My ex-husband’s smug new wife Tabitha marched straight through my late father’s white rose garden in her designer heels, ordering me to start packing because tomorrow’s will reading would hand the whole property over to her and Calvin.

The next six months were the busiest of my life.

Kyle threw himself into Carter and Sons completely. He won back every client Calvin had lost. He hired twenty new workers. He expanded the business into two neighboring counties. By the end of the year, we were bigger and more profitable than we had ever been, even at Dad’s peak.

But the best part was watching Kyle change. The guilt was gone. The fear was gone. In its place was confidence. Pride. He was becoming the man Dad had always known he could be.

I kept busy too. I restored the house from top to bottom. I turned Dad’s old study into a library, filling the shelves with his books and mine. I turned the guest room into a home office. I planted two hundred more rose bushes—white, pink, yellow, red—until the garden was the most beautiful in the county.

I also started a foundation. The Everett and Eleanor Carter Foundation. We funded scholarships for kids who wanted to go into the trades. We built houses for low-income families. We donated to cancer research. Dad would have loved it.

Margaret came to visit every month. She stayed in the guest room. She and I would sit in the garden for hours, drinking tea, talking about Mom. She taught me things about my mother I had never known—how she hated cilantro, how she loved to dance in the rain, how she had always wanted to be a painter but had given it up to raise us.

Slowly, painfully, the wounds began to heal.

Tabitha went on trial in March. The evidence was overwhelming. Her own mother testified against her. The hitman testified against her. The 911 recording of her confession was played for the jury three times.

They deliberated for four hours.

Guilty on all counts. Murder one. Conspiracy. Attempted murder. Tampering.

The judge sentenced her to life without parole. Plus eighty years.

She would die in prison.

As they led her away in handcuffs, she didn’t look at me. She didn’t look at her mother. She just stared straight ahead, empty. Broken.

I felt no satisfaction. No triumph. Just sadness. For the little girl she had once been. For the woman she could have been. For the waste of a life.

But mostly, I felt relief.

It was truly over.

---

It was a warm Saturday in June. Exactly one year to the day since Tabitha had first walked into my garden and told me to pack.

Kyle was throwing a party. A big one. The whole company was coming. Margaret was flying in from California. Penelope was bringing her new granddaughter. Neighbors. Friends. People who had stood by us through everything.

I was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the potato salad, when the doorbell rang.

I wiped my hands on my apron and went to answer it.

A man stood on my porch. Late thirties. Tall. Broad shoulders. Wearing jeans and a faded plaid shirt, holding a six-pack of beer in one hand and a toolbox in the other.

I knew him immediately.

Jake Bennett. One of the new foremen Kyle had hired. He was good at his job. Quiet. Hardworking. Honest. The kind of man Dad would have approved of.

I had been avoiding him for three months. Not because I didn’t like him. But because I did. Too much. And after everything I had been through... the idea of letting someone new into my life terrified me.

“Hey,” he said, smiling that lopsided smile of his that made my stomach do flip-flops. “Kyle said you might need some help fixing the patio table before the party. Said one of the legs is wobbly.”

“He did, did he?” I said, trying and failing to sound annoyed. Kyle was so getting it later.

“Yep. Said you’ve been too busy with the foundation and the roses to mess with it. Figured I’d stop by. Save you the trouble.”

He held up the toolbox.

I sighed. But I was smiling.

“Come on in.”

He followed me through the house to the back patio. Sure enough, one of the legs on the old oak table was loose. Jake knelt down, pulled a wrench from his box, and went to work.

I leaned against the railing, watching him. The sun hit his hair, turning it gold. He moved with the easy, capable confidence of a man who knew how to fix things.

“How’s the foundation going?” he asked, not looking up. “Saw the article in the paper about the new community center you’re building downtown. That’s incredible.”

“Thanks. It’s a lot of work. But worth it. Dad always said we have a responsibility to give back to the community that built us.”

Jake nodded. He tightened the final bolt and stood. Wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Good as new,” he said.

“Thank you. Really. I owe you one.”

He hesitated. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me.

“You don’t owe me anything, Paige,” he said quietly. “I like helping you. I like... being around you. I know you’ve been through hell this past year. I know you’re not looking for anything. And that’s okay. I can wait. However long it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

My throat tightened. No one had said anything like that to me in... forever. Not since Dad.

