Willow glanced up from the coffee pot.
“About Clara Vale?”
Ned nodded once.
That got attention.
Just enough to shift the air in the diner.
Marylou lowered her voice. “People always said Sam never believed she walked away.”
“He didn’t,” Willow said softly.
Across the room, one of the older men near the counter muttered, “Funny thing is, Burton Scott’s the only man in this county who ever sounded like he believed she just walked off that mountain.”
Outside, Sam climbed into his truck and pulled onto Main Street without looking toward the diner windows once.
But inside City Limits Café, the old story moved again.
24
Hollis Ridge Club — Late Morning (Brunch)
The road climbed the ridge in long, easy curves before opening up all at once.
Green. Perfectly cut.
A golf course laid into the mountain like it had always been there.
The clubhouse sat above it—stone and glass and timber, mountain dressed up for money.
Cal pulled the Escalade around front.
Izzy stepped out, taking it in.
“Well,” she said under her breath. “This is… not what I pictured.”
Cal smiled. “Good.”
Inside, the air shifted.
Cooler. Quieter. Polished without feeling stiff.
Wide windows framed the mountains. White tablecloths. Dark wood. Low conversation layered under the soft clink of silver.
The hostess stepped forward.
“Hi, Cal,” she said, her smile warming a notch just for him.
Christie.
She barely glanced at the reservation book.
Her eyes slid to Izzy—quick, sharp, taking her in from sunglasses to heels and back again.
“Table for two?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cal said, easy.
