They waited till everyone had tromped out. “About Ned and Jessica, sweetheart. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first, but I felt like I had to do something definitive. And I didn’t want it to take forever, so I did it.” He paused, taking off his old baseball cap and running a hand through his thinning hair. “Mrs. Johnson and I are worried about you, Petunia.”
Yes, she’d heard them talking late last night, which was a shock in itself, as Mrs. J. usually retired to her apartment above the garage by eight, and Dad was usually in bed by nine-thirty. Farmer’s hours and all that.
She folded her hands in front of her. “Dad, I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I don’t need people thinking I had some kind of breakdown at O’Rourke’s and have to hire all these people.”
Dad was quiet for a minute. “Well, you did have a little breakdown, Petunia.”
“I just lost my cool. It wasn’t as big a deal as it sounds.”
“And when have you ever lost your cool?” he asked.
Dang. She didn’t answer.
“Honey, I know it doesn’t seem like I pay too much attention,” Dad said. “But I know a few things. When your mother died, you...” His voice grew soft. “You grew up fast. You did everything you were supposed to, and you never needed much from the rest of us. Cornell, Wharton, and then you came home and looked after me.”
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I really wanted to, Daddy. I love my life.”
“I believe that.” He paused. “But I also know you’ve loved Brogan a long time.”
It was so mortifying, hearing the words said aloud like that. She shrugged, not trusting her voice.
“And I always did hope things would work out for you two,” he said. “I can only imagine how you must feel, hearing that your best friend is marrying him instead of you.”
“It was just a surprise,” she said, and her voice shook.
He covered her hand with his own. “So this is a turning point. Time for you to devote some thought to what you want in life, rather than just waiting around for that bozo to call you.”
Well, hell. Dad did pay attention, after all.
“I’m not asking,” Dad said. “I’m ordering. As your father and as the legal owner of Blue Heron.”
“So bossy. You can’t tie your shoes without me.”
“I’ve actually gotten pretty good at that,” Dad said, smiling so that his kind eyes crinkled in the corners. “Mrs. J.’s been teaching me. So here’s the deal. Your hours have been cut. You start at nine, you leave at five, or I’m dragging you out myself.”
“Right,” Honor said. “Like anyone can get a full day’s work done in that time.”
“That’s the magic of my plan,” Dad said. “You won’t get it done. You and Ned and Jessica will get it done. Now I’m going to the Old House before Mrs. J. and your grandmother get into a fight over how long to cook the potatoes, and you have to come, too.”
Honor sighed. “All right. Give me a few minutes, okay?”
Dad kissed the top of her head and left. After a minute, she went outside. It was already dark, and the stars spread across the sky in an endless, creamy sweep. The air smelled like wood smoke.
She loved Blue Heron with all her heart. It was home, and it was her pride and joy, too. In the eleven years since grad school, a lot had changed around here. When she came on board as director of sales, the vineyard was a cute, family-run business. Rather than rest on those laurels, she came up with a business plan that enhanced everything good about the place and added ten times more—prestige, visibility, recognition—all without losing the homeyness of eight generations of the Holland family farm. She’d proposed the construction of the post-and-beam tasting room and gift shop ten years ago, overhauled the labeling and brand, created a marketing campaign that brought Blue Heron’s name to the attention of every outlet that mattered, from the New York Times to Wine Spectator. Blue Heron was practically a required stop on any tour of the Finger Lakes wine region. Honor knew she had a lot to be proud of. She loved working with her family, loved—to be honest—being the one in charge of the business end. Delegating had never been her strong suit.
But she never thought she’d have to worry about aging eggs. Never really pictured living in the New House with her dad and Mrs. J. forever.
There was supposed to be more. A husband. A family of her own.
She wanted to be special to someone. She wanted a man’s face to light up when he saw her. She wanted a man to kiss her like his heart would stop if he didn’t.
Somehow, Dana had wrangled what Honor never had—Brogan’s love. In just a few weeks, no less.
How the hell had she done that?
Suddenly it seemed like the sky was pressing her down with the same paralyzing loneliness felt when her mother died, leaving her alone.
And God, she was tired of being alone. She didn’t know if the words were a prayer or an admission of defeat. She pulled her hair from the clip and ran her fingers through it, sighing in the cool night air.
You know what? She wasn’t going to Goggy’s. Instead, she went home, went up to her bathroom and took out a pair of scissors.
All her life, her hair had been the same, thick and long, hanging to the middle of her back, a dark blond with lighter streaks from the sunshine...when she was out in the sunshine, that was. It had been a while. She wore it up about half of the time, down and with a hairband at others. In fact, her hairband collection was a little ridiculous. How many did she own? Twenty? Thirty? Until now, she liked her hair, liked the old-fashioned beauty of it.
Not anymore. It was time for a change.
The snick of the scissors was oddly satisfying.
* * *
ON THE FOURTH Thursday of every month, in an effort to earn her heavenly reward, Honor volunteered at Rushing Creek, the assisted living facility at the edge of Manningsport. This Thursday, Goggy had come with her.
In the past year, Goggy and Pops had aged a little, as one would expect with people in their eighties. They were both still strong as oxen, but Goggy seemed more forgetful these days, and Honor could swear Pops limped on rainy days. Any day now, she worried, one of them might tumble down the steep, narrow staircases of the Old House, which was something of a death trap, full of the twists and turns characteristic of colonials. They didn’t use two-thirds of the rooms, and the house would never pass inspection, not with Pops having nailed the front door closed last winter “to help with the drafts.”
It was Honor’s hope that they’d willingly move to a brighter, smaller place before one of them had an accident.
“I’ll kill myself before I come to a place like this,” Goggy pronounced dramatically when she came through the doors. A resident in a wheelchair glared before zipping down the hall in speedy moral outrage. Rushing Creek was comparable to the nicest luxury apartments in Manhattan, but Goggy viewed it like a Dickensian asylum.
“Let’s try to use our inside voices, okay?” Honor said. “I love it here. I’m counting the years before I can move in.”
“I’d kill myself. Oh, hello, Mildred! How are you?”
“Hello, Elizabeth!” Mildred said. “And Honor! You cut your hair! Oh, no! Why, honey, why?”
“Thank you,” Honor said. Okay, so the haircut was a bit radical. But that had been the point. And yes, she’d gone to Corning, to a stylish, somewhat frightening place where a professional had stared in horror before shaping up her cropped hair.
Now