Chapter 26
"Where are my shoes?" Marigold tore through her closet, shoving aside hangers with increasingly frantic energy. "I had them right here. I know I had them right here."
The flats she'd picked out two days ago—sensible, comfortable, perfect for standing all day while also coordinating the festival she was supposed to be chairing—had apparently developed legs and walked themselves into oblivion.
"Darling, you're going to give yourself a stroke." Daisy's voice floated through from the living room, maddeningly calm. "Take a breath."
"I don't have time to breathe!" Her voice pitched higher as she threw a box of winter scarves aside. "The opening ceremony is in two hours. Two hours, and I don't have shoes, and my hair is a disaster, and I still haven't confirmed that the string quartet knows where to set up—"
"The quartet is handled. I ran into that lovely cellist at the bakery this morning and pointed them toward the pavilion."
Her head emerged from the closet, a dust bunny clinging to her braid. "You did what?"
"Handled things. Maternal instinct." Daisy appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking impossibly put-together in a flowing turquoise caftan, her blonde hair swept up in an artful twist. "Now come into the living room. I have something for you."
"Mom, I really don't have time—"
"You have time for this." Daisy's tone shifted, something almost serious beneath the lightness. "Trust me. Just this once."
She stared at her mother, torn between the rising panic about shoes and schedules and the unusual vulnerability in her mother's expression. Trust wasn't a word that came easily between them. Not after years of broken promises and schemes and being left to clean up the wreckage.
But Daisy was still here. Two weeks after their confrontation, and she hadn't fled to the next adventure. She'd been… present. Helping with last-minute festival details, charming the vendors Marigold didn't have energy to wrangle, even making dinner twice.
It was uncharted territory.
"Five minutes," she said finally. "That's all I can spare."
She followed her mother into the living room living space—the cozy Bohemian sanctuary she'd built for herself, all warm colors and trailing plants and mismatched furniture that somehow worked together. Sunlight streamed through the windows looking out towards the lake.
Three garment bags hung from the curtain rod, their presence unexpected and slightly alarming.
"What is this?"
"Options." Daisy's smile held a touch of nervousness—another rare sight.
"I know you probably already have something picked out, and I know I don't always get things right, but I saw these in that little boutique on Maple Street and I thought…
" She trailed off, gesturing helplessly. "Well. Open them."
She approached the first bag with the wariness of someone defusing a bomb.
Her mother's fashion choices had historically run toward the dramatic, the attention-grabbing, the look-at-me-I'm-fabulous.
Not exactly ideal for someone who needed to blend into the background while managing a hundred moving pieces.
She unzipped the first bag.
"Oh, no." The words slipped out before she could stop them.
It was red. Aggressively, blindingly, look-at-my-cleavage red. The neckline plunged to somewhere around the navel, and the skirt was so short it might qualify as a suggestion rather than actual clothing.
"I thought it would make a statement!" Daisy said defensively.
"The statement being 'I've decided to become a Vegas showgirl'?" She zipped the bag closed with slightly more force than necessary. "Mom, I'm chairing a family festival. There will be children present."
"Fine, fine. Try the next one."
The second bag revealed something equally unsuitable, though in the opposite direction—a voluminous concoction of ruffles and bows in what could only be described as aggressive pink.
It looked like a baby shower had exploded onto fabric form, complete with a massive bow at the waist that would make sitting down physically impossible.
"This is…" She searched for diplomatic words. "Very… emphatic."
"I thought it was cheerful!"
"It's giving 'deranged bridesmaid at a princess-themed wedding.'" She closed that bag too, trying not to notice the way Daisy's face fell. "I'm sorry, I know you're trying, but these just aren't—"
"Open the last one."
Something in her mother's voice made her pause. Quieter than usual. Hopeful in a way that felt fragile.
She reached for the third bag.
The fabric that spilled out was burgundy—soft, flowing, the exact shade of the pinot noir that Thallos made.
The dress itself was simple: a fitted bodice with a soft cowl neckline, a skirt that would fall to her calves, and a subtle shimmer in the fabric that caught the light without screaming for attention.
It was beautiful.
More than that—it was her.
