Tara was already packing the diaper bag, listing off things she’d need for the afternoon. “Extra onesies, burp cloths—oh, and I should grab that pacifier clip Sam made. Violet seems to like the texture.”
“Mom.” Christina’s voice came out rough. “Thank you. For all of this.”
Tara paused, diaper bag half-zipped. Something flickered across her face—curiosity, maybe, or concern. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You seem...”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
Her mother held her gaze a moment longer, and Christina wondered if Tara could see through her, could see all the things she wasn’t saying. But then Violet let out a squawk, and the moment passed.
“Text me if you need anything,” Tara said, scooping up the baby. “We’ll be back by dinner. I’m thinking of making that pasta you like—the one with the sundried tomatoes and the cream sauce.”
“Sounds fantastic.”
Christina stood in the doorway and watched them load Violet into the car seat, watched Will secure it with careful attention, watched her mother wave from the passenger window as they pulled away down the gravel drive.
The cottage was quiet. The afternoon stretched ahead of her, empty and unfamiliar.
She should start the thank-you notes. There were at least a dozen casseroles to acknowledge, not to mention Emily’s survival kit and Sam’s endless patience. Ryan had been returning each dish as they finished the food.
Christina picked up her phone and found herself opening a browser. Typing in the name before she could stop herself.
Marco Castellano.
The search results loaded instantly. Photos from a charity gala last week—him in a tuxedo, a blonde on his arm, that smile she remembered aimed at cameras instead of her. Headlines about fashion deals and family business and speculation about his love life.
She closed the browser and set the phone face-down on the counter.
The thank-you notes could wait. Right now, she needed air.
Christina grabbed her cardigan and stepped onto the back porch, the afternoon sun warm on her face, the lake glittering beyond the trees. She’d walk to the dock. Just for a few minutes. Just to remind herself that the world was still turning, still beautiful, even when everything inside her felt tangled and raw.
Her phone buzzed. Probably her mom, already sending pictures of Violet.
Christina kept walking.
CHAPTER 18
TARA
The soil was warm beneath Tara’s knees, summer heat radiating up through the garden bed she’d been working all morning. She dug the trowel deeper, breaking up clay clumps, mixing in the compost Will had hauled over from the hardware store yesterday. Her gardening gloves were already caked with dirt, and sweat trickled down her back beneath her cotton shirt.
This corner of the inn’s property had been overgrown when they’d started—wild blackberry canes and honeysuckle run riot, choking out everything else. It had taken Will three weekends with the brush hog to clear it, and another week of hauling debris before Tara could even see the bones of what she wanted to create.
But now, finally, it was taking shape.
She sat back on her heels, surveying the progress. The rosemary she’d planted last month had taken hold, its silver-green needles already fragrant in the early August heat. She reached over and rubbed a sprig between her fingers, releasing that sharp, piney scent that always made her think of Sunday dinners and roast chicken and Patty standing at the stove in that ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron she’d worn until it fell apart.
“You’d probably tell me I’m being too sentimental,” Tara murmured. “Rosemary for remembrance. You’d roll your eyes and say something about how I watched too many period dramas.”
She could almost hear Patty’s voice. Honey, if you’re going to talk to dead people, at least do it somewhere air-conditioned.
Tara laughed, the sound catching in her throat. Barely six months since the funeral, and some days the grief still ambushed her—sudden and sharp, like stepping on a piece of glass she’d missed while sweeping.
The sound of Will’s truck crunching up the gravel drive pulled her back to the present. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and watched him climb out, a length of lumber balanced on his shoulder.
“Got the cedar for the table,” he called. “And I picked up those forget-me-not seeds you wanted. Mary said they’re the best variety for this climate—should come back every year once they’re established.”
“You’re a saint.”
