When Romaine and I were together, we were always surrounded by people. We had a live-in maid and cook; there were gardeners and maintenance people; and, of course, there were his bandmates who practically lived with us when they weren’t distracted by current girlfriends or hookups. Grown men crashing all over our home like it was a fraternity house was not my idea of an idyllic home life.

  Romaine and I were a couple for three years, but we didn’t live together until we got engaged. When I got out of culinary school and started working full time, we hardly ever saw each other. It made sense for us to cut out all the commuting time and share a house. The problem was that Romaine still thought of it as his bachelor pad and not our home. He never asked if the revolving door of visitors was okay with me. It was the beginning of the end.

  “You coming with that paper?” James's question breaks into my thoughts.

  I chuck the notebook at him. “Impatient much?” Penny jumps up and lets out a bark, so I pick her up and take her into the kitchen where we set out her food and water. Once she’s done eating, I put on the leash James bought for her and take her out back to do her business.

  He joins me after a few minutes. “She looks right at home here.”

  “I bet she’d look more at home on your farm where she could run for miles.” My answer sounds snippy even to my ears. What is with this man that I can’t seem to go more than five minutes without attacking?

  “I wrote down a couple of ideas,” he says, not seeming to notice my change of mood. He hands me the notebook before turning around. “I’m going to put dinner on.” I watch as he walks away, feeling conflicting emotions. I am not a woman who needs a man in her life. I’ve been on my own more often than not, but I still like how it feels to have someone take care of me.

  Against my better judgment, I let myself wonder what that would be like if that person were James.

  Chapter Ten

  Ruby

  “The dining room is so magical with all the tea lights lit,” Chris tells Ruby before taking a sip of wine. “The chandeliers look like stars in the night sky when they’re dimmed like this.”

  “You’re feeling like quite the poet tonight, aren’t you?” Ruby laughs.

  “It’s something about this time of year that really gets me. I feel fragile and powerful at the same time.”

  “I know what you mean. Tom and I loved going for walks in the fall. The bite in the air and the clean smell of the leaves are an intoxicating combination.”

  The friends revel in their own thoughts for a moment before Chris says, “This garden venture of yours isn’t going to be cheap.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be, but it will more than pay for itself in a couple years with all the food it’ll produce for the restaurant,” Ruby replies.

  “Tom would have loved this idea.”

  Ruby absently picks at the salmon cake in front of her. “He would have told me I was crazy and that I was taking on too much.”

  “But then he would have jumped on board and made it happen. Especially if it meant throwing his son in the path of a strong-willed woman who doesn’t take any crap from him.”

  Ruby enjoys a fortifying sip of merlot. “Tom would have had such a laugh over me trying to set up James with Tara. Call me fanciful, but I talk to him every night before I fall asleep and sometimes I swear he answers me.”

  “I’m one hundred percent sure he does,” Chris says while reaching over to take her friend’s hand. “You and Tom were a great team. If you’d been famous, the tabloids would have given you one of those cutesy couple names like Rom or Tuby.”

  “Tuby?” Ruby starts to giggle despite the melancholy she’d begun feeling. “I guess that means that you and Dale would be Cale or Dis.”

  “Hey, don’t dis the kale!” Chris peals with laughter. “Brogan and Addie would be Agan or Baddie.” Then she says, “Didn’t they call Tara and her ex Tomaine?”

  “Yuck,” Ruby says. Then with a wink, adds, “I prefer Tames.”

  “As if anyone could tame your son.”

  “I bet Tara could, if she had a mind to.” A pleasant sensation of possibility and contentment fills Ruby’s heart. If she could just settle her sons and get them to make her some grandkids, then she’d have new people to focus her love on. Tom’s passing left such a hole that she wants and needs something big to help fill it.

  James

  I Googled Tara right after the dinner at the lodge where my family learned who she was. I found out she moved here after breaking up with her longtime boyfriend. I didn’t know anything about her troubles while she was having them because I’m a farmer who works ungodly hours, and I’m also a grown man who’s never much cared about celebrity gossip. Having said that, I obviously know who Tara and Romaine are. They’re both out-of-this world famous, which makes me wonder how Tara’s been able to fool people about her whereabouts for so long.

  I didn’t recognize her this summer when she started coming to my farm, but I wasn’t expecting to see her there. So, in that sense, I get that no one in Oregon knows who she is, but those tabloid reporters could find a flea on the moon with the proper motivation.

  I’m slicing the steak super thin when Tara brings the puppy into the kitchen. I decide to ask the question that’s been on my mind. “How have you been able to keep people from finding you?”

  She shrugs. “I used my middle name for my surname, and I don’t charge anything.”

  “What does that mean, you don’t charge anything?”

  “I don’t use my credit card,” she says plainly.

  “The tabloids can trace your credit cards?” That seems a bit paranoid if you ask me, but that might be exactly what it takes to stay off their radar.

  “I don’t know if they can. I don’t use my credit cards because they all say Tara Heinz on them. I don’t want any store clerks to see that or they might decide to make an easy buck and call the rags.”

