Chapter 30 Tara
TARA
The jack-o’-lanterns came to life at dusk.
Tara stood on the inn’s front porch, watching the carved pumpkins flicker into orange warmth as Ryan and his friends lit the candles inside them.
They’d spent the entire previous afternoon at the long farmhouse table, scooping seeds and arguing over designs—Ryan’s intricate geometric pattern, his friend Derek’s lopsided grin, a pair of twin sisters competing to carve the scariest face.
Now, their creations lined every surface.
The porch railings, the front steps, the stone wall bordering Patty’s Garden.
“That one’s definitely going to catch fire,” Ryan said, pointing at Derek’s pumpkin, which had been carved so thin the light blazed through like a bonfire.
“It’s atmospheric,” Derek protested.
“It’s a fire hazard.”
“Same thing.”
Tara smiled and left them to their bickering.
The inn buzzed with activity behind her—final preparations for the Halloween party that had somehow grown from a small family gathering into a full community event.
Mary had brought pumpkin bread from Spilled Milk.
Francesca was setting up a costume contest station in the parlor.
Bo had parked his sheriff’s cruiser out front with the lights flashing, much to the delight of every child within a mile radius.
And Bertha the goat had arrived wearing a witch’s hat.
The hat was black felt with a purple ribbon, slightly askew on Bertha’s head, and the goat seemed unbothered by her costume as she wandered between hay bales, sampling the decorative corn stalks whenever she thought no one was looking.
“Mary, your goat is eating the decorations again,” Tara called.
“She’s in character,” Mary called back from inside. “Witches are supposed to cause mischief.”
Tara shook her head, but she was laughing. This was exactly what she’d imagined when she’d first dreamed of the inn—chaos and warmth and community tangled together in the best possible way.
“Mom!”
Christina’s voice carried from the side door, and Tara turned to find her daughter emerging with Violet in her arms. The baby was wearing a pumpkin costume—orange velvet with a green stem cap, her tiny fists waving as she took in the flickering lights and costumed crowds.
At fifteen weeks, Violet couldn’t do much more than observe, but she was doing it with great intensity, her green-gold eyes tracking every movement.
“She won’t stop staring at the jack-o’-lanterns,” Christina said. “I think she’s plotting something.”
“She’s a Castellano. They’re always plotting something.” Marco appeared behind Christina, carrying the diaper bag and what looked like a backup pumpkin costume. “In our defense, our plots usually involve fashion choices.”
“Is that why you brought two costumes?”
“The first one had a spit-up incident. We don’t talk about it.”
Tara reached for her granddaughter, and Violet came willingly, settling against her chest with a small coo. The baby smelled of powder and something warmer underneath—that particular sweetness that never quite faded.
“There’s my girl,” Tara murmured. “My perfect little pumpkin.”
Violet responded by grabbing a fistful of Tara’s hair and attempting to eat it.
“She’s got good taste,” Marco said. “She knows quality when she sees it.”
Tara freed her hair from tiny fingers and handed Violet back to Christina. “Go show her off. Everyone’s asking about her.”
“Everyone’s asking about the billionaire slash model who’s apparently moving to Blueberry Hill,” Christina said, but she was smiling.
“Not moving,” Marco corrected. “Spending significant time. There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh.”
They disappeared into the crowd, and Tara watched them go—her daughter with her honey-blonde ponytail, the Italian fashion heir who looked genuinely comfortable in flannel and boots, and the baby between them who had somehow brought two worlds together.
Inside, the inn glowed. Orange and black streamers crisscrossed the ceiling.
Fake cobwebs draped the corners, complete with plastic spiders that Tara kept finding in unexpected places.
Someone had hung a skeleton from the chandelier—she suspected Ryan—and it swayed gently in the warmth rising from the crowded room.
“Excuse me! Bumblebee coming through!”
Emily shouldered past with Grace on her hip. The baby was dressed as a bumblebee—yellow and black stripes, tiny antennae bobbing on her head—and she was reaching for everything in sight. At eight months, Grace had entered the grabbing phase, and nothing within arm’s reach was safe.
“She keeps trying to steal candy from the bowl,” Emily said, slightly frazzled. “She can’t even eat candy. She doesn’t have teeth.”
“She’s ambitious,” Tara said. “She gets it from her father.”
“Her father is currently running a haunted gaming room and making children scream.”
