She turned from the window, already reaching for her notebook. “I was thinking floor to ceiling, with beadboard backs. And the rolling ladder should be brass, not chrome.”
“Brass.” Will pulled out his measuring tape. “You have expensive taste, Mrs. Dixon.”
“I have good taste.” She grinned at him. “There’s a difference.”
They spent the next hour measuring and sketching, debating shelf heights and wood finishes, the smell of sawdust and fresh paint swirling around them. Outside, the June sun climbed higher over the lake.
By noon, they had a rough plan for the parlor. By one, Will was on the phone with the lumberyard, negotiating delivery dates. Tara wandered into the dining room, mentally arranging tables, when her phone buzzed.
Christina.
Baby’s kicking up a storm. Come feel?
She typed back.
On my way. Give me ten minutes.
“Will?” She grabbed her keys from the sawhorse table. “I’m heading to the cottage. Christina wants me to feel the baby kicking.”
“Go.” He waved her off without looking up from his measurements. “Tell Violet her grandfather says hello.”
Tara paused at the door, hand on the frame. “Grandfather. That still sounds strange coming from you.”
“Good strange?”
“The best kind.”
She stepped outside into the warm June air, James’s grandmother’s quilt waiting safely inside, and headed down the path toward the cottage where her pregnant daughter was counting kicks.
Behind her, the sound of Will’s hammer started up again, steady and sure. Building something new.
CHAPTER 9
CHRISTINA
The bell above Spilled Milk’s door chimed as Christina waddled inside like a penguin, one hand pressed to the small of her back. Eight months pregnant in June meant everything ached, everything swelled, and the simple act of grocery shopping had become an Olympic event.
At least the store was cool. She stood just inside the entrance for a moment, letting the air conditioning wash over her, breathing in the familiar smell of fresh bread and ripe produce that always reminded her this place was nothing like the enormous supermarkets back in Miami.
A crash in the produce section made her turn.
Bertha the goat stood on her hind legs, front hooves planted on the edge of the kale display, her pink tulle tutu—clearly Mary’s summer costume choice—fluttering as she stretched her neck toward the leafiest bunch. Green bits already clung to her chin.
“Bertha, no!” Mary’s voice carried across the store, exasperated but affectionate. “That’s organic! Do you have any idea what I pay for organic? There’s plenty in the garden out back.”
Bertha bleated cheerfully and grabbed another mouthful.
Christina found herself smiling despite her exhaustion. This was Blueberry Hill—where goats wore tutus and ate the merchandise, where everyone knew your name and your business, where life moved at a pace that still sometimes felt foreign after twenty-three years of Miami hustle.
She grabbed a cart and started down the first aisle, mentally reviewing her list. Prenatal vitamins. Crackers for the nausea that still hadn’t completely faded. Ice cream, because Violet seemed to demand it at all hours. Ingredients for the casserole she’d promised to bring to Sunday dinner.
“Christina!”
She turned to find Francesca approaching, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, green eyes bright. Bo Cooper walked beside her, one hand resting at the small of Francesca’s back. They moved together like people who’d grown comfortable in each other’s space, and she bet her mom was right, there’d be a wedding coming soon.
“You look wonderful,” Francesca said, reaching out to squeeze Christina’s arm. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a whale who swallowed another whale.” Christina kept her voice light. “But the doctor says everything’s on track. Six more weeks.”
