Chapter 16 #2
“And tutoring?” Daisy asks. “If practice is after school and kids are already waiting around, is there homework support? Study hall? Volunteer mentors?”
Principal Whitcomb’s expression turns interested. “Not formally.”
Daisy looks at Evan. “Do kids need that?”
Evan shrugs.
The shrug says, Yes, but we don’t ask for it.
“You’d need a gear scholarship that doesn’t force kids to publicly prove they need help,” she says.
“Private request form. Equipment tracking. Corporate sponsorship tiers. Former-player donors. Transportation plan with proper liability. Study support before ice time. Volunteer screening. Metrics for donors. Grades, attendance, participation, retention.”
Everyone goes quiet.
Daisy’s pen stops.
She looks up.
“What?” she asks.
Principal Whitcomb smiles slowly. “That was impressive.”
Daisy laughs, bright and immediate. “It’s what I do for a living.”
“Those numbers are useful,” I say.
Her eyes come to mine.
The rest of the vineyard fades for half a second.
I’m thinking about a place that doesn’t just wait for kids to survive long enough to make a team. A place built around them before anger, before shame, before the world gets hold of the worst day they know how to have and turns it into a name.
A rink.
Tutoring.
Equipment.
Mentors.
Food, as a staple. Because hungry kids don’t listen. Hungry adults don’t either.
“You’re doing it,” Daisy says.
I blink. “What?”
“Thinking loudly.”
I shrug. “Kids don’t become better because an adult gives one good speech. They need somewhere to go. People who show up. Rules that make sense. Consequences that teach instead of humiliate.”
Principal Whitcomb nods. “That’s exactly the perspective we’d love at the dinner. People are going to love you.”
Right.
The dinner, and the appearances. The job.
Before I can answer, Puck barks from somewhere near the tasting room, and Lorna yells, “He has a donut.”
I move before anyone else does.
Daisy’s head snaps up. “Puck, leave it!”
My dog tears across the grass with a cider donut and the joy of a criminal who has accepted his sentence.
Evan laughs.
Daisy points at me. “Your son is embarrassing us.”
“I told you he needed boundaries.”
“He has boundaries. They’re conceptual.”
I whistle once. “Puck.”
Puck stops.
Looks at me.
Looks at the donut.
We both know how this ends.
“Drop it.”
He drops it, glares at me, and stalks away like I have committed an unforgivable social offense.
Daisy closes her eyes. “That dog has no respect for authority.”
“You’re the one who spoils him.”
“I respect his cultural needs.”
“Cider donuts are not culture.”
“They’re regional heritage.”
“He doesn’t get regional heritage if it sends him to the vet.”
She huffs. “Fine. I’ll be more mindful.”
“Finally, we meet in the middle.”
“Don’t sound so proud. It’s unattractive.”
“It’s working for me so far.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
For half a second, neither of us moves.
Then Helena, who picks up the donut, says, “Can we not flirt over the stolen pastry corpse?”
Evan laughs again.
Daisy’s face warms, but she turns away before anyone can make a meal of it. “Walkthrough. Back to business. No one mention pastry corpses to my mother.”
The rest of the walkthrough goes smoother after that. Daisy keeps the adults moving. I answer questions without sounding like I want to chew glass. Evan asks what I think about playing defense when you’re smaller than the forwards, and I tell him the truth.
“Angles beat size if you learn them right.”
He looks at me then. Really looks.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You need someone willing to teach angles instead of yelling about size.”
His mouth twitches.
That and the laughter might be the first real things he gives us all morning.
By late morning, the mist is gone, the tasting room is about to open, and I’m carrying another crate toward the barn when Daisy’s whole body changes.
I follow her line of sight.
A black mid-size SUV pulls up near the front of the house.
A man gets out first.
Polished. Expensive coat. Perfect hair. He probably calls cruelty unfortunate timing and betrayal a complicated season.
Liam.
I know before Daisy says his name.
Carla steps out from the passenger side in cream trousers, a camel coat, and sunglasses she does not need in gloomy weather. She looks composed enough to make a statue feel disorganized.
Daisy inhales beside me.
Not much.
Enough.
“Painless,” she says under her breath.
I set the crate down.
She notices.
Of course she does.
