For now, there was just this—the weight of her daughter in her arms, the creak of the rocking chair, the sound of Angus settling on the floor with a heavy sigh.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from her mother.
How was the grocery run? Need me to bring anything over?
Christina freed one hand and typed back.
Forgot a few things. Can you pick up milk and the frozen pizzas Ryan likes?
Sure, we can talk about the inn. Only a week away now!
The inn. September eighteenth. Marco would be an ocean away, preparing for Fashion Week.
Sounds good. See you tomorrow.
She set the phone down and looked at Violet, who had finished nursing and was staring up at her .
Later she’d talk to her mother. Not about Marco—she wasn’t ready for that—but about the inn, about the future.
Violet’s eyes drifted closed, milk-drunk and content.
Christina kept rocking.
CHAPTER 21
TARA
The mountains had never looked more inviting. Tara stood on the inn’s wraparound porch, coffee warming her hands, watching the sunrise paint the peaks in shades of pink and gold. The trees along the drive were still mostly green, but here and there a maple had started to turn, hints of orange and red creeping in at the edges like a promise of what was coming. Up at the highest elevations, she could see patches of color beginning—the first scouts of autumn making their slow march down the mountainsides.
“You’re up early.” Will’s voice came from behind her, followed by the creak of the screen door. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, his flannel shirt soft against her back.
“Couldn’t sleep. Too excited.” She leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and coffee that clung to him even now. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”
“It’s really happening.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “In about four hours, this place is going to be full of people.”
“Ask me if I’m ready after our first guest checks in.”
They stood together watching the light change, the sky shifting from pink to pale blue, the morning mist burning off the lake. A cool breeze carried the scent of smoke from someone’s chimney or woodstove and the earthy sweetness of the chrysanthemums Ally had planted along the porch railing—bronze and gold and deep burgundy, the colors of the season that was just beginning to arrive.
Behind them, the inn waited.
By ten o’clock, Tara had checked and rechecked every detail she could think of. The breakfast room gleamed, the long farm table set with locally made pottery and linen napkins in warm autumn tones. Ally’s flower arrangements caught the morning light—mason jars filled with zinnias, dahlias, and late-season sunflowers from her garden, each table sporting a different combination of the rich reds and golds and oranges that the mountains hadn’t quite achieved yet.
The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted from the kitchen, where the caterer was pulling loaves from the oven. Apple cider simmered in a massive pot on the stove, cinnamon and clove scenting the air.
“Mom.” Christina appeared in the doorway, Violet strapped to her chest in a carrier. “The Hendersons just pulled in. First guests.”
Tara’s heart gave a little skip. “Already? They’re not supposed to check in until noon.”
“They’re early. Should I?—”
“No, no, I’ve got it.” Tara smoothed her hair, straightened her blouse, and headed for the front door.
The Hendersons were a retired couple from Charlotte, here for a week of hiking and to catch the early edge of leaf season. Tara had spoken to Mrs. Henderson three times on the phone, answering questions about breakfast options and nearby trails and whether the inn had good reading light. Now, meeting them in person, she found herself relaxing. These were her people—travelers looking for something quieter than a hotel chain, something with character and home-cooked meals and rocking chairs on the porch.
“The room is perfect,” Mrs. Henderson declared after the tour, running her hand along the handmade quilt on the bed. “And that garden! Harold, did you see the garden?”
“Patty’s Garden,” Tara said, her throat tightening at the name. “It’s a memorial space. For reflection.”
