Chapter 8 Tara
TARA
Who would have guessed that the smell of sawdust and fresh paint would have become Tara’s favorite perfume?
She stood in what would be the inn’s front parlor, the morning light streaming through the windows that Will had installed yesterday.
The glass was still spotted with fingerprints and construction dust, but she could already imagine guests gathered here—curled up in armchairs with books, sipping coffee while watching the lake, finding the peace she’d found when she first arrived in Blueberry Hill.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Will appeared in the doorway, a measuring tape in hand and sawdust freckling his dark hair.
“Just imagining.” She gestured at the empty room. “Overstuffed chairs there, maybe. A fireplace with a mantel for photographs. Bookshelves.”
“We could do built-ins.” He crossed to the far wall, running his hand along the freshly painted surface. “Floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder. Very classic.”
“Very expensive.”
“Totally worth it.” He turned back to her with that smile that still made her stomach flip, even after everything. “This is your dream. We’re not cutting corners.”
She opened her mouth to argue—old habits, leftover from years of Harry scrutinizing every purchase—but stopped herself. Will was right. This was her dream. Their dream now.
The sound of tires on gravel drew her attention to the window. A familiar truck pulled up the drive, forest green and well-maintained despite its age.
“James,” she said.
Will joined her at the window. “He said he might stop by today. Something about a delivery.”
James Roberts climbed out of the truck, moving with the deliberate economy of someone who spent most of his time alone.
He was carrying a large cardboard box, and even from here Tara could see the slight furrow in his brow that meant he was about to do something he found socially uncomfortable.
The best-selling author fit the introverted writer stereotype to a T.
She met him at the door, Will a step behind her.
“Morning.” She smiled warmly, hoping to put him at ease. The man always looked like he was bracing for an interrogation. “Come on in. Watch the paint—some of it’s still tacky.”
James stepped carefully over the threshold, his boots leaving faint prints on the drop cloths covering the floor. His blue-gray eyes swept the room with a writer’s gaze, taking in every detail.
“Coming along nicely,” he said. High praise from James, who lived in a stunning glass and wood house.
“Slowly but surely.” Tara eyed the box in his arms. “What’s that?”
He set it on the makeshift table—two sawhorses with a piece of plywood across them—and stepped back as if the cardboard might bite him.
“For the inn. Whatever you need it for, consider it an early housewarming gift.”
Tara lifted the flaps. Inside was an envelope, thick and white, resting on top of what looked like... she pulled it out and unfolded the fabric. A quilt. Hand-stitched, in soft blues and greens that matched the lake outside, with a pattern of interlocking stars.
“James.” Her voice came out hushed. “This is beautiful.”
“It was my grandmother’s. One of them, anyway—she made dozens. I’ve got more than I need.” He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with her reaction. “Figured a bed-and-breakfast could use quilts.”
Will reached past her and picked up the envelope. “May I?”
James nodded tersely.
Will opened it, and Tara watched his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. He showed her the check inside, and her breath caught.
“James, this is too much.”
“It’s not.” His voice was firm despite its quietness. “The inn will be good for this town. Good for the people who come here needing—” He stopped, ran a hand through his hair in that gesture Tara had learned meant he was choosing his words carefully. “Needing what this place offers.”
Will folded his arms, a knowing look settling onto his face. “You know, for someone who claims to hate people, you sure do a lot for them.”
James’s expression flickered—annoyance, embarrassment, something softer underneath. “I don’t hate people. I just prefer them in small doses.”
“Like at Christmas.” Will’s tone was light, teasing. “Anonymous small doses.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” Tara couldn’t help herself. “Because I seem to remember a certain Secret Santa who went to elaborate lengths to help half the town without anyone knowing who was responsible.”
James’s jaw tightened, but she caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. “The lottery money was just sitting there. Seemed wasteful not to use it.”
“Mmm.” Will nodded sagely. “Very practical. Nothing to do with caring about your neighbors.”
“Nothing at all.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the morning light catching the dust motes floating in the air. Outside, a cardinal called from somewhere near the lake.
“This quilt is from your grandmother,” Tara said finally, running her fingers over the careful stitching. “That’s not lottery money. That’s personal.”
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than usual. “She would have liked this place. Would have liked what you’re building here.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. There are five more quilts where that came from. Let me know if you want them.”
“We want them,” Will said immediately. “Every room should have one.”
