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We’re at the airport. But instead of heading for the usual departure terminal, we take a right turn.
“Terminal for private flights,” the driver explains.
Mom, still smiling, shakes her head. “Beau and his toys.”
A jet, bright white with oval windows, is waiting for us on the tarmac.
“Stop,” I say, even though the guy I’m saying it to isn’t here.
“We’re about to go, actually,” Larry says, emerging from inside the jet.
I’m glad I’m carrying Maisie, because Mom drops literally everything she’s holding—purse, bottle of water, a blanket for the baby—and does a running leap into his arms.
Watching Mom and Larry embrace on the steps of a private jet is like something out of an episode of Entourage, only without the toxic masculinity and rampant sexism.
If nothing else, Maisie has an awesome role model in my mom for going after what she wants, confidently and fearlessly.
My mom is one badass chick.
Flying private is just as amazing as you’d think it is. I did it once a few years back with Beau, when I tagged along on a flight to Vegas with him and his agent to see a Billy Joel concert.
Not only do we get to bypass check-in and security lines at the airport, but while we’re up in the air, we get served champagne—I recognize the bottle as the same one we had up on Blue Mountain, probably from Samuel’s cellar—and these mini fried chicken and pimiento cheese biscuit sandwiches that are definitely from the restaurant at the resort, and definitely delicious.
“These were on the menu at one of Milly’s recent weddings, as I understand it,” Larry says, reaching for his third sandwich. “They were apparently quite the hit.”
“I get why,” I say. “They’re ridiculously delicious.”
The food and the tiny glass of champagne relax me a little. The flight is super quick, about thirty minutes. But as we land in Asheville, the sun still high over the mountains, I’m hit by another wave of anxiety.
What am I going to say to Beau when I see him?
How am I not going to fall apart?
“Take a deep breath,” Mom says, putting a hand on my arm. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it, all right? Try to remember you’re going to see your best friend. He’s always made you feel better.”
Except for that one time, when he crushed me and broke my heart.
Samuel picks us up from the airport in another SUV, this one decked out with the Blue Mountain Resort logo.
We zoom past the barn. Don’t stop at the main house. We pass Sugarhill Cottage.
We keep going, the forest thickening around us.
I’ve been this way before, once, with Beau.
I quietly put a hand to my mouth, heart swelling.
The first thing I notice when the farmhouse comes into view is the smoke that rises from its chimney.
People are inside.
I’m shaking as I get Maisie out of her car seat. The smell of a wood-burning fire fills the air, along with something more savory.
Dinner.
“You making something?” I ask Samuel.
Grabbing my bags, he winks at me. “Course I am. I’ve been working on something special for y’all all damn day. Left it to the only person I trust, Mama, while I went and grabbed y’all from the airport.”
“You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on?”
“Nope.” He holds out his arm. “After you.”
The floor creaks as we step inside the house. It’s definitely old, but it looks like the interior’s been cleaned top to bottom, letting the architectural details shine. An old brass doorknob, the carved wooden mantel that surrounds the crackling fire.
There are voices.
So many voices, rising from what must be the kitchen at the back of the house.
I move through the hall into the kitchen like I’m in a dream, awareness of my body fading as the smells and the voices intensify.
Am I dead?
Is this heaven?
Please, please don’t let this be a dream.
The entire Beauregard family, with one glaring exception, is gathered in the old-fashioned kitchen. The appliances and countertops are avocado green. Seventies chic at its best.
Mrs. B looks up from her cocktail—whiskey, from the look of it—and her entire face lights up.
“You’re here!” she cries, and the room erupts in screams and shouts and offers of food.
Milly gives me and Maisie a tight hug. Hank joins in, and Rhett piles on.
“Hey. She’s mine,” Milly says, trying to elbow her brothers aside.
Rhett just tightens his grip, making me laugh. “Like hell she is. Welcome back, Annabel. We missed you.”
“I was gone for, like, a week.”
“It’s been a long-ass week here on the mountain without you,” Hank says.
Maisie squeals. By some miracle, she hasn’t melted down yet.
It’s coming.
As if she can read my mind, Mrs. B peels her children off me and grabs my hand. Meets my eye.
“May I?” She tilts her head back toward the hall.
“Of course.” I look down at the baby. “Okay if I bring her?”
