Harper gave me a look. “You said you’d be ready to help with setup.”
“And I am! Look—” I gestured to the grocery bags I’d brought in from the car. “I got twinkle lights. And fresh basil. And two bottles of wine thatdon’thave screw tops.”
June raised an eyebrow. “Did you spend fifty dollars on aesthetic?”
“Seventy-eight. But that included a candle shaped like a seashell. You’re welcome.”
Harper opened one of the bags and pulled out a string of fairy lights. “These are battery-operated.”
“I know. That’s why they’re magical.”
She sighed but didn’t argue. Victory.
I turned to June, who looked about ten seconds from spiraling. “You okay?”
“I just want tonight to go well.”
“It will. We’re not hosting a royal banquet. We’re cooking pasta. For one very polite man who, in case no one has said it today, is extremely attractive.”
June blushed. I mentally filed that away for later.
“Where is the aforementioned Adonis, anyway?” I asked.
“He’s coming around five to finish the porch swing,” June said.
“Perfect. Just enough time for me to arrange everythingjust so.I’ll set the table. Light candles. Pretend we’re in Tuscany.”
Harper muttered something about Tuscan fire codes, but I ignored her.
The truth was, Ineededtonight to go well. Not just for Iris. Not for the inheritance. For us.
Because despite the sarcasm and the glitter, I knew exactly how fragile we were.
By late afternoon,the house looked borderline magical.
The porch swing had been repaired and given a throw pillow makeover courtesy of a stash we’d found in Iris’s sewing closet. The dining table was set with mismatched china and cloth napkins folded like little boats. The string lights twinkled across the windowpanes, and the air inside smelled like roasted tomatoes, garlic, and hope.
June was in the kitchen with Lily, making lemon cake. Harper had given in and was stirring pasta sauce on the stove like she had a grudge against it.
And I was lighting candles and pretending my life didn’t feel like it was unraveling the longer I stayed here.
Every room in this house had a memory. Some soft. Some sharp. And somewhere in the middle of them all, I kept catching echoes of myself—versions I’d forgotten. A girl with paint under her nails. A teenager who believed in love stories. A woman who’d once wanted to be a mother.
I hadn’t told my sisters about the miscarriage.
I probably never would.
Some stories weren’t meant to be shared. Some were meant to be carried, quietly, like stones in a pocket. Just heavy enough to keep you tethered.
“Willa,” June called. “Can you open the wine?”
Grateful for the distraction, I grabbed the corkscrew and a couple of glasses.
Grant arrived a few minutes later, toolbox in one hand, a bouquet of wildflowers in the other.
“You brought flowers?” I said, opening the door like I was hosting a game show. “Be still my heart.”
He shrugged, sheepish. “Figured it was better than showing up empty-handed.”
