“And I promise to learn the names of all your woodworking tools. Even the weird-looking ones.”
Will laughed, the sound rich and warm. “That’s going to take a while.”
“Good thing we have time.” She smiled up at him. “Forty years’ worth of catching up to do.”
Pastor Mitchell produced two simple gold bands from his pocket. “The rings, please.”
Will took the smaller ring first. His hands were steady now as he slid it onto her finger, the metal cool against her skin.
“With this ring,” he said, “I thee wed.”
Tara picked up the second band—wider, heavier, made to fit a hand that built things. She’d chosen it at the antique shop in Asheville, the same day he’d found her engagement ring. Simple and solid, like the man himself.
“With this ring,” she said, sliding it into place, “I thee wed.”
The weight of it on her own finger was unfamiliar. Different from the ring she’d worn for thirty-three years, the one she’d finally stopped reaching for all those months ago. Different, too, from the simple band Will had worn for Emma—he’d told her once that he’d kept it in a box by his bed for years after she passed, until one morning he woke up and knew it was time to put it away.
This ring didn’t carry the same history. It was new. Clean. A second chance for both of them.
“By the power vested in me by the state of North Carolina,” Pastor Mitchell said, his voice warm with genuine pleasure, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He grinned at Will. “You may kiss your bride.”
Will cupped her face in his rough hands, tilting her head up. The kiss was soft at first, almost reverent—then deeper, a promise sealed.
Cheers erupted across the lawn. Bertha bleated, her tiny veil askew. Someone—probably Milt Jenkins—let out a whistle sharp enough to scatter the birds from the nearby pines.
Tara laughed against Will’s lips, tasting joy and possibility and the faint salt of happy tears. When they finally pulled apart, she was aware of everything at once—the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, the roughness of Will’s jacket under her fingers, the mingled scents of roses and fresh-cut grass and the lake.
“We did it,” she whispered.
“We did.” Will tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How do you feel?”
She looked out at the guests—her children, grown and thriving, her friends, and the community that had become her family. Ryan was grinning so hard his face might crack. Ally was crying and laughing at the same time. Christina stood apart, one hand on her belly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
Something to worry about later. Not now.
“Happy,” Tara said, turning back to her husband. Her husband. “Impossibly happy.”
The string quartet shifted into something livelier, and Will offered his arm.
“Ready to face the chaos?”
She slipped her hand through his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of him beside her. “With you? Always.”
The reception flowed like honey—slow, golden, sweet. Tables laden with Ally’s lemon bars and Mary’s famous pound cake. Laughter rising and falling in easy waves. Children chasing each other near the water’s edge while parents called half-hearted warnings about wet shoes.
Tara made her rounds, accepting hugs and congratulations, her cheeks aching from smiling. Emily pressed Grace into her arms for a moment, the baby warm and milky-scented, her tiny fist gripping Tara’s finger with surprising strength.
“She knows her grandma,” Emily said, eyes bright.
Grandma. The word still felt new, still sparkled with wonder.
Evan appeared beside his wife, looking more relaxed than Tara had seen him in years. The corporate edge had softened since their move to Blueberry Hill, replaced by something quieter, more content. He’d stopped checking his phone every five minutes. He’d started building a treehouse in their backyard, saying he might as well start now for little Grace.
“It was a beautiful wedding, Mom,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Will’s a good guy.”
“He is.”
“You deserve this. You know that, right?”
