Chapter Forty
Mila
Hart’s Landing is gifted with a gorgeous autumn afternoon for its Founder’s Day celebration.
I’m ridiculously excited, just like I used to be on this day as a kid. There were contests and junk food and games and a parade. The end of the day was marked by a massive fireworks display, and afterward everyone danced to live music under the stars.
I asked my mother if she’d like to attend any of the festivities, but she said no. She won’t admit it, but she doesn’t want anyone to see her with her walker, and she isn’t getting around well enough without it yet.
Secretly, I’m pleased I won’t have to babysit her all day.
Since the crowd will be huge and parking will be difficult, I decide to ride my old bike downtown. After locking it up, I locate the volunteer tent and report for duty.
The woman in charge of volunteers has her back to me when I approach, and when she turns around, I’m surprised to see it’s my high school art teacher. “Hi, Mrs. Frye. It’s Mila Ferguson.”
“Mila!” She smiles, deep grooves bracketing her mouth.
Other than a few more lines on her face, she looks much the same as she did ten years ago, with medium brown skin and black corkscrew curls threaded with silver.
A colorful scarf around her neck. Beaded jewelry she made herself. “It’s so good to see you!”
We shake hands over the table and catch up for a few minutes. When she hears about my career, she clasps her hands at her chest. “A botanical illustrator—that’s so cool! I wonder if you’d be up for coming into one of my drawing and painting classes, maybe talking to the students?”
“Sure, I’d love to. I’m here for two more weeks.” I ignore the way my heart aches at the thought of leaving in such a short time.
We exchange contact information, and she says she’ll be in touch.
After checking her list, she assigns me to raffle-ticket sales and directs me to a booth over by the food and beverage trucks.
For the next few hours, I greet familiar and unfamiliar faces, peddle 50/50 tickets, and answer questions about my mother’s recovery.
Around four, I finally hear from Everett.
Everett: Hey! Where are you?
Mila: Selling raffle tickets by the food trucks.
Everett: I’m just finishing up at this pie nonsense. Be there soon, unless a fight breaks out. Judy Gillis is giving Vera Pratt a very beady eye.
A few minutes later, I spot Everett walking toward my booth. My replacement has just shown up, so I vacate the chair for her, swing my bag over my shoulder, and head in Everett’s direction.
My stomach flutters madly as I get closer to him. I love the way he catches my eye and communicates without words that he’s happy to see me. When we reach each other, he kisses my lips in full view of everyone around. “So, who won Best Pie, Judy or Vera?”
“Neither. The ribbon went to a seventeen-year-old girl from Hart’s Landing High who has her own baking channel on YouTube with fifty thousand followers. Judy and Vera are now claiming age discrimination.”
I laugh. “Of course they are.”
As we walk down Main Street, people smile and say hello, but there’s a degree of curiosity in all their faces. I find I don’t mind their stares—in fact, I like that people see us together, see me as his. I like being here with him by my side.
I love being with you.
I wish we didn’t have a sell-by date.
I’m not going anywhere, Mila. That’s all I’m saying.
But what is he thinking? What kind of future does he see for us? Does he want me to move back to Hart’s Landing?
The idea turns my bones to jelly.
I don’t want to say goodbye. But I also don’t want to derail my life and end up heartbroken in Hart’s Landing with my mother watching from a front row seat. Telling me I was a fool. Pointing out all my mistakes, my weaknesses, my wishful thinking.
Everett said he wasn’t going anywhere. But for how long?
I hate that fear is the overbearing emotion, stomping on anything that’s trying to sprout—hope, security, happiness. I don’t want to feel like a child again, afraid to go after the life I want. It’s the only life I have.
And tomorrow is never guaranteed.
“You’re quiet.” Everett glances down at me. “Everything okay?”
I smile. “Yes. Just taking it all in.”
At the end of Main Street, we turn toward Riverfront Park. Under the gazebo, actors costumed in historical garb are performing a scene about the town’s founding, and on the lawn beyond it, kids are competing in all kinds of footraces—sack, three-legged, egg-and-spoon.
Everett stops walking. “I better not walk any farther. I don’t want Judy or Vera to see me.”
I laugh. “That’s okay. I promised Yasmine I’d be at her wine-tasting event, and it starts in ten minutes.”
We turn around and start walking back. “I’m grabbing a beer with the guys, then I have to announce the first band of the evening on the main stage,” Everett says. “Can we hook up after that? Maybe around seven?”
“Yes.”
He kisses my cheek. “I’ll find you.”
