Christina nodded, not trusting her voice. The taste of honey lingered on her tongue.
Sam appeared at her elbow again. “Are you okay? You looked like you were going to cry during the blessing.”
“Happy tears,” Christina said. Another lie, but a small one. “Thank you again for the painting. It’s going right above Violet’s crib.”
“I can help you hang it, if you want. I’m pretty good with a hammer.”
“I’d like that.”
Tara began gathering wrapping paper and ribbon, stuffing it into a garbage bag while Ally stacked empty plates. The party was winding down, guests trickling toward the door with hugs and last-minute advice. Christina pushed herself up from the loveseat, her back protesting, and began the slow process of saying goodbye to each woman who’d come to celebrate her daughter.
By the time the last car pulled away, the cottage was quiet except for the drip of water from the eaves and the distant call of birds emerging after the storm. Christina stood at the window, one hand on her belly, watching the clouds break apart over the mountains.
“You should rest,” Tara said, coming up behind her. “That was a lot of excitement.”
“In a minute.” Christina traced a droplet’s path down the glass. “Mom? Do you think... do you think Violet will be okay? Without a father, I mean. Do you think she’ll have enough?”
Tara was quiet for a long moment. “I think she’ll have more love than she knows what to do with. And I think—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I think whatever you’re carrying, whatever you’re not telling us, you don’t have to carry it forever. When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”
Christina’s hand stilled on the glass. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know.” Tara kissed the top of her head. “Get some rest. You’ve got two weeks until that baby comes, and you’re going to need your strength.”
Two weeks. Christina watched her mother carry the last of the gifts to the nursery, listened to her footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the old cottage settling around them. Outside, a rainbow was forming over the lake, pale and perfect against the clearing sky.
Violet kicked hard enough to make Christina gasp.
“I know,” she murmured, rubbing the spot. “I know, baby girl. Soon.”
She should probably eat something else, drink more water, and put her feet up like everyone kept telling her. Instead, she stood at the window and watched the colors fade as the sun dropped lower, thinking about blessings and secrets and the weight of all the things she couldn’t say.
Her back had been aching all day—she’d blamed it on the loveseat, on sitting too long—but now the pain sharpened, a band of pressure that wrapped around her middle and squeezed.
Probably nothing. Braxton Hicks, maybe. She was still two weeks out.
Christina pressed her hand flat against her belly and felt Violet shift, settling lower.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Please, not yet. I’m not ready.”
But ready or not, her body seemed to have other plans.
CHAPTER 15
TARA
The wallpaper in the front parlor was finally straight.
Tara stepped back, wiping her hands on her jeans, and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction. The pattern—delicate ferns on a cream background—had taken three attempts to get right. Will had nearly torn the first roll in frustration, and the second had developed bubbles that refused to smooth out no matter how many times they’d run the squeegee over them. But this third attempt? Perfect.
“That’s the last of it.” Will descended the ladder, his t-shirt damp with sweat despite the air conditioning they’d finally gotten working last week. He came to stand behind her, arms settling around her waist. “What do you think?”
“I think it looks like a real inn.”
And it did. After months of renovations—sawdust in her hair, paint under her fingernails, decisions about fixtures and flooring that had kept her up at night—The Blueberry Inn was finally becoming what she’d imagined. The hardwood floors gleamed with fresh polish. The brass fixtures in the entryway caught the afternoon light streaming through windows that no longer stuck in their frames. Even the smell had changed, from raw lumber and drywall dust to lemon furniture polish and the faint sweetness of the beeswax candles Ally had contributed for the sitting areas.
“Come see the breakfast room,” Tara said, tugging Will’s hand.
They walked through the dining room—table for twelve, chairs still wrapped in plastic, chandelier waiting to be hung—and into the smaller space that would serve as the breakfast nook. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the lake and Patty’s Garden, where the rosemary and lavender were thriving in the summer heat. A built-in sideboard ran along one wall, and there, arranged on a shelf, sat Ally’s honey display.
