Chapter 21
TARA
The mountains had never looked more inviting.
Tara stood on the inn’s wraparound porch, coffee warming her hands, watching the sunrise paint the peaks in shades of pink and gold.
The trees along the drive were still mostly green, but here and there a maple had started to turn, hints of orange and red creeping in at the edges like a promise of what was coming.
Up at the highest elevations, she could see patches of color beginning—the first scouts of autumn making their slow march down the mountainsides.
“You’re up early.” Will’s voice came from behind her, followed by the creak of the screen door. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder, his flannel shirt soft against her back.
“Couldn’t sleep. Too excited.” She leaned into him, breathing in the familiar scent of sawdust and coffee that clung to him even now. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”
“It’s really happening.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “In about four hours, this place is going to be full of people.”
“Ask me if I’m ready after our first guest checks in.”
They stood together watching the light change, the sky shifting from pink to pale blue, the morning mist burning off the lake.
A cool breeze carried the scent of smoke from someone’s chimney or woodstove and the earthy sweetness of the chrysanthemums Ally had planted along the porch railing—bronze and gold and deep burgundy, the colors of the season that was just beginning to arrive.
Behind them, the inn waited.
By ten o’clock, Tara had checked and rechecked every detail she could think of.
The breakfast room gleamed, the long farm table set with locally made pottery and linen napkins in warm autumn tones.
Ally’s flower arrangements caught the morning light—mason jars filled with zinnias, dahlias, and late-season sunflowers from her garden, each table sporting a different combination of the rich reds and golds and oranges that the mountains hadn’t quite achieved yet.
The smell of fresh-baked bread drifted from the kitchen, where the caterer was pulling loaves from the oven. Apple cider simmered in a massive pot on the stove, cinnamon and clove scenting the air.
“Mom.” Christina appeared in the doorway, Violet strapped to her chest in a carrier. “The Hendersons just pulled in. First guests.”
Tara’s heart gave a little skip. “Already? They’re not supposed to check in until noon.”
“They’re early. Should I—”
“No, no, I’ve got it.” Tara smoothed her hair, straightened her blouse, and headed for the front door.
The Hendersons were a retired couple from Charlotte, here for a week of hiking and to catch the early edge of leaf season.
Tara had spoken to Mrs. Henderson three times on the phone, answering questions about breakfast options and nearby trails and whether the inn had good reading light.
Now, meeting them in person, she found herself relaxing.
These were her people—travelers looking for something quieter than a hotel chain, something with character and home-cooked meals and rocking chairs on the porch.
“The room is perfect,” Mrs. Henderson declared after the tour, running her hand along the handmade quilt on the bed. “And that garden! Harold, did you see the garden?”
“Patty’s Garden,” Tara said, her throat tightening at the name. “It’s a memorial space. For reflection.”
“It’s beautiful. Those forget-me-nots along the path—and is that rosemary? My mother always said rosemary was for remembrance.”
Tara nodded, not trusting her voice.
By noon, three more couples had arrived, and the inn hummed with the quiet energy of people settling in, exploring, exclaiming over views and amenities.
Christina manned the front desk with Violet dozing in her carrier, her laptop open to the reservation system Evan had helped set up.
She looked tired—she always looked tired these days—but there was something brighter in her eyes than Tara had seen in months.
“How’s it going?” Tara asked, stopping by the desk between greeting guests.
“Good. Really good.” Christina glanced down at Violet. “Mrs. Henderson already asked if she could hold her. I said maybe later after the rush.”
“Smart girl.” Tara reached over to brush a finger across her granddaughter’s cheek. “You should take a break. Eat something.”
“I’m fine.”
“Christina.”
“I’ll eat, Mom. I promise. Just—let me handle the two o’clock check-in first.”
Tara didn’t push. Christina needed to be useful right now, needed to feel like she was contributing to something bigger than midnight feedings. If working the front desk gave her that, Tara would let her work.
