For a moment, everything felt perfect—dappled sunlight, friends and family bustling around, fresh flowers, the scent of soil and rosemary drifting up in the warmth of the morning.
Then Christina’s gaze slid toward the house—The Blueberry Inn—sitting proudly under the sunlight, its reflection shimmering in the water.
“You’ll have guests here in no time,” Christina said. “It’s beautiful, Mom.”
Tara’s throat tightened. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
But as Christina straightened a ribbon on the arch, Tara noticed it—something too tense, too quiet, lingering beneath her daughter’s smile.
She’d seen that look before. Right after Tara’s ex-husband, Harry, denied Ryan. And when her daughter knocked her father off his pedestal after finding out the truth about everything he’d done. He’d always been her favorite, but not anymore, now she saw him for who he truly was. There was a storm brewing behind Christina’s clear eyes.
Tara opened her mouth to ask about it—but Ally appeared at her elbow carrying a stack of watercolor place cards.
“Look at what Sam made!” she said, fanning them out.
They were beautiful—delicate washes of color, tiny painted blueberries, each guest’s name in careful script.
“She’s amazing,” Tara breathed.
“I know,” Ally said proudly. “And she’s teaching her first watercolor class in the fall to other high school kids. I told her I’d sign up just to annoy her.”
Everyone laughed again, and for a little while, the moment shifted. But Tara didn’t forget the flicker she’d seen on Christina’s face.
Not fear exactly. More like something knocking at a door she wasn’t ready to open.
The rehearsal went on with the usual chaos—Evan nearly tripped over the arch, Ally lost a ribbon for the tenth time, Sam arrived with iced coffees and glitter on her cheek, and Will insisted everything was “fine” even though he looked like he wanted to rebuild the entire setup from scratch.
It was exactly the kind of joyful, messy morning Tara had always imagined but never thought she’d get.
But every so often, she caught Christina staring out toward the lake, one hand on her belly, her expression far away. Tara filed it away. After the rehearsal, they would talk. Later, when the last chair was placed and baby Grace finally fell asleep, Tara stood alone in Patty’s Garden as the breeze stirred the new rosebush. She knelt, touching the soil gently.
“Watch over them, okay?” she whispered. “All of them.”
Sunlight warmed her shoulders. Tomorrow was her wedding. A new beginning. A chance to build something lasting.
But even in the comfort of that thought, she felt it. Change was coming. Some good. Some hard. All inevitable.
And in her heart, Tara knew one thing for certain—Christina’s secret wasn’t going to stay quiet forever.
CHAPTER 3
TARA
If someone had told Tara three years ago that she’d be standing on a grassy slope above Blueberry Hill Lake, wearing a lace dress and about to marry a man who built furniture with his hands, she would have laughed until she cried. Or maybe just cried.
But here she was.
The afternoon sun cast diamonds across the water, and the scent of fresh-cut grass mingled with something sweeter—the roses climbing the wooden arch Will had built last week. He’d stayed up past midnight sanding it smooth, and when she’d brought him coffee at two in the morning, she’d found him running his calloused fingers along the grain, making sure no splinter would catch on her dress.
That was Will. Quiet acts of love, built into every joint and seam.
Guests filled the white folding chairs arranged in neat rows facing the lake. Tara spotted Mary from Spilled Milk in the second row, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, while Bertha the goat—wearing what appeared to be a tiny veil attached to her collar—nibbled contentedly at the grass beside her chair. Sheriff Bo Cooper stood near the back in civilian clothes for once, his arm around Francesca’s waist as she leaned into him, both of them glowing with the kind of easy happiness that comes from finally finding your person.
Tara’s throat tightened. She knew that feeling now.
A flutter of lavender caught her eye. Sam hurried up the path from the parking area, Dora Collier on her arm, both of them in matching dresses that billowed softly in the breeze. The girl who’d arrived in Blueberry Hill in a rusted car with nothing but a frightened dog and a guarded heart now walked with her chin up, her newfound grandmother beaming beside her.
Sam caught Tara’s eye and grinned, lifting her sketchbook in a small wave before settling Dora into a chair near the front.