Tara looked toward the parlor, where Evan and Ryan had set up their Halloween gaming station. Fog machine smoke curled under the door, and periodically a shriek of delighted terror emerged.
“Making children scream with joy,” Tara corrected. “That’s different.”
“The Peterson kid ran out saying a zombie touched his arm.”
“Was there a zombie?”
“A guy in gray face paint.”
“That counts.”
Emily laughed and shifted Grace to her other hip. The baby immediately grabbed for a passing plate of cookies. “I should find Evan. He promised to take bumblebee duty after the next round of ghost attacks.”
She waded into the crowd, and Tara made her way toward the front window where Sam had set up her face painting station. The girl—young woman now, really—was bent over a young child’s face, painting whiskers with careful strokes.
“Hold still,” Sam said. “Cats don’t wiggle.”
“I’m a tiger.”
“Tigers definitely don’t wiggle.”
Beside her, Dora sat behind a card table covered with watercolor postcards. Autumn scenes mostly—the lake at sunset, the mountains in their Halloween colors, Patty’s Garden with its bronze chrysanthemums. A hand-lettered sign read, “Blueberry Hill Originals - $5 each.”
“You’re doing well,” Tara said, noting the depleted stack.
“Three tourists bought five each,” Dora said, her lined face smug. “Said they wanted souvenirs. I told them to come back in the spring for the wildflower series.”
“You’re planning a wildflower series?”
“I am now.”
Sam finished the tiger whiskers and accepted a crumpled five-dollar bill from the child’s parent. “Grandma’s been talking about opening an online store. I told her I’d help set it up.”
“Etsy,” Dora said, pronouncing it like a foreign word. “Whatever that means.”
Tara felt something warm bloom in her chest. Last winter, Sam had arrived in Blueberry Hill with nothing but a dog and a rusted car. Now she was teaching art to children and helping Dora sell paintings and talking about her scholarship essays like they were exciting rather than terrifying.
“I’m proud of you,” Tara said quietly. “Both of you.”
Sam ducked her head, but she was smiling. Dora just waved a weathered hand.
“Go on with you. There’s a party happening, and you’re supposed to be hosting it.”
Tara found Sophia at the cider station.
This alone was remarkable—Sophia Castellano, fashion designer to the elite, standing by a folding table ladling warm apple cider into paper cups.
More remarkable still was what she was wearing.
Jeans, actual jeans, with worn-in boots and a chunky sweater that looked suspiciously like something from Ally’s closet.
“Don’t say anything,” Sophia said without looking up.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you look comfortable.”
Sophia paused, ladle suspended over a cup. Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or the vulnerability she’d been slowly learning to show.
“I am,” she said. “Surprisingly.”
“The boots suit you.”
“They’re Ally’s. She insisted my heels would sink into the lawn and never be seen again.” Sophia handed a cup to a waiting guest, then turned back to Tara. “She wasn’t wrong.”
From across the room, Tara saw James Roberts making his way toward them. He was wearing what passed for festive in his wardrobe—a dark flannel shirt instead of his usual gray one—and he moved through the crowd without stopping to chat, his eyes fixed on Sophia.
When he reached her, he didn’t say anything. Just took her hand, interlaced their fingers, and stood beside her.
Sophia’s cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t pull away.
Tara felt her eyebrows rise. “Well.”
“Don’t,” Sophia said again, but she was fighting a smile.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Your face is saying plenty.”
James looked at Tara with his steady gray gaze. “She’s learning to let people see her,” he said. “I figure the least I can do is to be seen with her.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“It’s practical.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
James almost smiled, and Sophia leaned into his shoulder just slightly, a gesture so small Tara might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching.
They’d figure it out, these two wounded people who’d found each other.
Maybe Sophia would go back to Milan and James would stay in his cabin and they’d make the distance work.
Maybe she’d stay longer, design collections from a lake house, let the mountains soften her edges or James would go back to Milan with her.
Tara didn’t know. But watching them now—Sophia in borrowed boots, James holding her hand for everyone to see—she thought they had a real chance.
“Hey, Mom!”
Ally’s voice cut through the crowd, and Tara turned to find her youngest daughter pushing toward her with Colton in tow. Ally was beaming, practically bouncing, her left hand extended like she was directing traffic.
“Look, look, look, look, look!”