“Mom,” Christina started.
“You don’t have to explain.” Tara reached out, smoothed a strand of hair behind Christina’s ear—the same gesture she’d been doing since Christina was small. “Whatever you two decided, I’m here. Whatever you need.”
“We’re going to try. Half here, half there. See how it goes.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“It sounds terrifying.”
Tara looked at her daughter—this fierce, stubborn, loving girl who’d been so afraid of losing her baby that she’d carried the weight of a secret for months—and felt a wave of pride so strong it nearly buckled her knees.
“Everything good is a little terrifying,” she said. “That’s how you know it matters.”
Marco appeared at Christina’s shoulder, Violet reaching for him with tiny grasping hands. He took her easily, naturally, like he’d been doing it for years instead of weeks. The baby settled against his chest, one fist tangled in his shirt collar, those unmistakable green-gold eyes already drooping toward sleep.
“Mrs. Dixon,” Marco said. “Thank you for hosting this. For all of it.”
“It’s Tara. And this is what the inn is for.” She gestured at the room around them—the chaos and warmth and imperfect beauty of it all. “Family. Whatever shape that takes.”
Marco’s expression softened. “My mother is flying in next week. She wanted me to ask if she could see the garden. She lost her best friend to dementia as well, years ago. She thinks she’d like to sit there for a while.”
Tara thought of Patty, of all the moments they’d never get to share, of the garden she’d built from grief and love. “She’s welcome anytime. Everyone is.”
Christina reached for her mother’s hand, squeezed it once. No words needed.
The afternoon light was fading, the great room growing golden with sunset. Outside, the mountains blazed with the last fierce colors of autumn. Inside, the fire crackled, conversations hummed, and the smell of cider and and fresh-baked bread filled every corner.
In the parlor, Ryan threw down a card with a triumphant shout. Dora cackled at her own joke. Bo led Francesca onto the impromptu dance floor, and they swayed together to music only they could hear. Sam snapped a photo, then another, her artist’s eye finding beauty in ordinary moments.
Evan handed Grace to Emily and headed for the cider station. Ally and Colton stood by the window, her head on his shoulder, watching the sunset. Sophia emerged from the back with James, their fingers loosely linked, both looking slightly dazed and entirely present.
This, Tara thought. This is what we built.
Will found her again, pressed a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.”
“Want to escape for five minutes? The porch is empty.”
Tara took one last look at the room—her children, her grandchildren, the extended family that had grown and shifted and surprised her at every turn—and nodded.
The party wound down slowly, the way good celebrations did. Christina stood at the window as guests trickled out, their cars crunching down the gravel drive, their taillights disappearing into the dusk. Violet had been passed among so many arms today—Marco’s, Tara’s, Evan’s, even Sophia’s tentative hold—but now she was back where she belonged, sleeping against Christina’s chest.
“Long day.”
Marco joined her at the window. He’d found his jacket somewhere, but it was slung over his arm, and his shirt was thoroughly wrinkled. He looked exhausted and content in equal measure.
“The longest.” Christina leaned into him slightly. “But good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Outside, the last car pulled away—Sam’s grandmother, probably, the old blue sedan distinctive in the twilight. The inn fell quiet, or as quiet as a building full of family could be. From somewhere in the back, Tara’s voice called instructions to Will. Ryan’s laughter echoed from the parlor.
“So what now?” Christina asked.
“Now we go home.” Marco’s arm came around her shoulders. “Get Violet into bed. Sleep for approximately fourteen years.”