  That makes more sense. “You want to cut up some of the vegetables for dinner?” I ask. It’s not that I need her help but it’s nice to have company, even if that company is a bit surly most of the time.

  Tara pulls open a drawer and puts on a plain white chef’s apron. “You want one?” she asks.

  “Nah, I’m good.” I don’t see the point of dirtying something else to protect my jeans and button-down. They’re going straight into the wash when I get home.

  Tara points to a cabinet next to her. “All of my oils and marinades are in there.” For some inexplicable reason my mind conjures the image of a bottle of suntan oil and I start to think what it would be like to rub it all over Tara’s body, in all the places she can’t reach … My fantasy is interrupted by the sound of her clearing her throat.

  I walk across the room to take stock of her inventory. She has olive oil, vegetable oil, peanut oil, and sesame oil. “You must cook a lot, huh?”

  “I had high hopes when I moved in, but if you look closer, you’ll see that none of them are open.” She takes a big step to the side to put more distance between us.

  “Did you buy this house or are you renting?” I ask.

  “Renting. I’d never been to Oregon before taking the job at the lodge. I figured I’d wait and see what the area was like before buying.”

  “You mean, you’re waiting to see if you want to stay?” I’m guessing that’s a more likely scenario. Los Angeles and the Willamette Valley couldn’t be more dissimilar.

  Tara starts to unpack the vegetables before putting them in a colander to rinse off. “I don’t think of being here as a temporary thing.” She sounds almost hurt like I was insinuating she was using the lodge solely as a means to hide out.

  “I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” I assure her, “I just meant that you left LA during a bit of a media circus.”

  “You’ve done your homework on me, huh?” I can’t tell if she’s mad or flattered.

  I turn on the flame under the skillet on top of the stove and pour in a small amount of peanut oil. “I may have looked you up,” I answer sheepishly. If that’s what you call four hours of clicking every link mentioning her on the internet and reading what mostly unreliable sources had to say.

  “The tabloids make it sound like all Romaine and I did was fight, but the truth is we just wanted different things.”

  “Which were?” I can’t help it; I want to know.

  She shoots me the side eye as though trying to discern my motivation for asking. She finally says, “Romaine is at the height of his fame. It’s really important to him.”

  “And?” I prod.

  “And I’m tired of fame. I wanted to see what I’ve been missing out on all these years.”

  “Most people would say you’re not missing out on much,” I tell her.

  “But not you?” She doesn’t sound surprised.

  I toss the strips of steak onto the hot skillet and stir quickly until the sizzling abates. “I don’t think anyone goes into farming to become famous.”

  “Why did you become a farmer?” she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

  “My grandpa taught me and my brother all about the land. He’d take us camping and make us trap or scavenge for all of the food we’d eat. He taught us to respect the earth and the processes of it.”

  She doesn’t respond right away, so I continue, “I became enamored by the idea of putting a seed into the ground and watching it produce food. By the time I went to college I knew I was going to major in agriculture.”

  “You have a farming degree?” she asks, sounding surprised.

  “There’s a lot to know in order to become a successful farmer.” I sound butthurt, like she thinks my chosen profession is one for stupid people.

  My face must say it all, because she quickly adds, “I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

  “Why didn’t you go to college?” I ask her. That was one of the many things I found out when I looked her up online.

  “Because when I was the age most kids are heading off for university, I was walking runways in Paris and shooting makeup campaigns. If I’d taken time off to go to school, I would have been walking away from my career at its peak.” She informs me, “Actors often go to college, but with models we have such a short window of time to capitalize on our looks. We’ve got to work while we’re young.”

  “You could have gone later,” I suggest.

  “I guess so, but I would have wanted more than just an education. I would have wanted the same kind of experience that normal kids got to have, which would have meant going at the same age they did.”

  “So, you went to culinary school,” I say, stating the obvious. “How did they treat you?”

  “Suspiciously, at first. No one could figure out what I was doing there. But after several weeks of proving my intentions, they eventually treated me the same as everyone else.”

  We prepare the rest of the meal working quietly together. When I was a teenager, I never spent much time imagining what Tara Heinz was like as a person. I’m happy to find out that she seems a lot deeper than I would have expected a supermodel to be.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gwen

  Gwen’s seatmate on the airplane is dressed casually, but nicely, in black slacks and a soft pink sweater. She’s reading a People magazine when she turns to Gwen and says, “I think Tara Heinz looks a lot better now that she’s put on a few pounds. What do you think?”

  Gwen practically chokes on her response. “I don’t know who that is.” Her voice falters as she swallows a mouthful of air. Hiccups ensue.

  The woman shows her the magazine open to a collage of her daughter’s most famous ad campaigns. Next to those is a picture of her coming out of Le Deux Langues wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the words “Go Away” written across the front.

  “Pretty girl,” Gwen says, trying to keep her voice steady.

  The woman eyes her closely and says, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like an older version of her?”

  “No,” Gwen hurries to answer before resting her head against the side of the airplane and pretending to sleep for the next ninety minutes to avoid further conversation.

