Page 110 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Beside me, Daisy exhales. She picks up the notebook she hasn’t opened and holds it tighter.

“Okay,” she says, to herself, to me, to whatever version of her used to belong here. “Here we go.”

Puck wakes the instant I cut the engine.

He sits bolt upright, lets out one joyful bark at the entire concept of the vineyard, then shoves his nose against the window like he has been waiting his whole life to arrive somewhere he has never been.

At least one of us is excited.

“For the record,” I say, before either of us opens a door, “this was a bad idea.”

“The worst,” Daisy agrees immediately.

“We should’ve stayed in Boston.”

“Absolutely.”

“Could’ve had coffee.”

“Could’ve had dignity.”

“Dignity was never on the schedule.”

“True. We left at four-thirty. Dignity was asleep.”

Neither of us moves.

Up at the house, the screen door opens.

Mrs. Thorn steps onto the porch in a barn coat and jeans, hair twisted into something neat enough to be intentional and fast enough to be work. She shades her eyes against the new sun, spots us, and lifts one hand.

“Joy, that’s my mother,” Daisy says.

“I figured.”

“Last chance to fake your own death.”

“I considered it on the highway.”

“And?”

“Somebody had to drive us here.”

“Thoughtful of you, Wolfe.”

Like a gentleman, I get out of the car and open the door for her.

Then for Puck.

That is where my gentleman streak ends.

Puck launches himself out of the back as soon as I open his door, nearly taking me with him. One hundred pounds of rescued optimism and breakfast-related delusion hits the gravel with purpose.

“Easy,” I mutter.

He ignores me and bounds toward the house, toward Mrs. Thorn, toward whatever smells like vineyards, baked goods, and immediate betrayal.

Daisy watches him go. “He’s going to love my mother.”