But the door to the apartment above the shop stood slightly ajar.
She stopped walking.
"She's up there," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"Probably furious."
"Almost definitely."
She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I need to face her."
"I can come with you." He reached for her hand. "You don't have to do this alone."
"I know." She squeezed his fingers, then let go. "But I think I need to. This is… this is something between me and her. Something I've been avoiding for a long time."
He understood. It wasn't about excluding him; it was about finally standing on her own two feet. About breaking a pattern that had defined her entire life.
"I'll be here," he said. "Downstairs. In the shop. Whatever you need."
She shook her head. "Go back to the vineyard. I'll come find you when it's over."
"Marigold—"
"Please." She met his eyes. "I need to do this myself. All the way. No safety net."
He wanted to argue. Every protective instinct he had was screaming at him to stay, to be nearby, to be ready to intervene if things went wrong. But he saw the determination in her face—the same steel he'd glimpsed when she'd walked away from her mother last night, when she'd dismantled Rachel just moments ago.
She was stronger than she knew. And she was right—this was her battle to fight.
"Okay." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll be at the cabin. Come find me when you're done. We can plan our hermit life."
A surprised laugh escaped her. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I—" She caught herself, but her eyes were shining. "I'll see you later."
She turned and walked toward the shop. He watched her go—her head high, her shoulders straight, her whole bearing radiating quiet determination.
*That's my girl,* he thought. *That's my incredible, brave, magnificent girl.*
She didn't look back as she opened the door. She didn't hesitate on the threshold. She walked through and started up the stairs to the apartment above, ready to face whatever waited for her.
The door swung shut behind her.
He stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, watching the windows above the shop. Part of him wanted to stay anyway—to lurk out of sight, ready to charge in if needed. But that would undermine everything she was trying to do.
*Trust,* he reminded himself. She was trusting him with her heart. He could trust her with this.
He turned and started walking back toward the vineyard.
CHAPTER 22
The apartment smelled like expensive perfume and burned coffee.
Marigold paused on the landing, her hand still on the doorknob, taking in the evidence of her mother's presence. A silk scarf draped over the back of the sofa. An open suitcase spilling designer clothes across the armchair. Three—no, four—empty wine glasses on the kitchen counter, because Daisy had never learned to wash a dish when there were still clean ones available.
