CHAPTER 1
Tally
March
“Ican’t believe you talked me into this.” I pass the welcome sign for Hope Harbor and shake my head, baffled as to how my older sister got me to return home to our small New England town before ski season even ended.
Penny’s laugh comes out raspy over the car’s Bluetooth. “Please. I’ve been dealing with Mom for the last few months. You’re lucky my failed engagement gave her something to focus on, but I’m tagging you in now, Tally. You’re it.”
“What if I just stay until we find someone who actually knows how to plan a wedding? Or better yet, I’m sure the ladies’ auxiliary has someone who would want to help out.”
The ladies’ auxiliary is a group of women a bit older than our mom who call themselves the Liberty Ladies. Their charter dates back to the 1600s and says something about supporting the soldiers’ families during wartime. Nowadays, they plan town celebrations, including the Daffodil Festival that will take place on our farm in just over three weeks.
The festival is the perfect event to ensure the farm is ready for wedding season. Maybe the Liberty Ladies would want to help. That, or they’d drive Mom just crazy enough that she’d kick them off the farm and finish the job herself. Either would be better than having me, the vagabond who rarelycomes home and never stays in one place longer than three months, do it. That’s what everyone believes, anyway. It’s easier to let them think that than to explain the truth: that I never wanted to leave but had to. That I’ve been counting down the days until I can come back. That I’m on the precipice of being able to do just that. One more season, that’s all I need.
Tears prick my eyes, and I swipe them away quickly. Those truths won’t change a damn thing, and telling anyone now will only make things harder for everyone else.
“Mom doesn’t needhelp.” I can practically hear my sister’s air quotes. “She needs you. Her daughter. The one most similar to Dad. The one who wassupposedto take over the farm.”
I slow to a stop at an intersection, feeling like I’ve gone back in time. Nothing ever changes in Hope Harbor. Old colonial buildings line the quaint streets with eclectic shops like Twisted Tea and Wicked Wine and Cheese occupying their first floors. The properties beyond Main Street have mostly been converted into condos, since nowadays people don’t have the need for six-thousand-square-foot homes with multiple dining rooms and kitchens. American flags fly proudly from every home, and flowers—likely from our farm—decorate many of the stone steps leading up to their front doors.
My eyes trail down the cobblestone sidewalk in search of Mabel’s, the bakery I worked at during high school when I wasn’t helping Dad on the flower farm. It’s where I discovered my love of baking. As I drive past it now, I notice it’s more run-down than the last time I saw it. Someone must be looking after it, however, because the wisteria that snakes up all the buildings doesn’t cover the windows, which have clouded with age.
Now that’s a business I would happily take over. The farm? Not so much.
The farm was never my passion. It’s always been Mom’s baby. And my father’s one true love was my mother, which meant he spent his whole life nurturing the various fields of flowers that she adored. Every season brought a different blossom facilitated by my father’s hard work; a sonnet written just for his wife. Their love bloomed vivid pinks, purples, and yellows in the spring. There was even a garden dedicated to her favorite flower, the iris, that burst with different shades of blue. He’d grown it as a surprise one spring, planting it right in view of their bedroom window. I understand why my mother isn’t ready to do this without him yet. I’m not sure I am either.
The only reason I know what needs to be done with the land is because I was a daddy’s girl who spent all of her free time helping him after school and on the weekends. It was our special time together. Meanwhile, my sister always had her nose in a book. It became a running joke in our family that I’d take care of the farm and Penny would become a librarian. They were mostly right about Penny. She’s now the proud owner of Bonfire and Bliss Books, the most adorable romance bookstore right in downtown Hope Harbor. I, on the other hand, let everyone down when I left after high school graduation for my first adventure. I haven’t been back home for more than a long weekend since. That was eight years ago.
I thought I’d have more time to make my father’s dreams come true. I’d get my culinary degree, return home to Hope Harbor, and open a small bakery. Maybe bake cakes for theweddings the farm hosted. I’d have a simple life and a purpose in this town. And I would be here to help Daddy with the farm. That was the plan. He was the only one that knew it, though. He was my confidant and my biggest cheerleader. He understood me in a way no one else ever did. He always said, “You can’t keep a wildflower in one place. They sprout up wherever they choose.”
I never expected to lose him so soon.
“You’re right. I’ll do what I can for Mom,” I say, turning my attention back to my sister. “But I need to be on the first ferry out to Nantucket the weekend before Memorial Day or I’ll lose my spot at The Chamber House.”
“I know the drill,” my sister agrees, her tone dismissive. “New season, new job. But this spring, you belong to the farm.”
I pass by my sister’s bookshop and grin as I sound the horn. “That’s me! Sure you don’t want me to stop at the store first? Bet you could use some help picking out your next thriller.”
“Ha ha,” she deadpans. “You know the only books I carry havehappily ever afters.”
“And spice. We can’t forget the spice!”
“Sex is a part of romance,” Penny says defensively. “Not having it on the page would be ignoring an entire portion of a relationship. A very important one at that!”
I’ve heard this argument more times than I can count. My sister can get quite heated when people call the books in her shop porn. Ironically, it’s not the older women in town who complain. Nope, the Liberty Ladies are all about their Spicy Saturday reads. It’s strangers on the internet who have my sister up in arms. Maybe if she just stayed off TikTok, she’d be less stressed.
“And no, I don’t want you to stop here,” she continues now. “I want you to stop procrastinating and get settled at the … farm so you can help get things ready for wedding season.”
“Fine.” I let out a heavy sigh as I press on the gas and continue down Maple Lane. “It’s just going to be so strange being in that big house without Daddy.”
“About that,” my sister starts. But before she says anything else, a woman walks right into the street.
I slam my foot down on the brake, and my car screeches to a stop. “I’ve got to go,” I tell Penny as I slide the car into park and end our call. After looking both ways, I open my door and rush to check on the pedestrian.
March in New England is still cold, but I barely feel the bite of the wind; it’s at least thirty degrees warmer here than it is up on the ski mountain where I spent the last few months.
“Are you okay?” I ask the woman, who continues to slowly stroll across the street. She’s got chin-length silver hair that’s perfectly coifed and is clutching a brown purse to her shoulder.