  Tara

  My bedroom is similar to that of my childhood boudoir. Both rooms look like the chintz fairy threw up all over the walls. While I find the familiarity soothing, I’m glad the wallpaper colors here are a relaxing sage green, with ivory and coral accents instead of the pretty-in-pink extravaganza I used to have. On bright days I used to find it helpful to wear sunglasses to avoid the glare.

  Lying in bed, I think about James Cavanaugh. I’m not sure what to make of him. We had a genuinely nice supper together the other night. We mostly talked about the garden and a little about the lodge. But as soon as we were done eating, he cleared the dishes, washed them, and took Penny home.

  I saw him the next morning when we met with his mom, but I haven’t laid eyes on him since. That was two days ago. I can’t quite tell if I’m disappointed not to see more of him or if I just miss Penny.

  As I toy with the idea of texting him to see if he kept the puppy or took her to the pound, my phone pings. Are you at work? It’s him.

  I answer back, Nope, it’s my day off.

  Can you babysit for a little while?

  Babysit who?

  Penny.

  Delighted that he kept her, I text back that I’d love to babysit. Instead of bringing her to me, he asks me to come to his farm. It takes me ten minutes to get ready and get into my car.

  My only plans for today were to walk around town before settling in to watch some of my favorite nineties rom coms. On past days off, I’ve gone into work to make sure things were going smoothly. I zip-lined one day and hiked another. As much fun as those things are, they’re a lot more pleasurable when you can share the experience with somebody.

  When I pull into James’s driveway, I pass the farm stand, and ponder some of our squabbles as I drive to his house. My jaw drops once I arrive. In a word, it’s old. If pressed for another word, I’d have to say it’s dilapidated. While it doesn’t look quite ready to be condemned, it’s definitely run-down.

  James meets me at the front door and immediately hands me the dog. “Hello,” I say to his back as he walks away from me.

  “I have a flood in my master bathroom,” he calls over his shoulder. I watch as he runs up the stairs. I’m not sure whether he expects me to follow him or not. I ultimately decide to stay put.

  His living room is sparsely furnished, but what pieces there are look comfortable. I settle on an overstuffed whalebone corduroy couch with Penny, who’s so happy to see me you’d think I was her long-lost mother.

  I’m busy rubbing her belly when I hear a variety of noises coming from upstairs, mostly banging and cursing. James runs down the stairs mumbling something about his dumb luck before he walks out the front door.

  Penny and I continue to play with her bone-shaped chew toy until James returns a few minutes later. He looks like he’s been in a fist fight. His hair is mussed, his shirt is half out of his waistband and his hands are covered in something that looks like grease. Although it could be mud, it’s hard to say.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He shakes his head while holding up his hands like a surgeon right before walking into the operating room. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he says before heading toward the rear of the house.

  When he returns, he’s not only washed his hands, he’s changed his clothes. “I’ve been updating my bathroom. When I started to remove the old tile from the wall, I accidentally hit the water line with my hammer.”

  “Is everything okay now?” I don’t know anything about plumbing and, from the looks of it, neither does he. The devil on my shoulder is tempted to point that out to him, but I tamp down the impulse before I make him mad at me again today.

  “I was trying to do the work myself by following YouTube videos, but I’m not doing a very good job of it. I’m going to have to have to hire a plumber now and lord knows what that’s going to cost me.”

  “Have you called someone yet?” I ask, unsure of what to say to him while he’s in such a state.

  “I’m going to. But in the meantime, I had to shut off all the water to the house. You might want to take Penny to your place where it’s less chaotic. I can pick her up tonight.”

  I’ve been dismissed. Yet, there’s really no point staying with all the upheaval going on here. Before leaving, I state the obvious. “You kept Penny.”

  His smile causes a wave of undefinable emotion to wash over me. “She slept with me her first night here and I was hooked.” Now that’s sweet.

  “You’re going to call her Penny?” I ask with borderline jealousy that the puppy belongs to him and not me.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s as good a name as any.” Pulling his phone out of his pants pocket, he says, “Her food is in the kitchen. She gets a cup at noon and another cup at six. I might be there in time for her supper though.”

  I gather Penny in my arms along with her toy bone. Then I go to the kitchen for her food. When I come back, James has already taken off for heaven knows where, so I head out to my car. As soon as the puppy is situated next to me, I pull out my phone to find the closest pet store.

  I can’t imagine James has had the time or inclination to get Penny all of the things she needs. The first thing I see once we get inside the store is one of those machines that makes identification tags for a dog’s collar. I run my credit card through it, reasoning that the machine isn’t going to tell anyone who I am. Then I type in all of Penny’s information. I include her name, Penny Cavanaugh, her address, James’s farm, and for the owner I put James Cavanaugh, Dad. Then because I have the option of an additional line, I add Tara Delaney, Aunt.

  I fire off a quick text to James asking if he’s had a chance to take Penny to the vet. He answers within seconds that he hasn’t, so I make the executive decision to make an appointment for later that afternoon.

  Penny and I spend an hour walking around the store together buying toys and accessories, like a few little sweaters, and a new rhinestone-studded collar. After that, I take her back to my place for lunch and a nap. After her vet appointment, she sleeps on me while I watch movies. We have such a nice day together I’m not sure I’m going to be able to give her back to James tonight.