Chapter 4
CHRISTINA
String lights swayed in the evening breeze, casting shadows that danced across the tables scattered along the lakeside.
Christina shifted her weight, trying to ease the pressure on her lower back.
Violet had been active all afternoon—somersaults during the ceremony, a full gymnastics routine through dinner.
Seven months pregnant and she already felt enormous.
“You okay?” Ally appeared at her elbow, two glasses of sparkling cider in hand. “You keep rubbing your belly like you’re trying to summon a genie.”
“Your niece is training for the Olympics in there.” Christina accepted the cider. “I think she’s doing backflips.”
“She’s excited. Her grandmother just got married.” Ally clinked her glass against Christina’s. “To a man who actually deserves her.”
They looked toward the makeshift dance floor where their mother swayed in Will’s arms, her simple creamy lace dress catching the fairy lights.
Will held her like she was something precious, his weathered face soft with tenderness.
Christina had never seen that expression on her father’s face when he’d looked at their mother. Not once.
“She looks happy,” Christina said.
“Ladies!” Francesca swept toward them in a flowing purple dress, Bo trailing behind her looking slightly dazed. “There you are. I need someone to tell me whether the coconut cake is better than the chocolate. I’ve had three slices and I still can’t decide.”
“You could just have both,” Bo suggested.
“I already have. Twice.” Francesca patted her stomach. “Purely scientific inquiry at this point.”
Christina laughed, and some of the tightness in her shoulders loosened.
This was what she loved about Blueberry Hill—the way people folded you into their lives without question.
In Miami, she’d had acquaintances, networking contacts, people who knew her father’s name and treated her accordingly.
Here she had Francesca bringing homemade soup when she was nauseous, Dora Collier stopping by with hand-knitted baby blankets, Mary at Spilled Milk saving her favorite Bartlett pears for her.
“I’m going to find more cake,” Francesca announced. “Bo, structural support duty.”
“Always.” But he was smiling as she pulled him toward the dessert table.
Ally excused herself to help Ryan photograph the reception—his phone apparently had better low-light capabilities than anyone else’s—and Christina drifted toward the old oak tree at the edge of the gathering. A quiet spot to watch the party without being in the center of it.
She was happy. She was. Her mother had married a good man. The inn was coming along beautifully. In two months, she’d hold her daughter in her arms, and they would build a life here together.
So why did her chest tighten every time she saw a couple dancing?
The answer kicked against her ribs.
Voices carried from the other side of the oak—Dora and James, sitting on the wooden bench Will had built. Christina hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but sound traveled clearly in the evening air across the water.
“Did you see this?” Dora was saying, phone angled toward James. “That model friend of Colton’s? Marco Castellano. He’s some kind of fashion heir. Three different women in two weeks, according to the tabloids. His poor mother.”
James glanced at the screen with apparent disinterest. “I try to avoid celebrity gossip.”
“It says here Colton told a friend, who told some reporter that Marco has a revolving door in the place they’re all sharing in New York. Models, actresses, even a Miss Universe.” Dora’s tone mixed disapproval with fascination. “Can you imagine? Miss Universe.”
“Sounds exhausting.” James’s voice was dry. “All that chasing.”
“Must be lonely,” Dora said, quieter now. “All that running and never finding anything real.”
Christina pressed her back against the rough bark, her pulse loud in her ears. Miss Universe. Models. Actresses. A revolving door.
She thought of that night in Miami. The crowded club, the stranger who’d asked her to dance. No names, they’d agreed. No life stories. Just one night.
He’d been beautiful. Dark hair, green eyes that seemed to catch every light in the room. She’d felt alive in a way she hadn’t in years, and when morning came, she realized she no longer wanted the club life.
Violet kicked again, hard enough to make Christina gasp. She spread her fingers across her belly, feeling the movement beneath her palm.
What would a man like that want with someone like her? She’d be another scandal. Another name in the tabloids. And Violet—
She imagined lawyers in expensive suits.
Custody battles dragging through the courts.
Her daughter shuttled between Blueberry Hill and Milan, growing up in a world of paparazzi and privilege.
Christina had seen what that world did to people.
She’d watched her father chase status and money until he’d thrown away his entire family for a woman that could have been Christina’s friend, after all, they were the same age.
Mandy had come to her senses and left Christina’s dad, but then he married an even younger woman, Brittany, some kind of influencer. It was a short marriage.
Violet deserved better. She deserved a mother who loved her, a grandmother who would teach her to sew and cook and find joy in the simple things. She deserved this town, these people, this life.
She didn’t need a father who would forget her name between supermodels.
“Christina?” Evan appeared beside her, concern on his face. “You look pale. Everything okay?”
“Just tired.” She made herself smile. “Long day.”
“Beautiful day.” He glanced toward the dance floor where Emily swayed with Grace in her arms. “Mom looks happy.”
“She does.”
“You should dance. Ryan’s been practicing. He’ll only step on your feet twice, maybe three times.”
Christina managed a real laugh. “Maybe later.”
She watched her brother walk back to his wife and daughter. Watched her mother spin in Will’s arms. And watched Sam sketching the scene with quiet confidence, her artistic gift finally flourishing.
This was enough. This had to be enough.