James nodded, looking relieved to have the emotional portion of the conversation behind him. He wandered toward the windows, studying the view of the lake with his hands shoved in his pockets.
“When do you expect to open?”
“September, if everything stays on track.” Tara carefully refolded the quilt and set it back in the box.
“We’re calling it The Blueberry Inn. There’ll be five guest rooms upstairs, each with its own bathroom.
Breakfast included, obviously. Maybe some special events—Ally’s already talking about wedding flowers, and Sam wants to teach watercolor classes. ”
“Sounds like half the town will be involved.”
“That’s the idea.”
James turned from the window, and something in his expression had shifted. Less guarded than usual.
“I’d like to book a room,” he said. “When you open.”
Tara blinked. “You live ten minutes away.”
“I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, and Tara wondered if he was seeing anyone. He was a great guy, and she hoped he’d find someone who fit him like Will fit her.
“You have a perfectly good, beautiful home.”
“I know.” He paused, seeming to weigh his next words. “Sometimes a writer needs a change of scenery. New walls to stare at when the words won’t come. And I’ve been thinking it might be good. To be around people more. In controlled doses.”
Will caught Tara’s eye. James Roberts, volunteering to spend time in a building full of strangers?
“We’d love to have you,” she said carefully. “But your visits would be on the house. To thank you for your generosity.”
“Early mornings,” James said quickly. “Before the other guests wake up. I could write on the porch. Watch the sunrise over the lake. Then disappear before anyone tries to make conversation about the weather.”
“That could be arranged.”
Will grinned. “Look at this.” He walked over to the wall. “We’re going to put floor-to-ceiling bookshelves across the entire wall with a rolling ladder, but see this door?”
James nodded, looking intrigued.
“It leads to a study.” He opened the door to show off a small room with a half bath and floor to ceiling windows.
“I’d pay full price for that. Who doesn’t love a hidden room?”
“James.” Tara waited until he met her eyes. “You’re always welcome here. But those quilts and the generous donation…” She looked at Will, who nodded. “Consider using the study whenever you want when we open. It’s yours for the next year.”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or the kind of discomfort that came from being offered kindness without conditions. He nodded once, sharply, and turned back toward the door.
“I should let you get back to work. Just—” He paused at the threshold. “Let me know if you need anything. Supplies. Labor. Whatever.”
“We will.”
He was gone before she could say anything else, the screen door swinging shut behind him. Through the window, she watched him climb back into his truck, sit for a moment without starting the engine, and then finally he pulled away down the gravel drive.
“Well,” Will said. “That was unexpected.”
“The donation?”
“The wanting to book a room.” He moved to stand beside her, his arm settling around her waist. “I’ve known James for a while now. I’ve never seen him voluntarily seek out human company.”
Tara leaned into his warmth, watching the dust settle in James’s wake. “Maybe he’s ready for something different.”
“Maybe.” Will pressed a kiss to her temple. “Speaking of different—we should talk about those bookshelves before I call the lumberyard.”
She turned from the window, already reaching for her notebook. “I was thinking floor to ceiling, with beadboard backs. And the rolling ladder should be brass, not chrome.”
“Brass.” Will pulled out his measuring tape. “You have expensive taste, Mrs. Dixon.”
“I have good taste.” She grinned at him. “There’s a difference.”
They spent the next hour measuring and sketching, debating shelf heights and wood finishes, the smell of sawdust and fresh paint swirling around them. Outside, the June sun climbed higher over the lake.
By noon, they had a rough plan for the parlor. By one, Will was on the phone with the lumberyard, negotiating delivery dates. Tara wandered into the dining room, mentally arranging tables, when her phone buzzed.
Christina.
Baby’s kicking up a storm. Come feel?
She typed back.
On my way. Give me ten minutes.
“Will?” She grabbed her keys from the sawhorse table. “I’m heading to the cottage. Christina wants me to feel the baby kicking.”
“Go.” He waved her off without looking up from his measurements. “Tell Violet her grandfather says hello.”
Tara paused at the door, hand on the frame. “Grandfather. That still sounds strange coming from you.”
“Good strange?”
“The best kind.”
She stepped outside into the warm June air, James’s grandmother’s quilt waiting safely inside, and headed down the path toward the cottage where her pregnant daughter was counting kicks.
Behind her, the sound of Will’s hammer started up again, steady and sure. Building something new.