Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Forrest
Daisy Thorn moves through Winterberry Cove like she knows where every problem will be before it has the nerve to become one.
By eight-thirty, she has relocated two crates of mislabeled wine, rewritten the tasting room setup plan on the back of a harvest menu, convinced Marlene that a pumpkin arch is “visually ambitious” instead of saying it looks like autumn threw up on a trellis, and stopped Helena from replacing Carla Alden’s bridal bouquet with funeral flowers.
Barely.
Helena still looks tempted.
I respect it.
Support it, even.
“Absolutely not,” Daisy tells her cousin, standing beside a long wooden table covered in dahlias, mums, eucalyptus, and enough greenery to hide evidence. “You cannot use flowers as a Yelp review of someone’s character.”
Helena holds up a dark bloom. “This says betrayal with restraint.”
“That is not a wedding theme.”
“It has range.”
“It has a restraining order from good taste.”
“This is why people fear artists.”
“This is why people should fear brides.”
Helena scoffs.
Daisy points at the bouquet. “No funeral tones.”
“Carla asked for romantic fall drama.” Helena gives me a sharp nod. “I followed instructions.”
“Romantic fall drama means candlelight and tasteful longing. It does not mean vineyard widow with a secret.”
Helena looks toward me. “Wolfcraft, say something useful.”
I’m holding a crate of wine near the tasting room door, because my role today is large decorative labor with a fake-boyfriend subplot.
“Daisy’s right.”
Daisy turns to me, immediately suspicious. “That was too easy.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Do you need water? Are you having a vineyard episode?”
Helena snorts.
I set the crate exactly where Daisy told me to set it, not near the east window, because Eleanor mentioned temperature once and Daisy gave me a look that suggested this family has fought about sun exposure since the invention of glass.
“You told her no funeral flowers,” I say. “Reasonable.”
“See?” Daisy tells Helena. “Even my boyfriend understands wedding etiquette.”
Boyfriend.
Fake or not, the word hits different here.
In Boston, it was a contract written in ink and bad judgment. Here, on Thorn property, with her mother ten yards away and half the town waiting to report back by dinner, it feels like a match struck too close to dry wood.
Helena looks from Daisy to me, then back at the flowers. “I’ll remove one dahlia.”
“Three,” Daisy counters.
“One.”
“Two, and you get to keep the dramatic eucalyptus.”
Helena narrows her eyes. “You drive a hard bargain for a woman with brought-a-Wolfcraft-home-before-nine-in-the-morning energy.”
Daisy smiles. “It’s called range.”
“It’s called caffeine dependency.”
“Also range.”
Helena considers the bouquet. “Fine. I’ll remove two dahlias. But if Carla says the arrangement lacks emotional consequence, I’m blaming you.”
“Carla does not need emotional consequence in her bouquet,” Daisy says. “She already has a groom.”
Helena’s mouth twitches.
Mine does too.
Daisy catches it and points at both of us. “No. Absolutely not. Nobody is bonding over floral vengeance before breakfast.”
Helena removes two dahlias with the reluctant dignity of a woman surrendering weapons at customs.
“Happy?” she asks.
Daisy studies the bouquet. “Happier.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No, but it’s what I’m emotionally capable of today.”
Helena sighs.
Daisy nods as if she has just negotiated international peace with a woman holding floral snips.
Then she spots Lorna, one of the seasonal employees, struggling with a stack of menu cards, and she’s gone.
Not walking.
Moving.
“Lorna, wait. Those go in the tasting room, not the barrel room. We need the barrel room clear for linen delivery, and if Marlene sees fabric before caffeine, she’ll become religious about texture.”
Lorna freezes mid-step. “Got it.”
Daisy takes half the cards, checks the top one, frowns, digs a pen from her hair, and corrects something before anyone else would have noticed the mistake.
I watch her do it.
I shouldn’t.
I’m here to carry things, pretend to be her boyfriend, survive Winterberry, and avoid saying anything that makes the school board decide I shouldn’t be allowed within fifty feet of a whistle.
But watching Daisy at the vineyard is like watching someone slip back into a language she thought she’d forgotten. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t wait to be asked. The place recognizes her, and that pisses me off.
Not because she belongs here.
Because everyone knows she does and still lets her carry too much.
“Darling, would you mind checking the reserve case labels?” Eleanor calls from the tasting room.
“Daisy,” Marlene adds from the porch, “could you look at this arch angle?”
“Daisy, quick question,” Lorna says.
“Daisy,” Helena mutters, “tell your mother I’m not changing the dahlias again unless someone pays me in cash and silence.”
Daisy answers every one of them.
Every time.
Same bright competence. Same quick jokes. Same speed that makes people forget to ask if she has eaten, slept, breathed, or considered not being the emergency exit for every room she enters.