I opened my mouth to answer. To tell him I needed more time. That I was broken. That I didn’t know if I could ever trust anyone again.

But before I could, a familiar voice called from the garden.

“Paige! Jake! The guests are starting to arrive! Get over here!”

Kyle. Of course.

The moment was broken. Jake smiled.

“Later,” he said.

He walked toward the garden. I stood on the patio for a minute, my heart racing.

*However long it takes.*

I took a deep breath. Smoothed my apron. Followed him.

The party was perfect.

The garden was strung with fairy lights. Tables were covered with checkered cloths. The grill was going. Music played softly from the old speakers Dad had installed years ago.

People laughed. Ate. Drank. Told stories about Dad. About Mom. About the old days.

Margaret sat in a chair near the roses, surrounded by women from the neighborhood, holding court with stories about Mom’s wild teenage years. Penelope sat on the bench, sipping lemonade, watching everything with that sharp, fond eye of hers.

Kyle was in his element. He moved from group to group, laughing, clapping backs, telling terrible jokes. He looked happy. Lighter than I had ever seen him.

At one point, he pulled me aside.

“Look,” he said, nodding toward the edge of the garden.

Jake was standing there, holding two plates of food, waiting patiently for me.

“Give him a chance,” Kyle said quietly. “He’s a good guy. Solid. Reminds me of Dad. And you deserve to be happy. You’ve earned it.”

I looked at my brother. At the man he had become.

“Since when did you become the expert on my love life?” I asked, trying to sound annoyed.

“Since I watched you spend the last year taking care of everyone but yourself,” he said. “It’s your turn, Paige. Let someone take care of you for a change.”

He squeezed my shoulder and walked away.

I took a deep breath. Walked across the grass toward Jake.

He looked up when he saw me coming. His face lit up.

“Saved you a burger,” he said, handing me a plate. “Extra onions. Just how you like it.”

I took it. Our fingers brushed.

“Thank you,” I said. “For the table. For the burger. For... everything.”

He smiled. That lopsided, wonderful smile.

“Anytime.”

We stood together, eating, watching the party. Jake told me about a job he was bidding on—a new school on the east side. I told him about the foundation’s plans for next year. It was easy. Natural. No drama. No lies. No hidden agendas.

Just two people talking.

And then, for no reason at all, Jake reached over and took my hand.

I didn’t pull away.

I looked down at our hands. His was big, calloused, strong. Mine was smaller, still bearing the faint scars from years of gardening. They fit together perfectly.

I looked up at him. He was already looking at me.

“Want to take a walk?” he asked. “Before it gets too dark?”

“I’d like that.”

We walked along the edge of the garden, past the new rose bushes, past the old oak tree, past the third bush from the left—*The Survivor*—which was bigger and more beautiful than ever.

No one spoke. We didn’t need to.

Somewhere behind us, someone turned up the music. An old song. One Mom and Dad used to dance to in the kitchen.

Jake stopped walking. Turned to me.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“There’s no music,” I said, even as I was already stepping closer.

“Sure there is,” he said. “Listen.”

I listened. I heard the wind in the trees. The laughter of the party. The crickets starting their evening song. The distant sound of the music.

I smiled.

“Okay,” I said. “But I should warn you. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Lucky for you,” Jake said, pulling me into his arms, “I’m an excellent teacher.”

We danced. Slowly. In the twilight. Among the roses.

It wasn’t perfect. I stepped on his foot twice. He laughed. I laughed. The world felt soft and warm and full of possibility.

I rested my head on his shoulder. Closed my eyes.

For the first time in a very long time, I didn’t think about the past. About Calvin. About Tabitha. About lies or betrayal or murder.

I thought about now. About the party. About Kyle. About Margaret. About Jake. About the roses blooming all around me.

About Dad.

I knew he was watching. I could almost feel him. Smiling. Nodding. Approving.

*“Carter women do not break,”* I whispered into the evening air.

Jake heard me. He squeezed me a little tighter.

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

We danced until the first stars came out. Until the party started to wind down. Until I knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever came next... I was ready.

The past was over.