Page 93 of Morally Black Betrothal
A rare talent these days.
“So, the farm,” I wondered after a moment. “Tell me about it. In Woodstock, right?” These were things I would be expected to know about her. Things beyond the dossier my lawyers had already worked up. “I drove through there once on my way to a retreat. It’s nice.”
“Yep. I already told you about the business. What else do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Things that are specific to you. Or what makes you want to save it, maybe. Does it have a name, or is it just called Bishop Dairy?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, my family was a little more creative than that, since there are approximately ten thousand Bishops in New England. It’s called Dandelion Farm.”
I frowned. It sounded…familiar.
“Dandelion?” I repeated, trying the words out on my tongue. “Cute. Where, ah, did it come from?” And why the fuck was it bothering me so much?
“Well, I can’t say why my four-times great-grandfather named the farm that, but I can tell you they are everywhere on the property. And the family lore says they were planted there by the first Bishop settlers who got them from an ancestor off the Mayflower. Rumor has it that’s how they came to the colonies to begin with. One of the Puritans brought them for medicinal uses.”
I grinned. “Mayflower, huh? You’re an original pilgrim.”
She gave an adorable snort. “Yeah, me and half of New England. Isn’t everyone whose families have been here a while related to someone on the Mayflower?”
We both chuckled.
“Anyway, my mom decided to embrace them. She used to pick the greens for spring salads and make tea from the toasted flowers. She even made a dandelion bread.” Her shoulders slumped at the memory. “That’s why I’m doing this. It’s things like that that make me want to save it. My whole family’s history is in that place. Why shouldn’t I try to save it if I can? Otherwise, the bank will sell it to some developer or whatever.” She looked up quickly. “Oh. Sorry.”
That was when it clicked.
The list. Owen’s goddamn luxury scheme. Dandelion Farm was on the list of bad mortgages he’d acquired from the bank. It was also one of the ones I’d just ordered to be sold.
Suddenly, my throat felt like it was about to close. “It’s—it’s all right. I’m not that developer.”
At least I wasn’t anymore.
Fuck.
“Your father…must have loved your mom very much,” I managed to get out. “To let everything go.”
Jesus Christ, I was really fucking this up. Trying to change the subject, andthat’sthe best I could come up with? It didn’t help that I honestly couldn’t imagine blowing my entire livelihood just to grieve my dead wife.
Or maybe I could.
No. Impossible.
“He did.” Simone peered like she could see the doubt and guilt cutting through my system and wanted to figure it out.
I wanted to figure it out too. Namely where the fuck it was coming from.
Before she could say anything else, Pearl appeared with two mismatched plates bearing our desserts. Simone’s cannolo was filled with snowy white ricotta and topped with shavings of dark chocolate and crushed pistachios. My plate bore a simple white mound of iced pastry with a puff of cream and a preserved lemon on top.
“Oooh, you got the Lemon Delight.” Simone pointed at my dessert with her fork. “It’s incredible.”
“A specialty of my family in Italy,” Pearl announced. “Lemon sponge cake filled with lemon custard, topped with lemon icing and a bit of cream. Enjoy.”
She managed to pinch my cheek like I was a five-year-old kid before striding off to help a few more customers who’d just entered the shop.
Simone giggled.
I made a face. “Do I look like a child?”
Simone’s laughter echoed around the room like tinkling bells at Christmas Mass. “No, but I like to pretend she’s my grandma. I think she does it to everyone.”
