whined softly at her feet.
Christina shut the tablet off. But the image burned behind her eyes. Violet shifted inside her as if reacting to her racing pulse.
“Everything’s fine,” Christina whispered, voice thin. “We’re fine.” But she wasn’t sure anymore. Because secrets had a way of catching up. And sometimes the past didn’t stay as far away as you hoped it would.
CHAPTER 2
TARA
The morning of the wedding rehearsal dawned with the kind of light that made Blueberry Hill magical—sun warm on the lake, sky clear and impossibly blue. Tara Bedford stood in the center of the inn’s future garden, hands on her hips, surveying the patch of earth she and Will had been coaxing back to life.
Patty would have loved this spot.
The thought came softly, like the brush of wind against her cheek. It no longer knocked the breath out of her the way it once had, but it still carried a weight that settled deep in her chest.
“Are you sure about the roses?” Will asked behind her, his voice warm and patient. “They’ll thrive, but the deer might think we planted a salad bar.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder at him. Even in an old T-shirt and work boots, he was handsome in that rugged, mountain-man way she was still getting used to calling hers. “Patty loved roses,” she said simply. “Especially the climbing kind.”
He nodded, as if that settled it. “Then roses it is.”
He stepped closer and slipped an arm around her waist, his presence grounding her. The olc Harrison place—soon to be The Blueberry Inn—stretched proudly behind them. It had a wide porch, tall windows, and newly painted shutters. It still needed plenty of work, but for the first time she could truly see it coming together. A respite for guests, a gathering place for the town. A future she hadn’t imagined even a year ago.
She leaned into Will for a moment, letting the warmth of him settle her. After the past week of wedding prep, flower deliveries, misguided Pinterest inspiration from her daughter, Ally, and one minor meltdown over whether the chairs should face the lake or the garden, she needed this steady quiet.
“What do you think?” she asked, stepping away to gesture at the little corner she’d claimed for Patty’s Garden. “Lavender here, rosemary there. Forget-me-nots along the path.”
“It’s perfect,” Will said. “Peaceful.”
That was the word she’d kept coming back to. Peace. For herself. For guests. And for anyone who needed a moment of stillness.
For Patty.
Tara crouched and dug her fingers into the soil. Rich, dark, waiting. “Let’s plant the first rosebush before everyone arrives. I want it in the ground before the chaos starts.”
Will handed her the pot without question.
As she eased the rosebush into place, the scent of fresh earth mixed with the faint sweetness of the petals. Something in her tightened—not grief exactly, but a tender ache of gratitude and longing all tangled up. Patty had been her best friend for thirty years. Losing her had felt like losing a limb. But this garden … it felt like a promise. A way to make sure the memory of her laughter, her stubborn optimism, her relentless belief that Tara deserved happiness—didn’t fade with time.