* * *
Tara
The champagne filled Tara with a pleasant warmth, nothing too strong, just enough to soften the edges of the day. Will had gone to help James carry something to his truck, and Tara had slipped onto the front porch for a moment of quiet.
The buzz of her phone made her check the screen. The text made her freeze.
It was from Diane Whitmore. They’d served on the same charity board for years in Miami, attended the same parties, orbited the same social circles. Not a friend, exactly. More of an acquaintance who enjoyed delivering news—good or bad—with equal relish.
Thought you’d want to see this! Harry’s at it again. Guess the third time’s the charm.
Three photos were attached. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She should delete it. Put the phone away and return to her own wedding reception, to the man who was probably looking for her right now. She opened the photos.
The first showed Harry at a rooftop restaurant, champagne glass raised.
An engagement party, based on the silver balloons in the background.
She scrolled to the next. Her ex-husband stood with his arm around a woman Tara didn’t recognize.
Blonde, thin, wearing an expensive designer dress.
She looked younger than Mandy had been. Younger than Christina.
A snort escaped. At least she was old enough to drink, judging by the glass in her hand.
First Mandy—the personal trainer half his age who’d given him a son and came to her senses and left him. Then the influencer he’d married whose name Tara never bothered learning. Now this one.
She zoomed in on Harry’s face. He wore that photogenic smile he’d perfected for business events, but even through the screen she could see the tension around his eyes. His fingers gripped the champagne glass too tightly. His jaw clenched beneath the grin.
The woman beside him was looking off-camera, her expression glazed with boredom. She’d probably been promised a yacht, Tara thought. Or a house in the Hamptons. Whatever bait Harry was dangling this time.
For a moment—just a moment—the old hurt surfaced.
Thirty-three years of marriage, three children, a lifetime of memories, and he’d thrown it all away for this.
This endless chase for something that kept slipping through his fingers.
A younger woman, a newer car, a flashier life.
As if happiness were something you could purchase if you just spent enough.
She thought about her birthday, the laundry room. The giant flower wallpaper. The way he’d said, “I’m in love with Mandy,” as if he were reading from a script. The weight of “she’s pregnant” and “I want a divorce” landing on her chest like stones.
Then Tara thought about the months after—the numbness, the shame, the terrible certainty that she should have seen it coming. The way her children had rallied around her while Harry jetted off to his new life without looking back.
If Patty had been alive, she would have called immediately. Would have said something sharp and funny that made Tara laugh despite herself. Would have reminded her that Harry’s misery was his own making, and that the best revenge was a life well lived.
But Patty was gone. And somehow, standing here on the porch of the inn, Tara could almost hear her friend’s voice.
Look at what you built, honey. Look at where you are.
She thought about the past year and a half.
Learning to use power tools. Planting her first garden.
Standing in Aunt Frida’s cottage and realizing it felt more like home than the Miami mansion ever had.
Finding purpose in her clothing business, satisfaction in teaching, peace in the mountains she’d never expected to love.
Tomorrow she would plant another rosebush in Patty’s garden. One for the wedding. One more thing her friend would never see but somehow still felt part of.
A hand settled on her shoulder. Warm, calloused, familiar.
“Hey.” Will’s voice was soft. “Been looking for you.”
Tara turned. Something in her face must have shown, because his expression shifted.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked at him. At this man who’d never cared about her money or status, who’d fallen in love with her while she was at her lowest. Who’d built her a jewelry box by hand and never once made her feel like she wasn’t enough.
“Someone from Miami sent photos. Harry’s married again. His third.”
Will’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak. He waited, hand steady on her shoulder.
“She’s younger than Mandy was. Probably younger than Christina.” Tara looked back at the phone, at Harry’s strained smile and his bored fiancée. “He looks miserable. Like he’s running as fast as he can and getting nowhere.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I want to delete these photos and go back to my wedding reception. I want to dance with my husband.”
Will’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “That’s me now.”
“That’s you.” The truth of it settled into her chest, solid and sure. “And I’m grateful. For this life, this place, all of it. Even the parts that hurt, because they led me here.”
She deleted the photos. Blocked Diane’s number for good measure—she didn’t need that kind of “friend” anymore. Then she slipped the phone into her pocket and took Will’s hand.
“Dance with me.”
He pulled her close right there on the porch, even though the music was distant and the floorboards creaked beneath them.
“We’re missing the party,” he murmured against her hair.
“The party can wait.” She breathed him in—sawdust, soap, the faint sweetness of wedding cake. “I just need a minute here.”
Out back, someone was making a toast—laughter and applause, the bright noise of celebration. Her family was here. Her children, her grandchild, the community that had welcomed her when she’d arrived broken and lost.
And here, in the arms of a man who loved her as she was, Tara felt something she hadn’t felt in years.
Whole.
She pulled back to look at Will’s face. The lines around his eyes. The silver threading through his dark hair. The quiet steadiness that had drawn her to him from the beginning.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know.” That slow smile she never tired of seeing. “Love you too. Now come on—Ryan’s organizing the electric slide, and it’s going to be either wonderful or a disaster. We shouldn’t miss it.”
Tara laughed and let him lead her inside, toward the music and the lights and the beautiful chaos of the family she’d built.
The lake held the last of the sunset behind her. Purple and gold fading to stars.
She didn’t look back.