Jamie nodded. “That I did. Don’t worry. She was cool about it. I’m all yours for the entire holiday weekend.”

I smiled. Make that two things to strike off my worry list.

* * *

The next night at the reception, I found myself sitting alone with Simon. Jamie was off talking to an old high school friend, and Melia, whom he’d brought along to the reception as well, was . . . somewhere else. I didn’t look around to find her.

“How are things at the inn?” Simon asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Still up in the air. It’s officially on the market, so we’re just waiting at this point to see if it gets any interest.”

“I think I saw you in the garden last week. Talking to Ida?”

“Really?”

“I can see the garden from my front porch.”

“Oh. You should have waved.”

“It looked like a pretty serious conversation.”

I shrugged. “She was just telling me all the reasons she’s decided to sell. And I’m glad she did. It helps me understand her side of things.”

“You definitely sound a lot more at peace about everything.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’m still totally stressed about who the new owners might be.”

“That’s understandable. I don’t think you have any reason to worry though. Winding Way is a great property. You’ll get a good buyer. I’m sure of it.”

“Thanks. You know, I used to play in the gardens at Winding Way all the time as a kid.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “The rose garden was my favorite. I’d crawl over the south garden wall with my books and read for hours in the big tree that shades the bench. I finished a lot of books in that garden.”

“What did you read?”

“What books?”

He nodded.

“Normal little-girl stuff. Little House on the Prairie. Nancy Drew mysteries. Anne of Green Gables. Want to hear something funny though?”

“Of course.”

“I always carried one of my dad’s old books with me whenever I went to my tree. It was the book he was reading when he met my mother, so I figured if I was going to meet my prince, it’d be good luck to have it with me.”

“Dare I ask what the book was?”

I sighed a happy sigh. “Gabriel García Márquez. A Hundred Years of Solitude. It was an original print edition, in Spanish even. You want to hear the story?”

He leaned forward, his elbow on the table. “More than anything.”