“It’s beautiful. Those forget-me-nots along the path—and is that rosemary? My mother always said rosemary was for remembrance.”
Tara nodded, not trusting her voice.
By noon, three more couples had arrived, and the inn hummed with the quiet energy of people settling in, exploring, exclaiming over views and amenities. Christina manned the front desk with Violet dozing in her carrier, her laptop open to the reservation system Evan had helped set up. She looked tired—she always looked tired these days—but there was something brighter in her eyes than Tara had seen in months.
“How’s it going?” Tara asked, stopping by the desk between greeting guests.
“Good. Really good.” Christina glanced down at Violet. “Mrs. Henderson already asked if she could hold her. I said maybe later after the rush.”
“Smart girl.” Tara reached over to brush a finger across her granddaughter’s cheek. “You should take a break. Eat something.”
“I’m fine.”
“Christina.”
“I’ll eat, Mom. I promise. Just—let me handle the two o’clock check-in first.”
Tara didn’t push. Christina needed to be useful right now, needed to feel like she was contributing to something bigger than midnight feedings. If working the front desk gave her that, Tara would let her work.
The afternoon brought the last arrivals—a family with teenagers who immediately claimed the rocking chairs on the porch, a solo traveler with a camera around his neck and questions about the best sunrise spots. He knew they were booked but wanted to spend time looking at the lake. Then, a pair of sisters celebrating their fiftieth birthdays with a girls’ weekend away showed up and after checking with James that he didn’t need the study, she booked them in there, telling them it was a Murphy bed in the wall. The sisters didn’t care, and when Will whispered in her ear that maybe he should draw up plans to renovate the second garage behind the inn, turn it into a guest cottage or three individual rooms, she just laughed, delighted.
And through it all, people kept finding their way to Patty’s Garden.
Tara watched from the kitchen window as an elderly man sat on the bench Will had built, his head bowed, his hands clasped in his lap. He stayed there for nearly an hour, and when he finally rose and walked back to the inn, his eyes were red but his face was peaceful.
“Someone you know?” Will asked, coming to stand beside her.
“I’ve never seen him before. But I think he needed that space.”
“That’s why you built it.”
“That’s why we built it.” She turned to face him. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“Sure, you could have. It just would have taken longer, and the trim work would be crooked.”
She laughed, the sound surprising her. She’d been so tense all day, so focused on making everything perfect, that she’d forgotten to enjoy it.
“Come on,” Will said, taking her hand. “There’s something you need to see.”
He led her through the breakfast room, past the kitchen where the caterer was arranging cheese plates for the afternoon reception, and into the small parlor they’d designated as the gallery.
Sam’s artwork hung on every wall.
Tara had seen the pieces before, of course—had helped Sam choose which ones to frame, had watched her arrange and rearrange them until she was satisfied. But seeing them now, in the soft afternoon light, with guests already wandering through and murmuring appreciatively, was something else entirely. There were sold stickers already on three of the pieces, all different views of the lake.
The mountain scenes captured the rolling peaks in every season—fog-shrouded valleys, sunsets that practically glowed, winter snowscapes that made you shiver just looking at them. The lake views had a particular quality of light that happened only here, the way the water reflected the sky and the trees. And in the corner, in the place of honor, hung Sam’s masterpiece. A portrait of the waterfall at the far end of the lake, water cascading over rocks into a pool so vivid you could almost hear it.
“She did that from memory,” Will said quietly. “Sat by the waterfall for three hours one morning, then went home and painted it without any reference photos.”
“It’s stunning.” Tara moved closer, studying the brushwork, the way Sam had captured not just the waterfall but the feeling of it—the power and the peace, the constant movement and the sense of permanence.
Sam herself appeared in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her cheeks flushed. “Are people actually looking at them? I saw the Hendersons in here earlier, but I couldn’t tell if they were being polite or?—”
“They’re not being polite.” Tara crossed to her and pulled her into a hug. “They’re admiring. You’ve already sold three.”
“Really?” Sam’s face lit up as she hugged Tara. “The waterfall piece,” Sam said into Tara’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s too much?”
“I think Mrs. Henderson is going to ask you about commissions before the day is over.”
