Chapter 18
TARA
The soil was warm beneath Tara’s knees, summer heat radiating up through the garden bed she’d been working all morning.
She dug the trowel deeper, breaking up clay clumps, mixing in the compost Will had hauled over from the hardware store yesterday.
Her gardening gloves were already caked with dirt, and sweat trickled down her back beneath her cotton shirt.
This corner of the inn’s property had been overgrown when they’d started—wild blackberry canes and honeysuckle run riot, choking out everything else.
It had taken Will three weekends with the brush hog to clear it, and another week of hauling debris before Tara could even see the bones of what she wanted to create.
But now, finally, it was taking shape.
She sat back on her heels, surveying the progress.
The rosemary she’d planted last month had taken hold, its silver-green needles already fragrant in the early August heat.
She reached over and rubbed a sprig between her fingers, releasing that sharp, piney scent that always made her think of Sunday dinners and roast chicken and Patty standing at the stove in that ridiculous “Kiss the Cook” apron she’d worn until it fell apart.
“You’d probably tell me I’m being too sentimental,” Tara murmured. “Rosemary for remembrance. You’d roll your eyes and say something about how I watched too many period dramas.”
She could almost hear Patty’s voice. Honey, if you’re going to talk to dead people, at least do it somewhere air-conditioned.
Tara laughed, the sound catching in her throat. Barely six months since the funeral, and some days the grief still ambushed her—sudden and sharp, like stepping on a piece of glass she’d missed while sweeping.
The sound of Will’s truck crunching up the gravel drive pulled her back to the present. She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and watched him climb out, a length of lumber balanced on his shoulder.
“Got the cedar for the table,” he called. “And I picked up those forget-me-not seeds you wanted. Mary said they’re the best variety for this climate—should come back every year once they’re established.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I’m a man who knows better than to come home empty-handed when his wife sends him on a mission.” He leaned the lumber against the garden shed and crossed to where she knelt, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “How’s it coming?”
“Slowly.” She gestured at the bed she’d been working on . “The lavender goes here. I want it where guests can brush against it when they walk the path—that way they’ll carry the scent with them.”
Will crouched beside her, his knees cracking. He studied the layout with the same careful attention he brought to everything—the renovations, the furniture he built, the way he listened when she talked.
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.” Tara pulled off her gloves, flexing her stiff fingers. “When Christina was in labor, I sat in that waiting room for six hours with nothing to do but worry and plan. I mapped out every plant, every stone in the path.”
“And now you have a granddaughter and a garden.”
“And a husband who hauls lumber in eighty-degree heat without complaining.” Typically, it was in the high seventies in the summer with a few days here and there in the eighties, but the folks who’d lived here all their lives told Tara this year was warmer than before with mostly eighties in the summer and a ninety degree day predicted later this week.
Who would have thought that being up at three thousand feet in elevation wasn’t high enough to escape the worst of the summer heat?
Will’s mouth curved. “I complain. Just not where you can hear me.”
* * *
The days took on a rhythm. Mornings at the cottage helping Christina—holding Violet while her daughter showered, doing laundry, making sure there was always something in the refrigerator that could be heated up one-handed.
Afternoons at the inn, where the final punch list seemed to grow shorter one day and longer the next.
And evenings in the garden, when the worst of the heat had passed, and the light turned golden through the trees.
After dinner, she and Will would sit in the chairs he’d made out on the dock, enjoying the breeze off the lake.
Some nights they’d walk around the lake, stopping by the waterfall, their favorite spot.
Tara planted the lavender on a Tuesday, setting each plant carefully into the holes she’d dug, tamping the soil around the roots.
Lavender for peace, the old books said. For calm and tranquility.
Patty had never been particularly calm or tranquil—she’d been loud and opinionated and the kind of person who started arguments at dinner parties just to keep things interesting—but she’d known how to make other people feel at ease.
How to walk into a room full of strangers and leave with three new friends and someone’s phone number.
There was only one Patty, and Tara knew she’d never find another friend like her.
By Thursday, Will had finished the frame for the second bench.
The first one sat at the garden’s entrance, a simple cedar design with wide armrests where guests could set a cup of coffee or a book.
This second one would go deeper in, tucked into an alcove created by the curve of the path, a spot for solitude rather than socializing.
“I was thinking about the table,” Will said, sanding the armrest smooth. The rasp of sandpaper filled the air, mixing with the drone of cicadas in the trees. “Maybe something low, so people can put their feet up. More like a coffee table than a dining table.”
“That’s perfect.” Tara could picture it—guests sitting here in the early morning or late evening, watching the light change over the mountains, feeling whatever they needed to feel without anyone watching or judging.
She’d wanted the garden to be a place for that. For sitting with grief or gratitude or both at once.
“The plaque came in,” Will added, not looking up from his sanding. “I picked it up from the engraver this morning. Didn’t want to say anything until you were ready to see it.”
Tara’s hands stilled on the seedling she’d been about to plant. “Where is it?”
“In the truck. Wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t get scratched.”
She stood, brushing dirt from her knees, and walked to the truck on legs that felt slightly unsteady. The towel was soft, one of their old bath towels she’d relegated to the garage. She unwrapped it carefully.
The bronze was smaller than she’d expected, maybe eight inches by six. The letters were clean and simple, with no flourishes or fancy fonts. Just the words she’d chosen after changing her mind a dozen times.
In memory of Patty. Her absence is a shape the heart still holds.
Tara ran her finger over the engraving. The metal was warm from sitting in the sun in the cab of the truck.
