Page 129 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Rain taps against the tasting room windows. Behind her, the vineyard blurs through the glass. She is damp, tired, holding a notebook curling at the edges, and still standing like she can keep the whole property from sliding into the lake if someone hands her enough binder clips and one functioning pastry.

“But if you want to leave,” I say, “we leave now.”

Her mouth parts slightly.

Not much.

Enough to make me wish this was a different room, a different day, a different lie.

Eleanor goes quiet.

Daisy’s gaze stays on mine.

Her throat moves.

“I want to stay because I missed the vineyard,” she says, as if the confession costs more than it should. “And because I can help tomorrow. And because I want breakfast with your mom before she decides I’m avoiding her and starts communicating through the Wolfcraft newsletter.”

“I appreciate that,” I say.

I mean it.

Mom would understand if we left before the weather got worse, but she would love seeing Daisy. She would pretend to be casual about it. She would fail before the coffee finished brewing.

“Thank you.”

Daisy nods once, too fast. “Fine.”

Then she turns back to her mother, chin lifted like she is negotiating with the weather, her childhood, and every bad idea that ever wore a cardigan. “We’ll stay one night.”

Eleanor’s relief is immediate and too careful. “Good. Wonderful. I’ll make up your room.”

Daisy freezes.

I don’t understand why until Helena, standing near the flowers, says, “The guest cottage has roof work. My old room is full of centerpiece supplies. The blue room has boxes from the tasting room renovation. Soren’s room is under renovation after they demolished the gray room to make it big enough for a nursery.”

Eleanor says, “Daisy’s room is the only one available.”

Daisy looks at her mother.

Then at me.

Then back at her mother.

“My room,” she repeats.

“One night,” Eleanor says.

“Mom.”

“What?”

Daisy’s eyes widen, and for once, no joke comes.

That’s how I know it’s bad.

Daisy can make a joke with a phone at one percent, a bleeding heart, and a man asking about napkin texture. Silence from her is not silence. It is a system failure.

Eleanor glances between us. “Is there a problem?”