Sophia’s cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t pull away.
Tara felt her eyebrows rise. “Well.”
“Don’t,” Sophia said again, but she was fighting a smile.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
James looked at Tara with his steady gray gaze. “She’s learning to let people see her,” he said. “I figure the least I can do is to be seen with her.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“It’s practical.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
James almost smiled, and Sophia leaned into his shoulder just slightly, a gesture so small Tara might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching.
They’d figure it out, these two wounded people who’d found each other. Maybe Sophia would go back to Milan and James would stay in his cabin and they’d make the distance work. Maybe she’d stay longer, design collections from a lake house, let the mountains soften her edges or James would go back to Milan with her. Tara didn’t know. But watching them now—Sophia in borrowed boots, James holding her hand for everyone to see—she thought they had a real chance.
“Hey, Mom!”
Ally’s voice cut through the crowd, and Tara turned to find her youngest daughter pushing toward her with Colton in tow. Ally was beaming, practically bouncing, her left hand extended like she was directing traffic.
“Look, look, look, look, look!”
The ring was small—a simple diamond on a delicate gold band, nothing like the statement pieces Tara had seen in magazines. But it caught the light from the jack-o’-lanterns and sparkled as if it contained its own fire. She’d bet that Colton knew Ally wouldn’t want an enormous diamond, maybe he knew Ally better than Tara had thought.
“He did it!” Ally was saying. “He actually did it! Yesterday, by the lake, with the sunset?—”
“You’re welcome,” Colton said from behind her with two cups of cider. He was wearing a baseball jersey that said “Blueberry Hill Bees” and a smile Tara hadn’t seen on him in years—relaxed, genuine, present.
“When?” Tara asked, pulling Ally into a hug.
“Yesterday. We were going to wait to tell everyone, but I literally cannot contain myself.”
“She told Mary at the grocery store this morning,” Colton said. “Which means the whole town knew by noon.”
“Mary is a critical information pipeline,” Ally said. “It would have been rude not to include her.”
Tara held her daughter at arm’s length, looking at her glowing face, and felt tears prick her eyes. This woman, who had loved the wrong man for so long, who had nearly followed someone else’s dreams instead of her own. Now she had her honey business, her greenhouse, a man who’d built a life here just to be near her.
“I’m so happy for you,” Tara said.
“Don’t cry. If you cry, I’ll cry, and then my mascara will run.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re definitely crying.”
Colton handed her a napkin. “Here. It’s Halloween. Black mascara tears would actually be on theme.”
The party swelled and shifted as the evening deepened.
Tara moved through the rooms, greeting guests, refilling platters, marveling at how far they’d all come. Will had taken over cider duty with Colton, the two men talking easily while they ladled and served. Evan emerged from the haunted gaming room to reclaim his bumblebee daughter, who had fallen asleep in Emily’s arms. Francesca crowned the costume contest winner—a six-year-old dressed as a convincing ghost who turned out to be the Peterson kid, tears forgotten—while Bo photographed everything with his phone.
On the front porch, Tara found Marco and Christina in the rocking chairs, Violet asleep between them in her carrier. The baby had finally surrendered to exhaustion, one tiny fist clutching the edge of her pumpkin costume, her green-gold eyes closed.
