“So here’s how it’s going to go,” I say. “You’re going to give me your daughter’s bags. Then you’re going to go inside your big old house and think about what you did. I mean, really think about it. You inflicted ten years of emotional pain and suffering on your own daughter—and for what? To avenge your teenage broken heart?”
I used to think my daddy was sick in the head, but Oliver deserve a category all his own.
His mouth forms a firm line. Either he doesn’t know what to say or he’s afraid to say anything at all.
“Once you completely grasp the consequences of your actions and how deeply you have hurt your own flesh and blood,” I say, “then—and only then—will you offer your daughter a heartfelt apology. You will plead for her forgiveness. And you will show her that you’ve learned the error of your ways. And in the meantime, you’ll sell the farm back to my mother at whatever fire sale price she deems appropriate. Should you deviate from any of these things, you’ll risk losing the only person who ever truly loved you unconditionally.”
He swallows, dropping his gaze to the porch floorboards for a moment.
“I’ll, uh … I’ll just grab her bags.” He disappears inside for a few minutes, returning with two black suitcases.
“God willing, she just might forgive you in time for the wedding,” I say.
And with that, I grab her bags and leave him standing on his front porch watching his beautiful life crumble to ash.
37
One Year Later
* * *
Blaire
* * *
“You ready?” Wyatt asks as we approach the glowing marble moon.
I couldn’t come to the Whiskey Moon festival and not make a wish—it wouldn’t be right. But in the past year, I’ve been granted so many wishes, it almost seems selfish to ask for more.
Last summer, I moved out of my apartment in the city for good, took a job at the community theater in Northcutt, found my calling behind the scenes, and stood back as my fiancé impressively brokered a deal that allowed his mama to buy the farm back for pennies on the dollar. As soon as the ink was dry on the paperwork, Renata gifted us a plot of land on the north quadrant of the farm, which is a little closer to work for me. One day we’ll put a house on it, but for now we’re cozying up in our little line shack, making up for lost time.
The Whiskey Moon glows beneath the starry sky, and Wyatt takes my hand in his.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I wish for Wyatt’s happiness.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
We move aside and let the next people go.
He leads me through the crowd, where laughter marries with funnel cake and the whir of carnival rides and the electric thrill of hope lingering in the air as people come from miles around to forget about life for a while and make a wish while they’re at it.
“You hungry?” Wyatt asks. “I know someone at the donut stand. Rumor has it, she’ll hook us up.”
“I’m not going to cut in front of a hundred hungry people,” I say when we spot the mile-long line. “Anyway, your mama said she’d make donuts for me anytime I want.”
Renata’s been nothing but a gem since everything came to light last summer. She was horrified to learn what my father had done to keep us apart, but she wasn’t surprised. Back when she dated him, she said he could be intense and controlling, and when she met Ambrose, he was this strapping, uninhibited cowboy with messy hair and a free spirit. Somewhere along the way he changed, and the man she married turned into a stranger she didn’t recognize. But she never regretted choosing him over Oliver because her boys are her sun, her stars, and her own personal whiskey moons.
My father and I are still … patching things up.
He’s trying.
I’m trying.
Renata told me there were times over the years that she debated telling me that she and my mother were once friends, but she never knew if it was her place. Even though they had a falling out after my father married her, she never blamed my mother. She knew how influential my father could be when he wanted something. In a way, Renata said spending time with me was like being with a piece of my mother.
“Where to next?” Wyatt asks.
“Why don’t you try to win one of those stuffed pandas at the clown toss? I bet you’d be Daisy’s favorite uncle if you showed up to Sunday supper with that thing.”
“Psh.” He cocks his head. “Consider it done.”
We head to the clown toss, stopping for a couple of beers from the beer tent along the way. With nowhere else to be and a lazy Sunday on the docket for tomorrow, we’ll likely be here all night. It’s funny how many more hours are in each day when you stop rushing through life like it’s some kind of race with a finish line and a trophy at the end.