She did know. Finally, after fifty-five years, she actually did.
Near the dessert table, Sam sat cross-legged on a blanket, her watercolors spread around her as she captured the scene in quick, confident strokes. Dora watched over her shoulder, occasionally pointing out details—the way the light hit the water, the angle of Will’s smile as he danced with Ally.
The girl was applying for art school scholarships. Teaching watercolor classes at the inn this fall. Building a future from the ashes of a past that had tried to break her.
Tara watched Francesca pull Bo onto the makeshift dance floor, both of them laughing as he stepped on her toes. They moved together like people who’d stopped pretending they weren’t in love, like people who’d finally surrendered to the inevitable. Francesca’s auburn hair caught the late afternoon light, and Bo looked at her like she’d hung every star in the sky.
Another wedding soon, Tara thought. She’d bet her new ring on it.
She was reaching for another glass of champagne when she spotted Christina near the water’s edge, apart from the crowd.
Her daughter stood with one hand pressed to her swollen belly, the other wrapped around herself as if holding something in—or holding something together. The sun painted her in shades of gold, beautiful and lonely in equal measure.
She wasn’t watching the dancing. Wasn’t smiling at the children’s games. She was staring at the lake with an expression Tara recognized in her bones.
Fear. Deep and quiet and rooted. The kind that grew in silence. Tara set down her glass. The champagne bubbles had gone flat, anyway.
She’d noticed it before—small things. The way Christina’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when someone mentioned the baby’s father. The way she changed the subject whenever anyone asked about Miami. The way she held Violet’s ultrasound photos like they were precious and precarious all at once.
Something was wrong. Something her daughter wasn’t telling her.
Will appeared beside her, warm and solid, following her gaze to the water’s edge. He didn’t ask—just waited, the way he always did, letting her find the words.
“She’s carrying more than just that baby,” Tara said quietly.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to push. Not today. But?—“
“But you’re her mother.” Will’s hand found the small of her back. “And mothers know.”
Down by the lake, Christina turned away from the water, pasting on a smile as Ryan bounded over with Angus at his heels. She laughed at something he said, ruffled his hair, and let the dog nose at her belly. The smile was good—convincing, even.
But Tara saw the shadows underneath.
Someone turned up the music as the dancing picked up again. Will pulled her close, swaying gently even though the song was faster than their rhythm.
“Happy?” he murmured against her hair.
“Impossibly.”
And she was. Truly, deeply, impossibly happy.
But even as she leaned into her new husband’s arms, a second chance at love, her eyes drifted back to Christina, now sitting with Sam and pretending to admire a watercolor sketch.
Tomorrow, Tara decided. Or the next day. Whenever the wedding glow faded enough for difficult conversations.
She wouldn’t let her daughter carry this alone.
Whatever this was.
Ryan’s laughter rang out across the lawn—he’d convinced his gaming friends to join the dancing, all of them flailing with enthusiastic gracelessness. Ally was teaching Colton’s friend James some kind of line dance, both of them getting it spectacularly wrong. Even Bertha had wandered onto the dance floor, her tiny veil askew, bleating along to the music.
Tara smiled, letting the chaos wash over her.
This was her family now. Messy and more complicated and so much bigger than she’d ever imagined.
And there was room in it for secrets, for fears, for whatever Christina was hiding. There was room for everything.
