“I’ll bring coffee and whatever my mother insists is necessary for treasure hunting.”
“She knows?”
“She knows everything. It’s actually a little creepy. She asked me yesterday if I’d found what I was looking for with this look that suggested she wasn’t talking about the ring.”
That evening, Sophie texted—Wine at Raven’s tonight. Just the O’Hara women. 7 p.m. No excuses.
Dylan arrived at Raven’s house—a stunning Victorian that Hank had restored with his typical attention to detail—to find the O’Hara women already gathered in the living room with enough wine bottles to stock a small vineyard.
“So,” Raven said, elegant even in jeans and cashmere. “A restoration shop of your own. That’s serious commitment to Laurel Valley.”
“It’s a business opportunity,” Dylan said, aware of the undercurrents in the room.
“Of course it is,” Sophie agreed with a smile that suggested she wasn’t buying it. “Just like your dinner with Aidan on Tuesday was strictly business.”
“We signed partnership papers.”
“In the honeymoon booth at The Lampstand,” Anne O’Hara added with maternal satisfaction. “Simone told me you two couldn’t stop staring at each other.”
Dylan felt heat climb her neck. “We were discussing terms.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Raven laughed. “In my day, we just called it chemistry.”
“Leave her alone,” Sophie said, but her eyes danced with mischief. “She’s only been here five years. Barely enough time to notice Aidan exists.”
They laughed, and Dylan found herself smiling despite her embarrassment. This was what she’d missed in her years of running—the gentle teasing of women who cared, the assumption that her story was their story, that her happiness mattered to the collective whole.
Saturday dawned crystal clear, the fog burned away to reveal a world painted in October’s finest palette. Frost silvered every surface, making the valley look like it had been dusted with diamonds. Dylan arrived at the lake turnout to find Aidan already there, leaning against his truck with two thermoses and a backpack that definitely contained more than necessary.
“Your mother?” she asked, gesturing at the pack.
“She heard we were hiking to the old oak. Apparently, that requires sandwiches, soup, first aid supplies, and emergency flares.”
“Emergency flares. For walking fifty yards to a tree we can see from here.”
“She worries. It’s her superpower.”
They walked toward the oak together, their breath clouding in the cold air, frost crunching under their boots. The tree stood magnificent against the morning sky, nearly bare now, its branches reaching toward heaven like prayers made solid.
“The initials should be…” Dylan circled the trunk, calculating growth patterns. “About twelve to fifteen feet up. Trees grow from the top, so what was eye level in 1962…”
“Is now completely unreachable.” Aidan was already studying the branches, plotting his route. “Good thing I’ve maintained my climbing skills.”
“When was the last time you climbed a tree?”
“Tuesday. Had to rescue Janice Plink’s cat.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It does if the cat weighs twenty pounds and has opinions about being rescued.”
He pulled himself up onto the lowest branch with surprising grace, muscles moving under his jacket in ways that made Dylan forget about treasure hunts entirely. She watched him climb, trying to focus on safety rather than the way he moved with such confident ease.
“Found them,” he called from twelve feet up. “PMO + MES in a heart. God, Dylan, they’re part of the tree now. The bark grew around them but preserved them perfectly.”
“Is there anything else up there?”
“Looking.” He checked the surrounding branches. “Nothing. But wait—Patrick was in his seventies when he hid these clues. He couldn’t have climbed this high.”
