Whatever it was, he knew one thing with absolute certainty. He wasn't going to let Silas anywhere near Marigold.
She'd had enough of manipulation. Enough of people who used charm as a weapon and affection as a bargaining chip. The lastthing she needed was his brother's brand of poison seeping into the life she was finally starting to build.
*I'll handle it,*he decided.*Meet with Silas, find out what he wants, get him out of town as quickly as possible.*
It was a good plan. A solid plan. So why did it feel so woefully inadequate?
He turned away from the window and grabbed the crumpled letter, smoothing it out enough to read the words one more time. Tuesday afternoon. That gave him tomorrow to prepare, to steel himself, to remember all the techniques he'd developed over the years for surviving his brother's company without losing his mind.
And tonight—tonight, he had Marigold.
The grove. The sunset. The weight of her in his arms and the taste of her on his tongue.
*Focus on that,*he told himself.*Tomorrow's problems are tomorrow's problems. Right now, I have her.*
It wasn't a solution. But it was something. And after all these years of making do with scraps and half-measures, he had learned to take what he could get.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Three hours until sunset. Three hours to pull himself together, to bury the anxiety and resentment that his brother's letter had stirred up, to become once again the man Marigold had chosen to trust.
She deserved that man. Not this one—the one still haunted by old wounds and older fears. He carefully folded the letter and tucked it into a drawer. Out of sight. Out of mind.
At least for tonight.
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."
