And Bertha the goat had arrived wearing a witch’s hat.
The hat was black felt with a purple ribbon, slightly askew on Bertha’s head, and the goat seemed unbothered by her costume as she wandered between hay bales, sampling the decorative corn stalks whenever she thought no one was looking.
“Mary, your goat is eating the decorations again,” Tara called.
“She’s in character,” Mary called back from inside. “Witches are supposed to cause mischief.”
Tara shook her head, but she was laughing. This was exactly what she’d imagined when she’d first dreamed of the inn—chaos and warmth and community tangled together in the best possible way.
“Mom!”
Christina’s voice carried from the side door, and Tara turned to find her daughter emerging with Violet in her arms. The baby was wearing a pumpkin costume—orange velvet with a green stem cap, her tiny fists waving as she took in the flickering lights and costumed crowds. At fifteen weeks, Violet couldn’t do much more than observe, but she was doing it with great intensity, her green-gold eyes tracking every movement.
“She won’t stop staring at the jack-o’-lanterns,” Christina said. “I think she’s plotting something.”
“She’s a Castellano. They’re always plotting something.” Marco appeared behind Christina, carrying the diaper bag and what looked like a backup pumpkin costume. “In our defense, our plots usually involve fashion choices.”
“Is that why you brought two costumes?”
“The first one had a spit-up incident. We don’t talk about it.”
Tara reached for her granddaughter, and Violet came willingly, settling against her chest with a small coo. The baby smelled of powder and something warmer underneath—that particular sweetness that never quite faded.
“There’s my girl,” Tara murmured. “My perfect little pumpkin.”
Violet responded by grabbing a fistful of Tara’s hair and attempting to eat it.
“She’s got good taste,” Marco said. “She knows quality when she sees it.”
Tara freed her hair from tiny fingers and handed Violet back to Christina. “Go show her off. Everyone’s asking about her.”
“Everyone’s asking about the billionaire slash model who’s apparently moving to Blueberry Hill,” Christina said, but she was smiling.
“Not moving,” Marco corrected. “Spending significant time. There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh.”
They disappeared into the crowd, and Tara watched them go—her daughter with her honey-blonde ponytail, the Italian fashion heir who looked genuinely comfortable in flannel and boots, and the baby between them who had somehow brought two worlds together.
Inside, the inn glowed. Orange and black streamers crisscrossed the ceiling. Fake cobwebs draped the corners, complete with plastic spiders that Tara kept finding in unexpected places. Someone had hung a skeleton from the chandelier—she suspected Ryan—and it swayed gently in the warmth rising from the crowded room.
“Excuse me! Bumblebee coming through!”
Emily shouldered past with Grace on her hip. The baby was dressed as a bumblebee—yellow and black stripes, tiny antennae bobbing on her head—and she was reaching for everything in sight. At eight months, Grace had entered the grabbing phase, and nothing within arm’s reach was safe.
“She keeps trying to steal candy from the bowl,” Emily said, slightly frazzled. “She can’t even eat candy. She doesn’t have teeth.”
“She’s ambitious,” Tara said. “She gets it from her father.”
“Her father is currently running a haunted gaming room and making children scream.”
Tara looked toward the parlor, where Evan and Ryan had set up their Halloween gaming station. Fog machine smoke curled under the door, and periodically a shriek of delighted terror emerged.
“Making children scream with joy,” Tara corrected. “That’s different.”
“The Peterson kid ran out saying a zombie touched his arm.”
“Was there a zombie?”
