But Honor was a good daughter. A martyr, sure, but completely solid with their dad. Faith may have been Daddy’s little girl, but Honor had been Mom’s favorite, always more mature, more adult than the rest of them, despite being third out of four. She and Mom had had a special bond, and after Mom died, it seemed like Honor couldn’t bear to be in the same room with Faith.

But maybe this was a turning point. Maybe—just maybe—Faith could get her sister to like her again.

When her tasting room duties were finished, Faith spied her father, who was sampling the homemade wine Gerard Chartier had brought him for his opinion. “Not bad,” John said. “Nice with a rare steak.” Blue circled, dropping his ratty tennis ball suggestively. Dad picked it up and tossed it without pausing in his discussion of the different kinds of yeast Gerard could use. Dear old Dad. With his baseball cap, aging flannel shirt and purple-stained hands, he wasn’t the most dapper of men, but he was certainly the best.

“I see my little princess over there,” Dad said finally.

“Hi, little princess,” Gerard called with a grin.

“Hi, Gerard,” she said. “Save any lives lately?”

“No, but I can carry you down a ladder if you want,” he said.

“Don’t tempt me. Dad, got a sec? I wanted to show you the barn.”

“You bet, baby. See you, Gerard.” Her father picked up Blue’s hideous ball and held it high. “Who loves his ball? Do you love your ball?” he said, causing Blue to freeze with elation at the word. Dad threw the disgusting thing past the storage barn, and Blue streaked off, caught it midbounce and returned immediately.

“He could play for the Yankees,” Dad observed.

“Can’t hit to save his life,” Faith said. “So, uh, did Levi tell you about how good Blue was when I had my seizure?” she asked. Sure, it was a blatant attempt to bring up his name, but no one else was as unsuspecting as dear old Dad when it came to being pumped for information. She hadn’t seen Levi since he’d kissed her the other night. Hadn’t heard him out in the hall, either. Had stopped short of pressing a glass against his door, but only just.

“He did. Said Blue came to get him. Who’s a good boy? Huh? Do you love Faithie? Do you love her? You do?”

There was something about Blue that made everyone a cheerful idiot, Faith observed as her father put the ball in his own mouth. “Dad. So gross.”

He took the ball out and threw it up the hill. “So I finally get to see this place,” he said, putting his arm around her as they walked.

“You haven’t been sneaking peeks, have you?” The final week was when a project really took shape, and Faith had wanted to surprise her father.

“No, sweetpea. I have three daughters. I’m excellent at following orders.”

They hiked up the hill, past the golden-leafed vines, up to the cemetery. Dad took off his hat and put his hand on the granite of his wife’s headstone. “Hey, Connie,” he said, his voice so full of love that Faith felt tears prick her eyes. “We all miss you so much, honey.”

He glanced at Faith. “Hi, Mom,” she said obediently. I’m so sorry. It was her customary thought, lodged like iron in her heart. She waited as her father brushed a couple of leaves from the grave, his face in its familiar sad and handsome lines. Please help me find him someone, Faith prayed. Would Mom want that, though? Faith thought she would, but then again, she was no expert on what her mother had wanted.

Dad stood, and they continued up the hill, talking about the grapes that would be left on the vine for the ice wines, and his prediction that it’d hit seventeen degrees before Thanksgiving. “Gonna be a cold winter,” he said.

“You smelly old farmers have a way of predicting those things,” she said, earning a grin. “Okay, we’re here. You ready to be dazzled?”

Dad had been up two weeks ago to check the progress; the stonemasons had been working on the rows of rock walls in the parking area, and Samuel had been putting up the railings around the decking. But since then, the path and the beds had been completed, and today, Jane Gooding, an organic farmer from Dundee, was bringing in the plants. Faith wanted to take one more look before the holes were dug, maybe rearrange a few things, before committing to the final layout.

And, yes, Jane Gooding had been vetted as a potential date for Dad. She was in her mid-fifties, loved the outdoors, understood plants, had a master’s in botany as well as her master gardener certificate. She was long divorced, had dated here and there, had one grown daughter and was quite outgoing and attractive.

A home run, in other words.

Jane was unloading plants from the back of her truck. She stopped and waved as Faith approached. “Hello there!” she called, smiling. Attractive wrinkles creased her face, and she shoved a bit of curly blond hair behind her ear, leaving a streak of dirt. Totally Dad’s type. Bet she didn’t own an animal-print thong.

“Hi, Jane,” Faith said.

Dad was staring open-mouthed at the barn. “Sweetheart! This is amazing! It happened so fast!”

“I aim to please,” she said, her father’s pride warming her. “Jane, this is my father, John Holland. Dad, Jane Gooding, who owns Dundee Organic Gardens.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dad said, shaking her hand. “You have a nice operation over there. I’ve driven past but never stopped in.”

“Well, we can’t have that!” Jane said. “Drop in next time you’re around. I’ll give you the tour.” She smiled at him, then turned to Faith. “It’s all here. You ready?”

“You bet. Dad, do you have time to help us out?”

“Sure, sweetpea. I just can’t get over this! Nice work, honey.”

