Chapter 26 Sophia
SOPHIA
The gravel drive swallowed her Louboutins.
Sophia felt the heel sink, caught herself on the car door, and stared down at the red-soled perfection buried in the dirt.
The driver from the airstrip—a weathered man in a flannel shirt who’d barely spoken three words the entire ride—waited with her Louis Vuitton rolling bag, his expression somewhere between amused and pitying.
“Careful there.” He shifted the bag from one hand to the other. “Ground’s soft from last night’s rain.”
She yanked her foot free, leaving a divot in the drive, and surveyed the building in front of her.
The Blueberry Inn sat in the late September sunshine, its white clapboard siding and wraparound porch looking like something from a tourism brochure.
Bronze chrysanthemums spilled from planters along the railing.
This was where Marco had lost his mind. This quaint little inn in a town that didn’t appear on most maps.
Four days since his cryptic text—Something’s happened.
I need to tell you before you hear it from anyone else—and she’d spent every one of them canceling meetings and demanding answers from Colton, who’d finally broken last night after her third call in two hours.
A baby. Marco’s baby. With some American woman.
“You can leave the bag on the porch.” She fished cash from her structured Hermès handbag. “I’ll manage from here.”
The driver pocketed the money, tipped his cap, and drove away without comment.
Sophia stood alone, the crunch of his retreating tires fading into birdsong and the whisper of wind through trees just beginning to turn gold at their edges.
Smoke curled from the inn’s chimney, carrying the scent of smoke and something sweeter—apple, maybe—across the cool air.
She smoothed her black cashmere coat and walked toward the door, each step threatening to drive her remaining heel into the soft ground. By the time she reached the porch, her shoes were splattered with mud and her jaw ached from clenching.
The front door opened before she could reach for the handle.
Marco stood in the doorway, looking nothing like the brother she’d last seen in Milan. No tailored suit, no artfully tousled hair. He wore a flannel shirt—flannel, like some kind of lumberjack—and jeans. His face had changed too. Something softer around the eyes. Something almost peaceful.
It made her want to shake him.
“Sophia.” He stepped back to let her in. “You came.”
“You asked me to.” She swept past him into a foyer that smelled of wood polish and warm cinnamon.
Exposed beams crossed the ceiling. A stone fireplace crackled with a small fire.
Charming, she admitted grudgingly. Tasteful.
“Though your explanation left something to be desired. ‘Something’s happened’ could mean anything from a business crisis to—”
“To finding out I have a daughter?”
The words hung in the air between them. Sophia set her handbag on the front desk.
“Colton told me. Eventually.” She turned to face him, keeping her expression neutral despite the chaos churning beneath it.
“A baby, Marco. You have a baby with some woman I’ve never heard of, and you’ve been here for—what?
Almost a week? Playing house while I’ve been fielding calls from Brioni and making excuses to our parents? ”
“I didn’t know.” His voice was quiet but steady.
“Not until a few days ago. Christina—the mother—she never told me. She didn’t even know who I was when we.
..” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It was one night, Sophia. In Miami, almost a year ago. Neither of us wanted names or stories. And then she found out she was pregnant, and she looked me up, and she decided her daughter was better off without the Castellano circus.”
“Without—” Sophia stopped, recalibrating. “She knew who you were and chose not to contact you?”
“She saw the tabloids. The yacht parties, the models, the scandals you’ve spent years cleaning up.” Marco’s mouth twisted. “Can you blame her? If you read about me in a magazine, would you want me anywhere near your child?”
The question landed harder than it should have.
A door opened somewhere down the hall, and footsteps approached. A woman appeared—mid-fifties, with light brown hair, an apron dusted with flour. She stopped when she saw Sophia, her expression shifting from surprise to careful welcome.
“You must be Marco’s sister.” She wiped her hands on her apron and extended one. “I’m Tara. This is my inn.”
“Sophia Castellano.” She shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip, the flour under the fingernails, the complete absence of intimidation in the woman’s gaze. “I assume you’re Christina’s mother?”
“I am.” Tara’s tone cooled slightly. “And I assume you’re here to—”
“I don’t know why I’m here.” The admission surprised Sophia as much as anyone.
“I thought I did. I had a whole speech prepared about protecting my family’s reputation, about gold-diggers and non-disclosure agreements.
But my brother has just informed me that your daughter chose to raise her baby alone rather than risk exposing her to us.
” She met Tara’s eyes. “I’m still processing what that says about my family. ”
Something shifted in Tara’s expression. Not quite warmth, but a lessening of hostility.
“Christina’s at the cottage with Violet,” Tara said. “She’s got a few weeks left of maternity leave, but she’s been helping me here when she can—learning the breakfast service, greeting guests. She’ll be back this afternoon if you want to talk to her.”
“I do. Eventually.” Sophia glanced at Marco, who was watching the exchange with barely concealed anxiety. “First, I need to talk to my brother. Privately.”
“You can use the study off the library.” Tara gestured down the hall. “Take all the time you need. I’ll have coffee sent in.”
The study was small and lined with books, with a desk in one corner, and a pair of worn leather chairs facing windows that overlooked what appeared to be a garden.
Sophia sank into one chair, suddenly aware of how tired she was.
The flight from Milan, the layover in New York, the puddle-jumper to whatever tiny airstrip served this town—all of it catching up with her at once.
Marco closed the door and leaned against it, looking like a man awaiting sentencing.
“Tell me everything,” she said. “From the beginning.”
So he did. Miami, almost a year ago. A club, a woman with honey-blonde hair who made him laugh for the first time in months.
One night of something that felt real in a life that had started to feel like a performance.
Waking up alone, no name, no number, just the memory of her face and the strange hollow feeling that he’d let something important slip away.
