The question landed harder than it should have.
A door opened somewhere down the hall, and footsteps approached. A woman appeared—mid-fifties, with light brown hair, an apron dusted with flour. She stopped when she saw Sophia, her expression shifting from surprise to careful welcome.
“You must be Marco’s sister.” She wiped her hands on her apron and extended one. “I’m Tara. This is my inn.”
“Sophia Castellano.” She shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip, the flour under the fingernails, the complete absence of intimidation in the woman’s gaze. “I assume you’re Christina’s mother?”
“I am.” Tara’s tone cooled slightly. “And I assume you’re here to?—”
“I don’t know why I’m here.” The admission surprised Sophia as much as anyone. “I thought I did. I had a whole speech prepared about protecting my family’s reputation, about gold-diggers and non-disclosure agreements. But my brother has just informed me that your daughter chose to raise her baby alone rather than risk exposing her to us.” She met Tara’s eyes. “I’m still processing what that says about my family.”
Something shifted in Tara’s expression. Not quite warmth, but a lessening of hostility.
“Christina’s at the cottage with Violet,” Tara said. “She’s got a few weeks left of maternity leave, but she’s been helping me here when she can—learning the breakfast service, greeting guests. She’ll be back this afternoon if you want to talk to her.”
“I do. Eventually.” Sophia glanced at Marco, who was watching the exchange with barely concealed anxiety. “First, I need to talk to my brother. Privately.”
“You can use the study off the library.” Tara gestured down the hall. “Take all the time you need. I’ll have coffee sent in.”
The study was small and lined with books, with a desk in one corner, and a pair of worn leather chairs facing windows that overlooked what appeared to be a garden. Sophia sank into one chair, suddenly aware of how tired she was. The flight from Milan, the layover in New York, the puddle-jumper to whatever tiny airstrip served this town—all of it catching up with her at once.
Marco closed the door and leaned against it, looking like a man awaiting sentencing.
“Tell me everything,” she said. “From the beginning.”
So he did. Miami, almost a year ago. A club, a woman with honey-blonde hair who made him laugh for the first time in months. One night of something that felt real in a life that had started to feel like a performance. Waking up alone, no name, no number, just the memory of her face and the strange hollow feeling that he’d let something important slip away.
Then Blueberry Hill. His friend Colton’s hometown, where Marco had come to escape the latest scandal. The inn’s grand opening. A woman outside walking around the lake, and the shock of recognition hitting him like a physical blow.
“I knew it was her the second I saw her,” Marco said. “And then I saw Violet, and I looked at her face, and I just—I knew. Before she confirmed it, before she said anything. I knew that baby was mine.”
Sophia listened without interrupting, her mind cataloging details, calculating implications. A secret baby. An American mother with no apparent interest in Castellano money. A brother who spoke about this woman and child with a tenderness she’d never heard in his voice before.
“What do you want?” she asked when he finished. “Realistically. What outcome are you hoping for?”
Marco was quiet for a long moment. “I want to be her father. Violet’s. I want to be part of her life, not just a name on a check or a face she sees once or twice a year.” He moved to the window, staring out at the garden. “I’ve been thinking about checking out of the inn. Staying at Colton’s place while I figure things out. Give Christina some space, but stay close enough that she knows I’m not going anywhere.”
“And the business? The campaigns? Father’s expecting you back in Milan by November.”
“I know.” He turned to face her. “I’m not saying I’ll never go back. But right now, my daughter needs to know me. Christina needs to trust me. That matters more than any fashion campaign.”
Sophia studied her brother—this strange new version of him who talked about trust and presence and being part of something rather than being the center of it. She thought about their father, about the phone call she’d have to make, about the storm that was coming.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “A few days, at least. To meet this Christina properly. To see Violet.” She paused. “And to make sure you haven’t completely lost your mind.”
Marco’s smile was small but genuine. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided if I’m on your side or here to drag you home.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. A young woman with dark curly hair poked her head in—not Christina, someone else.
“Sorry to interrupt. Mom sent coffee.” She carried a tray into the room, setting it on the small table between the chairs. “I’m Ally. Christina’s sister.”
“Sophia.” She accepted the cup Ally offered, noting the calluses on the younger woman’s hands, the faint scent of honey and outdoors clinging to her clothes. “You run a business? The honey I saw in the breakfast room?”
“Blueberry Hill Honey. Local wildflowers, mostly.” Ally’s smile was cautious but not unfriendly. “You’re staying?”
“For a few days. If there’s a room available.”