Faith’s goal in the barn had been to make it look completely unlandscaped and artlessly natural. The beds around the building were bordered with deceptively sturdy, uneven rock walls. A rusty old wagon wheel, a relic from the barn, leaned against the base of a two-hundred-year-old maple tree, and six old milking containers lined the rock foundation. Seven different varieties of moss and ferns, all indigenous, sat in pots, waiting to be put in the soil. A thousand daffodil bulbs would be scattered in clusters along the foundation, which would make it flippin’ gorgeous next spring, and a fairly mature sweet wisteria was already planted by the sliding wooden door, which Samuel had rebuilt beautifully. Faith had painted it periwinkle blue yesterday.

Her little playhouse of old was glorious. She’d saved the barn from becoming just a pile of rocks, created this beautiful place where so many happy memories would be made. Still, a lump came into her throat at the memories of sitting on the moss, pretending to pour tea in acorn caps, trying to tame a chipmunk, leaving a ring of daisies as a gift for the fairies. Such happy times.

Well. Dad and Jane seemed to be getting on like a house on fire, Faith noted. Gardening. So much better than a singles event.

She got to work. Faith always felt like she was a midwife when she planted something, coaxing the plant out of its container, loosening the roots, gently placing it into the carefully dug hole, then filling in the gaps with soil. The dirt on her hands, the rich, dark smell of damp earth, and now, the satisfaction of seeing her design come to actual life... There was nothing like it. The sun beat on her hair, and sweat dampened her T-shirt despite the cool air, the sound of shovels and birdsong making the afternoon utterly perfect.

Three hours later, they were done.

“That went fast,” Dad said.

“Right,” Faith said, rolling her eyes at Jane, who smiled. “That’s because you missed us prepping the soil last week. That’s the hard part.”

“It’s so pretty, honey. Your grandparents will be amazed.”

“Wait till you see it at night, Dad. The lighting is the best part, maybe.”

“Well, I should go,” Jane said. “So nice meeting you, John! I’ll see you at the party, I imagine?”

“You sure will. Nice to meet you, too,” he said, blushing a little, but he shook her hand and waved when she started up her truck. “So, she’s coming?” he asked Faith.

“Sure. You always invite the people who worked on a project, Daddy. It’s classy.”

“Oh, so we’re classy now?”

“Yes. Which means I get to pick out your clothes for Saturday.”

The party had the potential to be fantastic, Faith thought as she tidied up a few things. Goggy and Pops would soften toward each other, remembering old feelings, perhaps. Dad would have an almost-date with a very nice woman. Honor would whisper conspiratorially about her new love. Maybe she could get Jack to dance with Colleen, though the odds were low on that. But since she’d clearly backed a winner with Jane, maybe her next project would be her brother.

And maybe Levi would dance with her. Her knees wobbled at the image, the memory of his hard muscles, his heat pressed against her. Probably not, but it sure was a nice thought.

She snapped out of her fog and put the shovel in the shed. Whatever the case, the anniversary party would be a special night. A magical night.

* * *

ON SATURDAY EVENING, Faith was resisting—barely—the urge to strangle her grandfather.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, dangling the suspicious food in front of his face.

“Just shut up and eat it,” commanded her grandmother. “It’s party food. Don’t be such a pain in the ass.”

Make that strangle both grandparents.

“You’re the pain in the ass,” Pops retorted. “You’ve been a pain in my ass for sixty-five years.”

“No fighting, kids,” Ned said. “This is your party. Don’t make us sign you into the home just yet. Pops, it’s a shrimp. It’s wrapped in prosciutto, that’s all.”

“What the hell’s prosciutto?” Pops asked.

“It’s like extra-fatty bacon,” Faith said. “You’ll love it.”

Okay, so the night was not exactly magical. Not yet, anyway. She could still pull it off...if she drugged Goggy and Pops.

The Holland family had come up to the barn for a special dinner before the big party, since only hors d’oeuvres would be served at the event, and God forbid her grands missed a solid meal. Or Prudence. Or Dad. Or Jack. Honor was here; her mystery man was not, and when Faith had asked about it, sotto voce, Honor gave her an icy look as an answer. Mrs. Johnson was also irritated with Faith, since Faith hadn’t asked her to prepare the dinner but to be a guest instead, which had somehow insulted her.

“You look really handsome tonight, Pops,” she said, smoothing some of the more fascinating eyebrow hairs away from his eyes.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Maybe I’ll get a dance with my special girl, what do you think?”

“If I’m the special girl in question, the answer is yes. But don’t forget,” she added, whispering, “you and Goggy have a dance first.”

Pops grimaced.

“You do,” she said firmly. “And you have your speech, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s right here.” He tapped his jacket pocket.

“Hello, hello,” came a voice. It was Jane, the gardener, dressed in a long, shapeless, greenish-brown cotton dress. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Am I early?”

“Party starts at seven,” Pru said, her voice even louder than usual.

“No, it’s fine,” Faith said. “Come and join us.”

“I’ll come back later,” Jane said. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Not at all. We’d love to have you.” She introduced Jane to the family, earning suspicious looks from Goggy, who didn’t see anything wrong with her son staying a widower for a few more decades, as well as from Abby, who was sulking because she’d been made to change into something “less whorish,” according to Pru. Carl was also missing, though Faith had wised up and not asked why.