“She’s going to draw the whole thing,” Ally said, appearing at Tara’s elbow with a sprig of baby’s breath she was trying to tuck into her hair. “Said she wants to capture it for your memory book.”
Tara’s eyes stung. “When did she become so?—“
“Confident? Happy?” Ally smiled, finally getting the flower to stay. “Turns out that’s what happens when people actually show up for you.”
Down by the arch, Ryan stood beside Will, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt. He’d shot up three inches since arriving in Blueberry Hill, all gangly limbs and sudden growth spurts, but today he looked almost grown. Almost settled.
Three teenagers clustered near the dessert table, waving at him—Jasmine with her bright laugh, Mateo adjusting his glasses, another boy Tara didn’t recognize but had heard about from Ryan’s excited gaming recaps. His people. All his age. His tribe.
Ryan waved back, then caught Tara watching and rolled his eyes with a grin that said, Yes, Mom, I have friends. Stop being weird about it.
She wasn’t being weird. She was being grateful. There was a difference. He’d only recently started calling her mom. A tug went through her heart as she thought about the tulip bulbs she’d planted in memory of his mom.
The string quartet—two local teachers and a retired music professor—began to play, the soft notes drifting across the water like scattered petals. Conversations hushed. Chairs creaked as everyone turned.
Ally squeezed her hand. “Ready?”
Tara looked at the arch, at Will waiting beneath it with that steady warmth in his blue eyes, at the mountains rising behind the lake like witnesses to something sacred.
“More than I’ve ever been,” she said.
She walked alone—no father to give her away, no need for one. She’d given herself away once, to a man who’d traded her for a younger model and emptier promises. This time, she was choosing. This time, she was keeping herself even as she offered her heart.
The grass was soft beneath her sandals, still damp from the morning dew. Each step brought her closer to the arch, to Will, to whatever came next. The scent of roses grew stronger—the climbing blooms he’d trained up the wooden frame, their petals just beginning to open in the afternoon warmth.
Will’s face as she approached nearly undid her. He looked at her as if she were something miraculous, something he couldn’t quite believe was real. His hand trembled slightly when she took it.
“Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi yourself.”
His palm was rough against hers, calloused from years of working with wood, building things meant to last. She’d fallen in love with those hands before she’d fallen in love with the rest of him—watching them shape a piece of oak into something beautiful, seeing the care he took with every joint and seam.
The minister cleared his throat gently. Pastor Mitchell had baptized half the children in Blueberry Hill and married most of their parents. He smiled at them now with the easy warmth of someone who’d seen enough love stories to recognize the real ones.
“Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice carrying across the water, “we are gathered here to witness the union of Tara and Will.”
The words washed over her—phrases about love and commitment, about building lives together. But what held her attention was Will’s thumb tracing small circles on her wrist, the steady rhythm of it like a heartbeat.
“Tara and Will have chosen to write their own vows.” Pastor Mitchell nodded to Will. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Will drew a slow breath. He wasn’t a man of many words—she’d learned that early. He spoke through the furniture he built, the repairs he made without being asked, the coffee he brought her at two in the morning when she couldn’t sleep.
“Tara.” His voice was quiet but sure. “I’m not good at speeches. You know that. But I’m good at showing up. I’m good at staying.”
Her eyes stung. She blinked hard.
“Forty years ago, I drove you around on back roads in my old truck, music playing, wind in your hair. I thought that was it for me—that you were the one. And then life happened. We went in different directions. I married Emma, and she was—” His voice caught. “She was wonderful. I had seventeen good years with her before I lost her.”
The grief on his face was old now, worn smooth like river stones, but still there. Tara squeezed his hands.
“I thought that chapter of my life was closed,” Will continued. “Love, marriage, all of it. I’d had my chance. Then you showed up at your Aunt Frida’s cottage with a leaky roof and a broken heart, and I knocked on your door with a toolbox because I’d heard you might need help with some repairs.”
A soft laugh rippled through the guests. Mary was definitely crying now.
“I didn’t expect a second chance. Didn’t think I deserved one. But here you are.” He lifted their joined hands. “Here we are. And I’m not going to waste it.”
His thumb traced across her knuckles.
