I turn on the faucet and hold out a hand, waiting for my sister to give me the dirty dishes. When I don’t reply, Billie raises a brow, holding the plates hostage.
I grab the dishes from her and dunk them in the water, ignoring her wary expression.
“You didn’t tell her?”
I remain silent as I pour soap into the basin. No, I didn’t tell her. And yeah, she’s going to be pissed when she finds out. But that’s not my problem. Tally isn’t my responsibility; Billie and Quinn are. And eventually Tally will learn that they have just as much right to be here as she does.
CHAPTER 6
Tally
HOPE HARBOR TOWN CHAT
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Can someone confirm that the Daffodil Festival is still going forward?
RAYNA:Oh, I think that’s why Tally’s home. She’s here to help.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Tally? Can you confirm? She’s in here, right?
ROSIE:She is! And it is. Rumor has it she was at the brewery last night and chances are if you stop by for lunch this week you’ll get a Tally sighting.
I snort. Rumor has it? Rosie knows it’s not a rumor because she saw me with her own eyes. My best friend is a little marketing genius when it comes to this small town stuff, but I wish she didn’t use me as collateral.
Another five texts roll in, and I silence my phone. I can’t leave the chat because I want to know what they’re saying about me, although I’m annoyed they’re talking about me at all. Especially since I don’t know who most of them are. Although, I did figure out Rayna’s number based upon her last few texts.
I sigh. This so isn’t my day. I’d woken up feeling awkward in my own house—in Penny’s old bed, which oddly still smelled like her—and before I could think too long on it, I decided to sneak out the back to avoid running into Walker. I headed to my mom’s cottage to finally confront her on all of this insanity, but of course I couldn’t find her. After a quick walk into the fields to calm my nerves, I found my mother playing house with Walker and his family.
And then there was the little boy sitting in my father’s chair. It’s silly, I know. My father is gone. And it’s just a chair, but jeez, did that one hurt. Everything that once existed on the farm has changed.
I never appreciated it before. Never knew how I’d miss it all. But God, do I wish I could have it back.
Rather than spending the rest of the morning dwelling on things I can’t change, I throw on some running gear and prepare to jog into town.
The first mile offers views of our farm, the brewery, and the beautiful mountains that lie just beyond. The spring air is cool against my skin, but it’s got nothing on the frigid Vermont temperatures.
Running is a way to clear my head. I often use the time to think up recipes or work through a possible menu change. Not that I had a ton of say in the restaurants I worked in.
Today, though, my mind can’t possibly fathom a recipe because all I can think about is how my mother has given away our house.
It’s impossible that Penny is fine with this. I just have to get her to admit it.
Everyone seems cagey. It’s not like I expected the red carpet to be rolled out upon my homecoming, but I thought mymother would be a little bit more excited that I’m here. Even Rosie has been weird.
I’m used to not having many people in my life. When you travel as much as I do, spending seasons in different kitchens, there’s no time for long-term relationships. For the most part, I’ve always been okay with that. I’ve had one goal with every kitchen I’ve worked in: to work under the pastry chef.
We didn’t have a lot of money growing up—my father always said the earth was our wealth. We got by because he was creative in using the daffodil and tulip season to host weddings on the farm as a source of income, but it wasn’t enough to put both my sister and me through college. Everyone thinks I ran away, but I did what I had to do so I could chase my dreams and my family could chase their own.
My father would have mortgaged the land—or sold some of it—so I could go to culinary school, but I couldn’t allow that. He was already putting Penny through college, and I saw how it wore on him.
So I made a decision to do it myself. And I’ve had a great time learning, even though it’s nearly impossible to work as a pastry chef without a culinary degree.
Nantucket is my chance, though. A pastry chef I worked with two years ago has been hired as head baker at a prestigious restaurant, and she reached out to me to join her this summer.
It isn’t a long-term position because Nantucket is a seasonal destination that slows down considerably in the fall, but after this season, I’ll finally have enough money saved up to attend culinary school. Then maybe one day I can open up my own little bakery.
I turn onto the road circling the harbor and revel in thebeauty before me until I hit Maple Lane, Hope Harbor’s main street, and my quiet peace is interrupted. Traffic rolls in both directions, and I wave at the men drinking coffee on the corner as I run by.
The cobblestone sidewalk tests my balance, but I manage to stay upright and watch workers hang wicker baskets filled with flowers at every street light, the yellows, pinks, and purples waterfalling off the ornate Victorian arches. There are signs everywhere detailing that Hope Harbor was founded in 1682 and is home of the Daffodil Festival. They’ll be changed in the fall to remind us that it’s home of the Maple Festival as well.