"I saw it and I thought of the vineyard," Daisy said, her voice uncharacteristically small.
"And the way you always pick flowers that match the seasons, and how you never want to be the center of attention but you deserve to be seen anyway.
I thought…" She twisted her hands together, a gesture she had never seen her make.
"I thought maybe this time I could get it right. "
Her throat tightened. How many years had she wished for this? For her mother to actually see her, not as an extension of herself or a supporting character in her drama, but as a separate person with her own tastes and dreams and quiet ways of being?
"Mom." The word came out rough. "It's perfect."
"Really?" Daisy's face lit up, decades younger suddenly. "You're not just saying that?"
"Look at me." She held up the dress, the fabric whispering against her fingers. "When have I ever just said things to make you feel better?"
"Never." A laugh bubbled up, slightly watery. "You've always been the honest one. Sometimes brutally so."
"I learned it from you. Just… inverted."
They stared at each other across the small living room, morning light filtering through the windows, dust motes dancing between them. So much history in the space between them. So much hurt and disappointment and love that never quite fit right.
But maybe that was the thing about family. Maybe it didn't have to be perfect to be real.
"Thank you," she said. "Really. This means—it means a lot."
Daisy crossed the room and pulled her into a hug—genuine, for once, without the theatrical flourish or the underlying agenda. Just a mother holding her daughter.
"I know I've messed up," Daisy murmured against her hair. "More times than I can count. But I'm proud of you, Marigold. The shop, the festival, that gorgeous satyr who looks at you like you hung the moon—you've built something wonderful here. Something that's yours."
"I had a good motivation." She pulled back, swiping at her eyes. "Someone had to be the responsible one."
"Ouch." But Daisy was smiling. "Fair, but ouch."
"Now help me find my shoes before I completely fall apart."
Twenty minutes later, she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, hardly recognizing herself.
The burgundy dress fit like it had been made for her, skimming her curves without clinging, the color bringing out the green of her eyes and the warm undertones of her skin.
Daisy had talked her into leaving her hair down—"just this once, darling, you have such lovely waves"—and the effect was softer than her usual practical braid.
She looked like someone who belonged at a festival. Not hiding in the corner managing spreadsheets, but actually present. Visible.
Chosen, a small voice whispered.
"Stop fussing," Daisy commanded, appearing behind her with a pair of elegant flats that had materialized from somewhere—probably the mysterious depths of her own luggage. "You look beautiful. That satyr is going to lose his mind."
"That's not—I'm not trying to—"
"Of course you're not. You never try to do anything for yourself." Daisy's reflection smiled at her in the mirror. "Which is why it's so delightful when good things happen to you anyway. Now go. You're going to be late."
The vineyard had been transformed.
She paused at the entrance to the main festival grounds, drinking in the sight.
Strings of paper lanterns crisscrossed overhead, dormant now but ready to glow once twilight fell.
Vendor booths lined the main pathway, already bustling with merchants arranging their wares—handmade jewelry, local honey, pottery from the studio on Oak Street, and what appeared to be an entire tent dedicated to cheese.
Beyond the booths, the central clearing had been set up for dancing.
A raised platform at one end held instruments and chairs for the various musicians scheduled throughout the day.
The stage where she and Thallos would perform the opening dance occupied the center, its polished wooden surface gleaming in the morning sun.
Everywhere she looked, she saw the evidence of their planning. The color-coded notebook had come to life—each zone exactly where it should be, each vendor in their assigned spot, the flow of foot traffic considered and optimized.
And threading through it all, like blood through veins, were her flowers. Wildflower arrangements on every table. Garlands draped from booth to booth. A magnificent arch of roses and wisteria framing the entrance to the dance floor.
I did this, she thought, wonder and terror mingling in equal measure. We did this.
"There you are!"
Thallos emerged from the crowd, and her heart did something complicated in her chest.
He looked… gods, he looked incredible. He'd traded his usual casual attire for something more formal—a deep burgundy shirt that matched her dress and made his golden-brown eyes practically glow and soft black trousers that somehow accommodated his satyr legs without looking ridiculous.
His horns had been oiled until they gleamed, curling elegantly above his pointed ears.