I understand that too well.
People loved my temper when it won games. Loved the hits, the edge, the clips. They used the thing in me that made money until it became inconvenient. Then everyone acted shocked that feeding the fire and calling it passion had consequences.
Daisy’s competence is prettier than anger.
That doesn’t make people using it any less ugly.
“Don’t brood near my flowers,” Helena says.
I look at her.
She trims a stem without glancing up. “They’re sensitive.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“You’re doing something with your face.”
“That’s just my face.”
“Unfortunate.”
Daisy comes back with the menu cards hugged to her chest and a new problem in her eyes. “Principal Whitcomb is coming at ten.”
I look at her. “Today?”
“Yes. She wants an early walkthrough of the community dinner space while she’s in town for a school thing.”
I glance toward Eleanor, who is speaking with Junie by the tasting room. “Your mother didn’t mention that.”
“My mother doesn’t mention things. She releases them into the environment and hopes we adapt.”
Helena lifts a hand. “That is our family crest.”
Daisy checks her notebook. “Principal Whitcomb, Coach Harris, someone from the booster board, and possibly a student committee rep.”
“Student committee rep?” I repeat.
She looks up. “Is that bad?”
“No.”
It isn’t.
It just feels like the beginning of a room where I’ll be inspected by adults and kids at the same time, which seems like a new level of public humiliation. Efficient, maybe. Winterberry loves efficiency when it can be disguised as hospitality.
Daisy studies me. “You’re doing the jaw thing again.”
“I’m fine.”
“No one who says fine in that tone is fine.”
“You say fine every day.”
“Exactly. I’m an expert.”
Helena’s gaze moves between us. “This is exhausting.”
“Thank you,” Daisy says. “We’ve been practicing.”
“We haven’t,” I say.
Daisy turns her notebook against her chest. “That’s the tragedy. This is our natural rhythm.”
Helena points her floral snips toward the vineyard path. “Your principal is here.”
Principal Whitcomb arrives in boots too clean for a working vineyard, accompanied by a middle-aged man in a ballcap and another with thinning hair, a booster vest, and the strained smile of someone who knows every conversation eventually becomes fundraising.
Beside them is a teenage boy in a Winterberry Cove High hoodie, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders lifted toward his ears.
Daisy’s face changes.
She sees the kid before she sees the adults.
I do too.
He’s tall but and thin, with dark curls damp from the morning mist and the look of a kid trying to take up less space than he has. His shoes are worn thin near one toe. The cuff of his hoodie is frayed. He keeps looking at the gravel like eye contact costs money.
I know that look.
I’ve seen it in locker rooms.
I’ve seen it in mirrors.
Principal Whitcomb spots us and smiles. “Forrest. Daisy. Good morning.”
Daisy is already moving. “Principal Whitcomb, welcome to our humble vineyard. Coffee? Cider donut? Something that implies warmth without requiring us to discuss seating charts immediately?”
The principal laughs.
Daisy can make people laugh before they realize they’ve been redirected.
“This is Coach Harris,” Principal Whitcomb continues, “and this is Evan Miller. He’s on our student athletic committee.”
Evan nods without looking up.
“Hi, Evan,” Daisy says, warm without making it too much. “I’m Daisy. This is Forrest.”
“I know,” Evan mutters.
His eyes lift to me for half a second, then drop again.
I keep my voice even. “Nice to meet you.”
He nods again.
Coach Harris claps his hands once. “We thought Evan could give us a student perspective on the dinner. Hockey family. Plays JV.”
“Defense,” Evan says.
I nod.
Principal Whitcomb starts talking about flow, donor seating, school board attendance, and how they want the event to feel “welcoming, community-centered, and confidence-building.”
Daisy writes that down, then immediately crosses out confidence-building.
I lean close enough to murmur, “You can’t edit the principal in front of her.”
“She said confidence-building.”
“She can probably see you.”
“Then she’ll know I care.”
I almost smile.
Evan watches us.
So does Principal Whitcomb.
The booster boardman starts discussing equipment funding. Annual need. Used gear drive. Participation barriers. Limited scholarship capacity.
Daisy’s pen slows.
I see it happen.
Her attention locks.
“Wait,” she says. “How many kids don’t play because of equipment costs?”
It seems like Daisy Thorn, nonprofit office manager, has found a hole in the system, and it pisses her off.
Coach Harris shifts. “Hard to say.”
“That usually means too many.”
The booster man clears his throat. “We have a donation closet.”
“Who tracks inventory?”
No one answers.
Daisy’s pen moves. “Who handles transportation?”
“We encourage families to carpool,” Principal Whitcomb replies.
“Who coordinates that?”
Another pause.