“Rule Four,” she says.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I mean it, Forrest.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “I know.”
“I’ll handle him.”
“I believe you.”
“That sounded almost supportive.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She studies my face, looking for the part of me that wants to break something.
It is not hard to find.
Then she turns toward Liam and Carla with a smile so polished it makes my hands curl.
“Daisy,” Liam calls, crossing the gravel. “We heard you were in town.”
His voice is warm.
That’s the first thing I hate about him.
Not fake-warm either.
Practiced-warm.
“You look well,” he adds.
Daisy’s smile does not move. “So do you.”
Which is Daisy for: I hope your sock slides down inside your shoe during an important conversation.
Carla steps beside him, gaze moving from Daisy to me. “Daisy. Thank you so much for seeing us early.”
“Of course,” Daisy replies. “Nothing says restful Saturday like surprise bridal logistics before noon.”
Carla’s smile holds. “Your mother said it would be perfect.”
“My mother says a lot of things after coffee and before boundaries.”
Liam’s mouth twitches like he remembers her too well.
I hate that more.
Daisy opens her notebook. “I assume you’re here for a walkthrough?”
“Yes,” Carla says. “We were nearby.”
They were not nearby.
No one is nearby the vineyard by accident before noon on a Saturday unless they’re lost, drunk, or lying.
Carla looks at me again.
Daisy says, “This is Forrest.”
Liam’s attention locks in.
There it is.
The calculation.
Wolfcraft. Hockey. Reputation. Boyfriend? Real? Threat? Useful gossip?
“Forrest Wolfcraft,” Liam says, extending a hand. “I’ve heard about you.”
I look at his hand.
Then at his face.
Then I shake it because Daisy’s rule is the only thing standing between this moment and a headline.
“Not surprised,” I say. “This town likes to gossip.”
Daisy hums. “Winterberry doesn’t gossip. It performs unpaid narrative management.”
Carla smiles. “It’s lovely that Daisy has someone with her.”
Lovely.
Daisy’s fingers twitch once at her side.
I catch it.
Liam catches me catching it.
Interesting.
Daisy slides her notebook open. “Let’s start with the ceremony space, then the tasting room layout for the welcome dinner. We have a lot to cover, and the tasting room opens at noon.”
Liam glances at her notebook. “You always were good at taking charge.”
Daisy smiles brighter.
Too bright.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s my gift. Some women inherit jewelry. I inherited logistics, emotional over-functioning, and the urge to apologize to furniture when I bump into it.”
Carla laughs lightly, like she is not sure whether she is allowed to.
Daisy turns and walks.
They follow.
So do I.
The walkthrough is a master class in Daisy hurting quietly.
She discusses the aisle runner. Chair placement. Floral arch. Welcome dinner flow. Weather contingency.
Liam keeps saying things like, “You always were the best at this,” and “I knew your eye would make it perfect,” and “This place really is you.”
Every compliment sounds like theft.
At the ceremony terrace, Liam falls half a step behind with Daisy.
I am close enough to hear him.
“You seem different,” Liam says.
Daisy looks down at her notes. “Boston will do that. So will rent, public transportation, and realizing your emotional support meal is a granola bar you found in your purse from a month you can’t identify.”
“In a good way,” he adds. “I was worried when you left.”
No.
My hand flexes at my side.
Daisy’s smile stays intact. “That’s kind.”
“It was hard for everyone,” he says.
“For everyone?” she asks.
Then she laughs.
Not sweet. Not loud. A quick, brittle sound with teeth in it.
“It was never hard for you, Liam. The least you could do is pretend to be smart.”
Carla turns from the arch. “Is everything okay?”
Daisy looks at her.
Then at Liam.
“Perfect,” Daisy says. “We were just discussing how memory is a generous little liar when a man needs it to be.”
I hate that answer.
I admire it.
Both can be true.
A low roll of thunder moves over the vineyard.
Everyone looks up.
The sky has shifted while we were on the terrace, clouds pressing in over the lake. The breeze has gone colder, carrying rain from the west.
Eleanor appears at the edge of the path, phone in hand. “Weather alert. The storm system shifted early. We need to move the tasting overflow into the barrel room and secure the outdoor setup.”
Daisy’s eyes close for half a second.