“A guy in gray face paint.”
“That counts.”
Emily laughed and shifted Grace to her other hip. The baby immediately grabbed for a passing plate of cookies. “I should find Evan. He promised to take bumblebee duty after the next round of ghost attacks.”
She waded into the crowd, and Tara made her way toward the front window where Sam had set up her face painting station. The girl—young woman now, really—was bent over a young child’s face, painting whiskers with careful strokes.
“Hold still,” Sam said. “Cats don’t wiggle.”
“I’m a tiger.”
“Tigers definitely don’t wiggle.”
Beside her, Dora sat behind a card table covered with watercolor postcards. Autumn scenes mostly—the lake at sunset, the mountains in their Halloween colors, Patty’s Garden with its bronze chrysanthemums. A hand-lettered sign read, “Blueberry Hill Originals - $5 each.”
“You’re doing well,” Tara said, noting the depleted stack.
“Three tourists bought five each,” Dora said, her lined face smug. “Said they wanted souvenirs. I told them to come back in the spring for the wildflower series.”
“You’re planning a wildflower series?”
“I am now.”
Sam finished the tiger whiskers and accepted a crumpled five-dollar bill from the child’s parent. “Grandma’s been talking about opening an online store. I told her I’d help set it up.”
“Etsy,” Dora said, pronouncing it like a foreign word. “Whatever that means.”
Tara felt something warm bloom in her chest. Last winter, Sam had arrived in Blueberry Hill with nothing but a dog and a rusted car. Now she was teaching art to children and helping Dora sell paintings and talking about her scholarship essays like they were exciting rather than terrifying.
“I’m proud of you,” Tara said quietly. “Both of you.”
Sam ducked her head, but she was smiling. Dora just waved a weathered hand.
“Go on with you. There’s a party happening, and you’re supposed to be hosting it.”
Tara found Sophia at the cider station.
This alone was remarkable—Sophia Castellano, fashion designer to the elite, standing by a folding table ladling warm apple cider into paper cups. More remarkable still was what she was wearing. Jeans, actual jeans, with worn-in boots and a chunky sweater that looked suspiciously like something from Ally’s closet.
“Don’t say anything,” Sophia said without looking up.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you look comfortable.”
Sophia paused, ladle suspended over a cup. Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or the vulnerability she’d been slowly learning to show.
“I am,” she said. “Surprisingly.”
“The boots suit you.”
“They’re Ally’s. She insisted my heels would sink into the lawn and never be seen again.” Sophia handed a cup to a waiting guest, then turned back to Tara. “She wasn’t wrong.”
From across the room, Tara saw James Roberts making his way toward them. He was wearing what passed for festive in his wardrobe—a dark flannel shirt instead of his usual gray one—and he moved through the crowd without stopping to chat, his eyes fixed on Sophia.
When he reached her, he didn’t say anything. Just took her hand, interlaced their fingers, and stood beside her.
