Chapter 14 - THE GIFT MY MOTHER LEFT FOR A STRANGER
My mother had left Vincent fifty thousand dollars.
Not millions.
Not a fortune.
A practical amount.
Enough, she wrote, to:
Get Daisy somewhere safe if Frank ever comes back.
Vincent looked at the old trust document.
“I was fifteen.”
“She knew Anthony believed you would eventually lead the family.”
“Apparently everyone had career plans for me.”
I touched the letter.
Caroline had never met the adult Vincent.
But she trusted the possibility of him.
That felt enormous.
The money had grown to nearly two hundred thousand dollars.
Vincent transferred every cent to Bennett Inn.
I objected.
“It isn’t yours.”
“It was given to me.”
“Exactly.”
“For you.”
“No.”
He smiled.
“Your mother outranks you.”
“She’s dead.”
“Still persuasive.”
We compromised.
The money established the Caroline Bennett Fund.
It paid for renovations and emergency assistance for small family inns threatened by predatory development.
Grandma cried when she saw the plaque.
Then pretended allergies.
A month later, I met Daniel Hayes.
My biological father.
He came alone.
No dramatic entrance.
No limousine.
Just a nervous man holding a bouquet of daisies because apparently subtlety was hereditary.
“You’re real,” he said.
I cried before saying hello.
We talked for six hours.
He had never known.
He showed me photographs of himself at twenty-five.
I saw my smile.
My nose.
The way I tilted my head.
Something inside me settled.
Not completed.
Settled.
Vincent gave us privacy.
That mattered.
After Daniel left, I found Vincent fixing a fence.
Badly.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“That board is crooked.”
“It has character.”
“You are banned from carpentry.”
He handed me the hammer.
“Your father seems nice.”
“He is.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“Actually yes.”
He nodded.
Then:
“The statement goes out tomorrow.”
“What statement?”
“Our fake engagement ending.”
“Oh.”
I had forgotten.
That was inconvenient.
Vincent studied my face.
“We can delay.”
“No.”
“Daisy.”
“The fake engagement should end.”
He nodded.
Again too mature.
The next morning, the statement was released:
Vincent Moretti and Daisy Bennett have mutually ended their engagement and remain close friends.
The internet lost its mind.
One comment:
THERE IS NO WAY THAT MAN LOOKS AT HER LIKE A FRIEND.
I agreed privately.
Vincent returned to New York.
For two weeks.
Worst two weeks of my year.
I missed him.
His coffee.
His terrible fence repairs.
His ridiculous suits beside our muddy driveway.
I hated that.
Then a package arrived.
No ring.
A train ticket.
New York.
Attached note:
No pressure. No security problem. No fake engagement.
Just dinner, if you want it.
I went.
Dinner was on a rooftop.
No photographers.
No mob captains.
No family secrets.
He asked me about the inn.
I asked him about restructuring the business.
We talked for three hours.
Then he said:
“I want to date you.”
I nearly spit out my water.
“Very direct.”
“I’ve learned that subtlety is wasted on you.”
“Fair.”
“Not engagement.”
“Good.”
“Not marriage.”
“Excellent.”
“Dinner. Visits. Normal things.”
I looked around at Manhattan from a rooftop restaurant accessible through a private elevator.
“Your normal needs work.”
He smiled.
I said yes.
For eighteen months, we dated.
New York.
The inn.
Farmers’ markets.
Business dinners.
County fairs.
One memorable incident involving Vincent losing a pie contest to Grandma and demanding a recount.
Then, on the anniversary of my drunken proposal, he returned to the same festival.
Same band.
Same golden lights.
Same bar.
This time I was sober.
He wore jeans.
I nearly fainted for different reasons.
Then he disappeared.
Five minutes later, the crowd started cheering.
I turned.
Vincent stood on a picnic table.
My stomach dropped.
“Do not.”
He smiled.
Then shouted:
“Daisy Bennett!”
Everyone looked at me.
“Oh, no.”
He held up a microphone.
“Two years ago, this woman proposed to me drunk.”
Laughter erupted.
I covered my face.
“She listed her qualifications.”
“Cooking.”
“Fence repair.”
“Tractor operation.”
“And apparently peach cobbler.”
More laughter.
Then his expression softened.
“She forgot one.”
The crowd quieted.
“She is the bravest woman I know.”
My heart stopped.
He stepped down.
Walked toward me.
Then knelt.
This time the ring was new.
Not a key.
Not an heirloom.
Mine.
“Daisy Bennett.”
“No peach wine.”
“No fake threats.”
“No tunnels.”
“Would you marry me for real?”
I stared at him.
Then whispered:
“I need one condition.”
His face tightened.
“What?”
“You never repair another fence.”
The crowd exploded.
Vincent laughed.
“Deal.”
I held out my hand.
“Yes.”
Then someone behind us shouted:
“NO TAKE-BACKS!”
Vincent looked at me.
I groaned.
“We are never escaping that.”
“No.”
May you like
He slipped the ring onto my finger.
“Sweetheart, I’m counting on it.”