We part ways, and I’m walking toward Novel Vine when someone calls my name. Shading my eyes with one hand, I see Daniel Bartok walking toward me. “Hi, Dan.”
“Hey.” He’s grinning widely. “Good news. The witness is willing to talk to you. Are you still up for a chat?”
I shrug. “I suppose. But I don’t think anything will come of it.”
“Just hear him out. That’s all I ask.”
“It’s a him?”
“Yes. But that’s all I’ll say for now. Can you meet us early next week? Maybe Monday at five?”
“I think so. Diner again?”
“Sure. See you then.”
Five minutes later, I’m sitting at the bar at Novel Vine when Everett, Ripley, Hunter, and a handsome older guy I assume is Dr. Ben Hart all come through the glass door.
The energy in the room immediately shifts. Conversation halts.
Behind the bar, Yasmine’s smile morphs into a scowl. She and her staff have just poured the first wine of the tasting, and her event is about to get started. “What are you guys doing in here? The beer tent is up the street.”
“Maybe we don’t want beer,” Ripley says. “Maybe we heard about your little tasting party and we want to be supportive.”
“Sorry,” Everett murmurs as he presses up behind me. “I mentioned it, and he took off like a rocket.”
Yasmine’s eyes narrow. “You don’t want to support me, Ripley Wilder. You just want to harass me.”
“That seems very unfair after I convinced all my friends here to come to your bar instead of going to the beer tent.” Ripley gestures to the guys.
“Well, as you can see, there are no empty seats.” Yasmine’s hand sweeps through the air. It’s true—every spot at the bar is taken, and all the tables are full.
Ripley looks at the bar full of women, many of whom have turned their attention to the group of hot guys who just injected the feminine vibe with testosterone. “Can’t we just stand here with Mila? Look, she even has two glasses.”
“That’s because we’re tasting two wines,” Yasmine says through her teeth.
“We can make room.” My generosity earns me a dirty look from Yasmine. But Everett is tight against my back with an arm around my waist, and I don’t want him to take it away. On either side of me, women make room so Ben and Hunter can access the bar too. Everett makes the introductions.
“Mila, this is Ben Hart.”
The doctor smiles and gives me his hand. His hair is graying slightly at the temples, but he’s got mesmerizing blue eyes that must have women all over town inventing medical emergencies. “Nice to finally meet you,” he says.
“You too,” I reply, wondering what he meant by finally. Has Everett been talking about me?
“And you remember Hunter.”
I turn to my left and smile. “Sure. Good to see you again.”
“You too,” he says with a nod. He’s got the same angular beauty he had in high school, but he’s definitely packed on some muscles since then. They’re on full display in a tight shirt that says HLFD on the front in block letters. Like Ripley, his arms are decorated with ink.
“Do you guys even like wine?” Yasmine eyes the men with suspicion.
“Who doesn’t like wine, am I right?” Ripley queries, opening his arms and glancing around. A chorus of female voices assures him that everyone here does indeed like wine.
“I do,” Everett answers.
“Me too,” says Ben.
“It’s okay,” says Hunter, glancing longingly in the direction of the beer tent.
“Fine.” Relenting, Yasmine brings out a few more glasses. “You can stay, but you have to behave.”
Ripley touches his chest. “I’m just here to learn about wine, Veep.”
She looks up at him with her chin lowered, her stare murderous. “Strike one.”
Ripley grins. “Are you interested in balls, too?”
Ignoring him, Yasmine raises her voice and speaks to everyone in the bar. “Today we’re tasting two wines, a warm climate and a cool climate pinot noir. It’s a versatile grape that grows well in both environments, and the effects of terroir are distinct in the wines.”
“Terroir. Got it,” Ripley says, like he’s committing it to memory.
Yasmine continues to pretend he’s not there, but it’s hard since he’s the biggest guy in the place, inked and bearded to the max, and he’s standing right in the center of the bar, directly in front of her.
“This first wine is from Alsace, which is a cool climate region. I had the opportunity to work at a winery there while I was studying for my sommelier exams.”
“She’s so fancy,” Ripley whispers, except somehow it’s loud.
“This wine has a fruit-forward profile with floral notes, subtle spice, and mineral undertones. Give it a taste and see if you can pick out any particular fruits or flavors.”
Everyone picks up their glass and takes a sip.
“I taste cherry,” Everett says, inhaling with his nose in the glass. “And I smell them.”
I sniff the wine and taste again. “Maybe raspberry?”
Yasmine nods happily. “You’re right. This wine definitely has both.”
“Hmm.” Ripley swirls his wine and tosses half of it back. “I’m getting strong notes of overpriced grape juice with undertones of pretension.”