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“This is a miracle.” Connie loosened her grip and touched Alana’s face. “My god, you are her spitting image.”

“You’ve always said that,” she replied.

“Yes, but three years without seeing you and the resemblance is even more uncanny.” Connie patted her cheek. “Are you doing all right? Happy you’re home?”

She hesitated. How was she supposed to answer that honestly? No, she wasn’t okay. No, she wasn’t so sure she was happy to be home. But she was here regardless.

Both women blinked at her with hope in their eyes. These were the two women Mom relied on for everything. She once called them her long-lost sisters, the people she could count on after leaving a family that’d banished her for good. Sibyl Marien had known when she walked away from her family in Brooklyn that she would never see them again. Not her sisters or brothers. Not her parents. She came to the Finger Lakes with a shattered heart and a clawing need to find her people. She had Otto and the Mariens, and eventually, she had Karol and Connie. Mom may have joked that Karol was Kooky, but they all kind of were. The three of them cared deeply about their work on their respective farms. Karol had her vegetables; Connie had her wildflowers; and Mom had her vineyard.

Alana gave the two women a good look, noticing the ways the years had also changed them. Connie’s once bouncy red curls had muted in color, fading into gray. Karol’s hair was much shorter now, cut into a bob, the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced and the skin on her cheeks drooped. Yet they looked at her with such hope and love, it gripped Alana’s heart tight.

Unsure of how else to answer Connie, Alana simply nodded. “Yes, I’m happy to be back.”

They beamed at her, then burst into a conversation about how amazing the market was for business, how Freya was incredible for all the work she was doing. Alana did her best not to roll her eyes at that, but followed along in the conversation, listening as they pointed out the different booths. Andy had his sparkling apple cider, Trent his sourdough, and the Belmonts their jam.

“Karol, Connie.” Leo maneuvered his way into their group, naturally creating space between Alana and the two gabbing women who kept pinching and prodding her arms. “Lovely to see you.”

Alana watched both of them not-so-subtly swoon.

“Leo! Always a pleasure,” Connie purred.

Leo’s smile could barely be called polite. Alana snorted, then covered her mouth to make it sound like a cough.

He stared at her, not looking amused in the slightest. “Mind if I steal Alana back? I could use her help.”

Karol’s smile was giddy. “Of course! You have lots of wine to sell.”

“We’ve sold so much already,” Alana jabbed, eyes flaring in Leo’s direction.

He cocked his head. “My apologies. Would you rather hang here?”

She snatched his forearm, his skin warm from the August sun. “No, I’ll help.” Take me, she pleaded silently.

He grinned, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

After they forced Alana to promise she’d visit Connie’s coffee and wildflower shop soon, she escaped their clutches. Her hand was still on Leo’s forearm as he led her away.

She dropped it as they walked, rubbing her palm together, too distracted by the feel of his skin to notice that he’d stopped in the middle of the market.

Alana bumped into him from behind, her nose smashing into his shoulder blade. “Ow, what the hell?”

Leo tilted his head. “Who is that?”

Alana rubbed her nose, feeling irritated. “Who is who?”

“That man Freya is yelling at?”

She inhaled deeply, prepared to see Chris again, and ran through all the ways she could avoid him and any impending conversation he might want to have.

But it wasn’t Chris at the top of the hill.

Freya was talking animatedly to a man who towered over her by a foot and a half, with broad shoulders and perfectly coiffed dark brown hair. Square jaw, two matching dimples, creamy skin that looked like it never spent time in the sun, with a pair of sleek black Ray-Bans perched on his nose. She was gesturing with her hands, occasionally pointing to her clipboard to make her point. The man simply laughed at whatever she said, then shrugged.

Freya’s shoulders jumped to her ears, and for a brief moment, Alana was convinced her sister was going to slap him. Alana hadn’t seen that man in years. Possibly a decade. It made no sense to see him at Marien Vineyard, a graphite-gray Porsche parked behind him.

Her sister squared her shoulders and said something to the man, her eyes narrowed. Then she stomped off, leaving the stupidly attractive man and his sports car in her dust.

“That,” Alana emphasized, “is Klaus Kasner.”