Then Blueberry Hill. His friend Colton’s hometown, where Marco had come to escape the latest scandal. The inn’s grand opening. A woman outside walking around the lake, and the shock of recognition hitting him like a physical blow.
“I knew it was her the second I saw her,” Marco said. “And then I saw Violet, and I looked at her face, and I just—I knew. Before she confirmed it, before she said anything. I knew that baby was mine.”
Sophia listened without interrupting, her mind cataloging details, calculating implications. A secret baby. An American mother with no apparent interest in Castellano money. A brother who spoke about this woman and child with a tenderness she’d never heard in his voice before.
“What do you want?” she asked when he finished. “Realistically. What outcome are you hoping for?”
Marco was quiet for a long moment. “I want to be her father. Violet’s.
I want to be part of her life, not just a name on a check or a face she sees once or twice a year.
” He moved to the window, staring out at the garden.
“I’ve been thinking about checking out of the inn.
Staying at Colton’s place while I figure things out.
Give Christina some space, but stay close enough that she knows I’m not going anywhere. ”
“And the business? The campaigns? Father’s expecting you back in Milan by November.”
“I know.” He turned to face her. “I’m not saying I’ll never go back. But right now, my daughter needs to know me. Christina needs to trust me. That matters more than any fashion campaign.”
Sophia studied her brother—this strange new version of him who talked about trust and presence and being part of something rather than being the center of it. She thought about their father, about the phone call she’d have to make, about the storm that was coming.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “A few days, at least. To meet this Christina properly. To see Violet.” She paused. “And to make sure you haven’t completely lost your mind.”
Marco’s smile was small but genuine. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t decided if I’m on your side or here to drag you home.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. A young woman with dark curly hair poked her head in—not Christina, someone else.
“Sorry to interrupt. Mom sent coffee.” She carried a tray into the room, setting it on the small table between the chairs. “I’m Ally. Christina’s sister.”
“Sophia.” She accepted the cup Ally offered, noting the calluses on the younger woman’s hands, the faint scent of honey and outdoors clinging to her clothes. “You run a business? The honey I saw in the breakfast room?”
“Blueberry Hill Honey. Local wildflowers, mostly.” Ally’s smile was cautious but not unfriendly. “You’re staying?”
“For a few days. If there’s a room available.”
“Room three’s open. Right next to Marco’s.” Ally glanced between them. “I’ll let Mom know.”
When she’d gone, Sophia sipped her coffee and stared at the books lining the walls. Classics, mostly. Well-read spines. Someone in this household had taste.
“I need to meet Christina,” she said. “Today, if possible. And Violet.”
“I’ll take you to the cottage this afternoon. But Sophia—” Marco’s voice carried a warning. “She’s been through enough. If you go in there with accusations and threats—”
“I don’t know what I’m going to say to her.” It was the truth. The speech she’d prepared—the one about lawyers and reputation and protecting the family name—felt hollow now. Irrelevant. “But I won’t make promises about being gentle. I need to see for myself what kind of woman she is.”
Marco nodded, accepting that. “Fair enough.”
The fire crackled in the next room. Outside, a bird called from somewhere in the garden. Sophia finished her coffee and stood, smoothing her ruined coat.
“I need to change. And possibly burn these shoes.” She moved toward the door. “Have someone show me to my room. We’ll go to the cottage in an hour.”
She was in the hallway, heading for the stairs, when a voice spoke from the kitchen doorway.
“You must be Marco’s sister.”
She turned. The man filling the doorframe was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair silvered at the temples and a jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in at least two days.
He wore a flannel shirt over a henley, jeans worn soft from actual work, boots that had walked through their share of mountain mud.
A chipped ceramic mug in his hand read “World’s Okayest Writer. ”
Everything about him read practical and indifferent—the complete opposite of every man in her carefully curated world.
“I am.” She straightened, summoning the armor she’d worn for decades. “And you are?”
“James.” He took a sip of coffee, offering nothing else.
“James what?”
“Roberts.”
The name tugged at her memory—a book review she’d skimmed in the arts section, an award ceremony mentioned in passing. She studied him with fresh interest. The silver at his temples. The calloused hands wrapped around the mug. The way he held himself apart, contained and watchful.
“The author. J.M. Roberts.”
Something flickered in his gray eyes—annoyance, maybe, or resignation. “Sometimes.”
“Your last novel won the—”
“Don’t.” The word came out flat. “I came here to get away from people who want to talk about my books.”
“I wasn’t—” She stopped, annoyed at her own defensiveness. “I was simply making an observation.”
“Observe quietly, then.”
The dismissal was so complete, so unconcerned with her feelings, that Sophia didn’t know whether to be offended or fascinated. Men didn’t speak to her this way. Men fell over themselves to impress her, to earn her attention, to leverage her family connections.
This one looked at her as if she were a mild inconvenience blocking his path to the coffeepot.
“You’re very rude,” she said.
“And you’re standing in a hallway looking like someone just told you the world doesn’t revolve around you.” He moved past her toward the kitchen. “Welcome to Blueberry Hill.”
He was gone before she could respond, leaving Sophia alone in the hall with her ruined shoes and the unsettling realization that for the first time in years, someone had looked at her and seen nothing worth impressing.
From the study, she heard Marco’s voice, low and urgent, probably on the phone with Colton. From the kitchen came the sounds of Tara giving instructions to someone. And somewhere outside, a truck pulled up the drive, gravel crunching under its tires.
Sophia climbed the stairs to find her room, her mind already racing ahead to the conversation with Christina. To the baby she hadn’t yet seen. To the strange new world her brother had stumbled into.
And against her will, to the gray-eyed writer who’d dismissed her like she was nobody at all.