Thirty

Who named the Saturday shindig the GuitarBQ?” Tanner sat on the blanket on the concert lawn, a full plate in one hand, a beer in the other. “You?”

“I wish,” I said. “It’s a brilliant end to the festival.”

“Speaking of brilliant,” Adam said. “Mr. Manufacturing Genius showed me the business plan you created for him. It is so far beyond anything he could ever have put together.”

Tanner mimed throwing his corn-on-the-cob at his best buddy.

“He helped. So did his bookkeeper, and the purchasing manager.” I picked up a potato chip. “But you seriously need to hire a CFO. That’s Chief Financial Officer,” I said to Adam.

“Ah, but the best candidate wouldn’t take the job,” Tanner said.

“I’ve got my hands full with the Merc, plus working with Sam Kraus to get the winery’s books in order.” With Jennifer under arrest for murder, two counts of assault, trespass, and who knew what else, Rebecca had agreed to a refinancing plan that would allow Sam to keep the winery. My uncle Joe, a successful winemaker in California, would tour Monte Verde when he came up for my mother’s wedding in a few weeks, and offer his advice.

Free of suspicion, Rebecca appeared to finally understand the connections between the people and places who make up Jewel Bay, who make it a community. At my urging, she’d persuaded the Drakes to invest in Monte Verde, enabling Sam to remodel the farmhand cottages. That created more security for Michelle and the other renters, as well as for Sam and the lenders and investors.

Rebecca had also agreed to take the townhouse she rented to Lou Mary off the market, at least long enough for my sales clerk to save up the down payment. My mother had learned of the listing when she dropped into the real estate office to ask Molly about selling the Orchard. In classic Murphy girl fashion, she’d figured out a way to help Lou Mary, by getting her a job at the Merc.

I’d convinced Ann that Molly would scour every inch of the lakeshore to find them their own dream property. After all, they already had the dishes.

I’d relayed to Ned Redaway what Pamela Barber had told me. Contrary to Ned’s misbelief, and my own, I understood now that Dave wasn’t driven by greed or money. What he wanted was a chance to be a star. It didn’t need to be on the big stage, tempting as that was. Being the man who helped bring stellar music and a bit of prosperity to his home town was enough for him.

And I’d talked to Marv Alden and Donna Lawson about recruiting a professional recording engineer to build a studio in Jewel Bay. Chuck the Builder and Rocco the Music Man had agreed to lend their expertise.

One mystery remained: Who left the memorial bouquet on the gate at the trailhead? My money was on Gabby, but I might never find out. In a small town, gestures like that deepen the bonds that keep us here.

We finished our barbecue sandwiches, and I stood. “It’s time.”

We didn’t bother hiding our glee as we strolled down to meet my family. Landon led the parade, Chiara and Jason close behind. Fresca and Bill followed, hand in hand.

They crossed the bridge and reached the park. Landon stopped. Heidi sat in the passenger seat of a gleaming black Mustang convertible, and Reg Robbins, wearing the loudest, largest Hawaiian shirt I’d ever seen, stood beside the driver’s door.

Landon’s mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish gasping for air. He jumped up and down, pointing at the license plate.

“Hawaii! I got Hawaii!”

How Reg managed to keep the registration current while keeping the car in Montana, I didn’t want to know. All that mattered at the moment was that he’d agreed when Jason asked him to drive the Mustang into town tonight so Landon could check the most elusive state off his list.

After the hugs, and after Reg promised father and son a ride, we reclaimed our seats on the lawn for the finale.

“I almost don’t want to leave,” Tanner said. The glint in his eye mirrored the dampness in my own.

“Just be sure you come back.”

The concert was a rousing success, each guest artist playing a short set. Pearl Django made my heart dance, and Jackson Mississippi Boyd got the crowd singing.

Gabby Drake replaced Gerry Martin in the finale, and bewitched us all. Her parents sat a few rows in front of us, beaming. Whether she would follow their plan, I didn’t know. But when I saw the gigantic beaded hoops in her ears, I had a feeling Gabby had a plan of her own.

So did I.

∞

This time, it was Tanner lugging the cooler full of sparkling wine and the box of secret ingredients to the Orchard. With the Merc open Sundays now, we’d had to rush to make the weekly gathering of family and friends.

“When I first started my company,” Tanner explained to my mother as he set out bottles of bitters and a special liqueur, “my cash flow ran backwards. I tended bar at a fancy restaurant to pay the bills. The chef loved putting on elaborate wine dinners, and I got to create special cocktails. This one is for you, as my thanks for your amazing hospitality.”

“What’s it made with?” she said, ever the inquisitive cook.

“Typically, I use cava, the Spanish sparkling wine. The taste is flatter than French champagne, so it lets the other flavors through.” He dropped a sugar cube in each flute, and added the bitters and liqueur. “But since we’re at your place, I’m using Prosecco.”

“What’s the liqueur?” I asked.

“The drink the Romans invaded Spain for.” He poured in the wine, then handed a glass to my mother and another to me. I managed to suppress my sneeze, and took a sip.

“Oh, my gosh,” I said. “It tastes like a kiss.”

“Tanner,” my mother said, “this is divine. What do you call it?”

Tanner beamed and raised his glass in a toast, first to my mother, then to me. “The Italian Princess.”

My sister arrived, toting a rhubarb custard pie. Both she and Jason beamed.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“So much better, now that I’ve told you. No matter what happens”—she hugged me tight—“I hate having secrets from you.”

Before we ate, I asked Adam to take a walk with me in the orchard.

At the foot of my favorite tree, the one that held my tree house, I stopped and turned to face him. In a nest I couldn’t see, in one of the cherry trees, a baby bird chirped.

Without one itty bitty trace of nerves or doubt, I pulled the small, black box out of my pocket.

“Adam Zimmerman,” I said, looking into my true love’s black-coffee eyes, “will you marry me?”

A dark curl flopped onto his forehead. He took the box and opened it. He raised his eyes to mine, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he slid the sparkling ring out of its slot and reached for my left hand.

And though I am a Murphy girl through and through, I have no words for what happened next.

THE END