“Is it okay?” Will had come to stand behind her, his hand light on her shoulder.
“It’s perfect.” Her voice came out rough. “I keep expecting her to call, you know? Even now. I’ll be doing something ordinary—folding laundry, making coffee—and I’ll think, ‘Oh, I should tell Patty about this.’ And then I remember.”
Will kissed her lightly on the cheek but didn’t say anything. He just stood there, solid and present, while she traced the letters again.
“The first year of college,” she said, “she was climbing out of a dorm window to escape a bad date. I was walking back from the library, and she nearly landed on top of me. Ripped her skirt on the windowsill. I helped her safety-pin it back together, and she bought me coffee to say thanks, and that was it. Thirty-five years of friendship, starting with a safety pin and a cup of terrible dining hall coffee.”
“She sounds like she was something.”
“She was.” Tara rewrapped the plaque carefully. “She would have loved all of this. The inn, family all together, Violet. She adored babies. She’d have been here every day, spoiling that child rotten, driving Christina crazy with unsolicited advice.”
She turned to face him, leaning into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and she let herself rest there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and clean sweat.
“She’d have loved you too,” Tara said into his shirt. “She’d have given you such a hard time. Interrogated you about your intentions, probably threatened you with something creative if you ever hurt me. And then she’d have pulled me aside and told me I’d done well.”
“High praise from a woman who climbed out of windows.”
Tara laughed, a real laugh this time. “She’d have appreciated that. The sass. Harry never talked back to her—he was always too polite, too careful about what people thought.”
She pulled back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. The sun was falling, the light turning that particular shade of amber that only happened in summer, when the days stretched long and the air itself seemed to glow.
“Come on,” she said. “Help me figure out where to put this.”
They chose a spot near the second bench, where the plaque could be mounted on a low stone that Will would set into the ground. The stone itself came from the lake shore—flat and gray, worn smooth by years of water.
“We’ll need to drill into it,” Will said, turning the stone over in his hands. “I can do that tomorrow, mount the plaque properly so it won’t come loose.”
“Tomorrow.” Tara nodded. “Tonight I just want to sit here for a while.”
They settled onto the first bench together, the one that was finished and waiting.
The garden was still mostly potential—bare soil where the forget-me-nots would grow, rose bushes and lavender plants still small and tentative, rosemary just beginning to spread.
But the bones were there. The shape of what it would become.
“Christina seemed better today,” Will said. “When I stopped by this morning to check on the leak under her bathroom sink.”
“There’s a leak?”
“There was. Took me ten minutes to fix. Gave me an excuse to see how she was doing without hovering.” He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.
“She’s tired, but she’s managing. Ryan had Violet when I got there—carrying her around the living room, talking to her about some video game like she could understand him. ”
“He’s good with her.” Tara smiled. “Did you see the way he looked at her in the hospital? Like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.”
The evening chorus was starting—crickets and tree frogs, the occasional call of a whippoorwill from somewhere across the lake. Tara leaned her head against Will’s shoulder and let the sounds wash over her.
“Patty never got to be a grandmother,” she said quietly. “Ben and Tim are both in relationships, but they’re still in college, so she never got to see them graduate. She’d have been the fun kind of grandmother. Ice cream for breakfast, staying up past bedtime.”
“She can still be part of Violet’s life. Through you. Through this place.”
“Matt said he and the boys are planning to come for the weekend for the opening. I didn’t tell him about the garden, I want it to be a surprise.
” Tara considered what Will had said. The garden, the inn, the stories she’d tell her granddaughter about the woman who’d been her best friend for three and a half decades.
“The electrician’s coming tomorrow,” she said, shifting gears. “Something about the outlet in Room Three not being up to code. And I need to call the linen supplier—they sent the wrong color towels last week.”
“I can handle the electrician if you want to work in the garden.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” Will stood, offering her his hand. “Come on. We should probably eat something before you fall asleep sitting up.”
Tara let him pull her to her feet. The garden was shadowy now, the rosemary just a dark shape against the lighter soil, the lavender invisible until you got close enough to smell it.
Tomorrow she’d plant the forget-me-nots. Blue flowers along the path, something bright to catch the eye and make people pause. And next week, when the plaque was properly mounted, she’d bring Christina here. Show her what she’d been building while her daughter was learning to be a mother.
“I was thinking,” she said as they walked toward the house, “we should have everyone over this weekend. A real family dinner. Evan and Emily, Ally if she’s not working, Ryan. Have Christina bring Violet and actually sit down for a meal instead of eating standing up over the sink.”
“You want to cook for all those people after the week you’ve had?”
“I want to feed our family.” She climbed into the passenger seat, already mentally inventorying the contents of the freezer. “Besides, Patty always said the best way to deal with hard times was to gather everyone you love in one room and make sure they’re well fed.”
Will held the door for her. “Wise woman.”
“The wisest.” Tara glanced back at the garden as they went inside, the shapes of the benches barely visible in the dusk. “We need dessert. Something chocolate. That was always her specialty—chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, the kind with enough candles to burn down the house.”
She pulled out her phone to start a grocery list. Flour, cocoa powder, butter—she’d need at least three sticks for the frosting alone. And she should text Christina, make sure Saturday worked. And check with Ally about her schedule.
Will handed her a glass of wine. Behind them, the garden waited—rosemary and lavender and empty beds ready for planting. Ahead of them, a family dinner to plan, a granddaughter to spoil and a hundred small tasks to finish.