The afternoon brought the last arrivals—a family with teenagers who immediately claimed the rocking chairs on the porch, a solo traveler with a camera around his neck and questions about the best sunrise spots.
He knew they were booked but wanted to spend time looking at the lake.
Then, a pair of sisters celebrating their fiftieth birthdays with a girls’ weekend away showed up and after checking with James that he didn’t need the study, she booked them in there, telling them it was a Murphy bed in the wall.
The sisters didn’t care, and when Will whispered in her ear that maybe he should draw up plans to renovate the second garage behind the inn, turn it into a guest cottage or three individual rooms, she just laughed, delighted.
And through it all, people kept finding their way to Patty’s Garden.
Tara watched from the kitchen window as an elderly man sat on the bench Will had built, his head bowed, his hands clasped in his lap. He stayed there for nearly an hour, and when he finally rose and walked back to the inn, his eyes were red but his face was peaceful.
“Someone you know?” Will asked, coming to stand beside her.
“I’ve never seen him before. But I think he needed that space.”
“That’s why you built it.”
“That’s why we built it.” She turned to face him. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“Sure, you could have. It just would have taken longer, and the trim work would be crooked.”
She laughed, the sound surprising her. She’d been so tense all day, so focused on making everything perfect, that she’d forgotten to enjoy it.
“Come on,” Will said, taking her hand. “There’s something you need to see.”
He led her through the breakfast room, past the kitchen where the caterer was arranging cheese plates for the afternoon reception, and into the small parlor they’d designated as the gallery.
Sam’s artwork hung on every wall.
Tara had seen the pieces before, of course—had helped Sam choose which ones to frame, had watched her arrange and rearrange them until she was satisfied.
But seeing them now, in the soft afternoon light, with guests already wandering through and murmuring appreciatively, was something else entirely.
There were sold stickers already on three of the pieces, all different views of the lake.
The mountain scenes captured the rolling peaks in every season—fog-shrouded valleys, sunsets that practically glowed, winter snowscapes that made you shiver just looking at them.
The lake views had a particular quality of light that happened only here, the way the water reflected the sky and the trees.
And in the corner, in the place of honor, hung Sam’s masterpiece.
A portrait of the waterfall at the far end of the lake, water cascading over rocks into a pool so vivid you could almost hear it.
“She did that from memory,” Will said quietly. “Sat by the waterfall for three hours one morning, then went home and painted it without any reference photos.”
“It’s stunning.” Tara moved closer, studying the brushwork, the way Sam had captured not just the waterfall but the feeling of it—the power and the peace, the constant movement and the sense of permanence.
Sam herself appeared in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her cheeks flushed. “Are people actually looking at them? I saw the Hendersons in here earlier, but I couldn’t tell if they were being polite or—”
“They’re not being polite.” Tara crossed to her and pulled her into a hug. “They’re admiring. You’ve already sold three.”
“Really?” Sam’s face lit up as she hugged Tara. “The waterfall piece,” Sam said into Tara’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s too much?”
“I think Mrs. Henderson is going to ask you about commissions before the day is over.”
Sam pulled back, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Really. Now go enjoy this. Mingle. Let people tell you how talented you are.”
The reception started at four, and by four-thirty the great room was full.
Locals mixed with guests, everyone holding cups of warm cider and plates of cheese and fruit.
Through the windows, the late afternoon light caught the mountains, the green slopes just barely touched with the first whispers of autumn color.
Ryan had brought three of his friends from school, teenage boys who immediately gravitated toward the food table and stayed there, talking and occasionally remembering to compliment the adults on the inn.
Emily and Evan arrived with Grace, who at seven months old was happy to be passed from arm to arm and admired by strangers.
Ally stood near the window, adjusting one of her flower arrangements and answering questions from a guest about growing dahlias.
She’d worn a new dress for the occasion—dark green, bringing out the hazel in her eyes—and Tara noticed her checking her phone more than once, her gaze drifting toward the door.
“Expecting someone?” Tara asked, sidling up to her.
“What? No, I mean—” Ally flushed. “Colton texted earlier. Said he might come to town for a few days.”
“Colton Matthews is coming to the opening?”
“He said might. Don’t make a thing of it.”
“Ally—”
“Mom, please.” Ally’s voice dropped. “I don’t even know if he’ll show. He’s been in New York for months. He probably has better things to do than fly out here for an inn opening.”
But her eyes kept going to the door.
Christina was still at the front desk, Violet awake now and watching the party with wide eyes. Tara detoured that way, carrying two plates of food.
“Eat,” she said, setting one in front of her daughter. “Mother’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“Same authority, less medical training.”
Christina smiled—a real smile, the kind that had been rare these past few months—and picked up a sandwich. “It’s going really well, isn’t it? The opening.”
“Better than I hoped.” Tara looked around at the crowded room, the guests mingling with locals, the afternoon light streaming through windows they’d argued about for weeks.
Violet let out a small cry, her face scrunching. Christina was already reaching for her, lifting her from the carrier.
“I’ve got her,” Tara said. “Go get some fresh air. Stretch your legs.”
“Mom—”
“Five minutes. I’ll bring her to you if she needs feeding.”
Christina hesitated, then handed Violet over. “Five minutes.”
“I know. I’ve done this before, remember? Many times.”
Violet settled into Tara’s arms with a small sigh, her eyes focusing on her grandmother’s face. Those eyes—still that newborn blue-gray, though Tara had started noticing something shifting at the edges, a warmth that didn’t quite match the Singleton coloring.
She didn’t ask Christina about it. She’d learned not to ask about certain things—the father, the future, the plan. Christina would tell her when she was ready.
“Come on, little one,” she murmured, walking toward the windows where the afternoon light was soft and golden. “Let me show you off to everyone.”
Outside, the mountains rose against a September sky, and guests wandered through Patty’s Garden, and somewhere in the kitchen someone was laughing.
Tara caught Will’s eye across the room, and he raised his cider cup in a silent toast. She nodded back, Violet warm in her arms. Through the window, she could see Christina on the porch, leaning against the railing, her face tilted up toward the mountains.
Peaceful—more peaceful than she’d seemed in months.
The caterer appeared at Tara’s elbow. “We’re running low on the brie, and I wanted to ask about the wine-and-cheese hour setup. Should we use the same table arrangement, or—”
“Let’s use the smaller tables by the windows. More intimate.” Tara shifted Violet to her other arm. “And check if we have more of that local goat cheese—the Hendersons seemed to love it.”
“On it.” The caterer disappeared back toward the kitchen.
Ryan approached next, three of his friends trailing behind him. “Mom, one of the sisters wants to know if it’s okay to take pictures in the garden. She asked me because I was closest to the door.”
“Of course she can. And tell her the light is best near the bench right now.”
Ryan nodded and headed off, his friends following. Tara smiled, watching them go. He’d come so far from the guarded, grieving boy who’d arrived last year. Now he had friends, purpose, a place where he belonged.
A murmur rippled through the room—heads turning toward the front door, voices dropping to whispers.
Tara looked up.
Ally had gone completely still by the window, her hand frozen mid-reach toward a dahlia that had drooped in its jar. Her face had lost its color, her eyes fixed on something—someone—in the doorway.
Tara followed her gaze.
A man stood on the threshold, tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair windswept, Daisy at his side, looking happy, tail wagging.
He wore jeans and a simple button-down, nothing designer, nothing flashy—but something about the way he held himself, the way the room seemed to rearrange itself around his presence, marked him as someone used to being watched.
Colton Matthews.
He wasn’t looking at the crowd, or the decorations, or the art on the walls. He was looking at Ally, his blue eyes locked on her face with an intensity that made Tara’s breath catch. She knew it, knew they still loved each other.
And Ally—her daughter who’d spent months pretending she was fine, who’d thrown herself into her flower business and her bees and building a life that didn’t include the man who’d broken her heart—Ally looked like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Violet stirred in Tara’s arms, making a small sound.
Neither Colton nor Ally moved.