Long Walk Home

by Ellyn Oaksmith

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Lola recognized him straight away. After ten long years of telling herself that maybe she hadn't really loved him—there he was. And straight away she knew she wanted him still.Lola Alvarez loves working in the restaurant of Blue Hills, her family's winery, looking out over vine-covered slopes down to the crystal-blue waters of the lake. But she is also determined to make her own mark on the business—to show her older sister Carmen that she's not the same flighty teen she used to be.Her plan to build gorgeous vacation cabins in the mountain meadow above the winery will be the perfect addition to Blue Hills, even if she has to go behind Carmen's back to make her dream a reality. When Carmen sees how popular they are she'll have to come round—right?But then Gus Weaver comes back to town. Gus was her first love, the bad boy she used to climb out of windows to see. But he'd broken her heart when he left town suddenly, without so much as a goodbye. After that, she'd never seen him again. Until now. As fate intervenes and they're forced to work together on Lola's project, sparks start to fly between them once again. But he's led her astray before. Can Lola keep her mind on what she truly wants, when her heart—and the way it beats faster every time she looks into Gus's blue eyes—is telling her something very different? An utterly romantic feel-good read about being true to yourself and becoming the person you were always meant to be, Long Walk Home will make you laugh, make you cry and show you that true love always finds a way. For fans of Robyn Carr, Carolyn Brown and Mary Ellen Taylor.Readers love Ellyn Oaksmith:"I just couldn't resist... A beautiful summer romance read which I have absolutely adored... Filled with moments to make you laugh out loud... a perfect, light and easy read to devour whilst sat in the sun... I absolutely recommend this book. It is so highly deserving of five stars." Little Miss BookLover 87 "I adored it... Made my eyes well up and my heart melt... A wonderful story... Sit back and enjoy this fabulous book. You will not regret it, believe me.' B for Bookreview "Sizzle and conflict... make it a perfect summer vacation must-read. For the great tension, interesting character dynamics, and the feel-good ending, this book gets a well-deserved five stars." Fiction Flock "Rich in friendship, family, and especially love. Add the many LOL moments... and you get a truly superb feel-good love story. Delightful characters, beautiful settings, wine, wine, wine, and a HEA. What more could you ask for?" The Eclectic ReviewUSA Today bestselling author-

Release date: April 30, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Two little words could change everything. Coming Soon. The moment she typed them, her open window banged slightly in a sudden wind. Lola remembered it later, thinking it was like something out of a movie. Two little words. They were the butterflies that set off a hurricane in the Alvarez family.

The Blue Hills Winery blog was Lola’s vision of the winery and restaurant. The more colorful picture of her garden and her dog, her pizza recipes. Nobody in her family read the Blue Hills Winery blog. In their eyes, it was one more of Lola’s fanciful ideas that, since it didn’t cost a dime, Carmen, who let’s face it, was the more like the empress than the directing manager, tolerated.

Which gave Lola a lot of freedom. Maybe too much. Enough to write a blog post featuring photos of tiny cabins that she’d found on Pinterest and become more than a little obsessed with. The kind of place you could hole up in and hide from the world. The outsides were charming, with peaked roofs, blue shutters, flower boxes at the window and front porches just large enough for two chairs and a table. Perfect for a couple to relax and share a bottle of wine after a long day of hiking, or swimming, or lazing at the beach. Later, Lola would wonder if the whole thing came about because she was the one who needed to escape.

Either way, it happened.

The butterfly flapped its tiny wings.

Lola distinctly remembered re-reading the post. Looking out the window before she hit publish. It was unseasonably warm. Her window was open, the smell of apples, sharp and sweet, drifting in from the orchard. A glass of wine at her elbow. The fortunate—or unfortunate—caption below the post about the tiny cabins (they always must be prefaced with a “tiny”; Lola instinctively knew this was part of their charm, the minute aspect) had been: “Coming Soon.”

She’d hiked up to the top of the orchard, the place she alone called Daisy Hollow. She’d stood, with her dog, also named Daisy, at the idyllic spot where she’d last been one hundred percent utterly happy. She’d snapped a photo of the view.

To be fair, she’d known that anyone staying in this spot would be given a respite from ordinary life. Although it was on the winery estate, it was removed from the main buildings by a long steep slope. The rows of vines provided privacy and acted as a sound barrier. The hollow was a world unto itself. It was a community service, this blog post. She was willing to share Daisy Hollow with the world. Looking down from these heights would infuse even the weariest soul with a renewed appreciation for life. The vantage was from the highest spot in the orchard, snug against the striated cliff that was home to nesting owls and bats, who lived in the scrubby vegetation growing from the red soil, coming out to hunt in the orchard at night. Guarded by the cliffs, the orchards of Blue Hills spread like a lush velvet mantle down the hill, stopping at Orchard House, where the restaurant, built onto what used to be the master suite on the east side of the house, overlooked the lake. Below Orchard House was the old orchard, and across a narrow street, Lake Chelan.

From this lookout, the lake wound around a point until it vanished over the horizon into the North Cascades. The neighboring vineyard, Hollister Estate, was to the east. Lola’s sister, Carmen, was marrying Evan Hollister this summer. Her wedding planning, combined with managing the Blue Hills Winery, was keeping her in a suspended state of stress that was three levels higher than her normal Type A frenetic behavior. She was unbearable to be around. Even more than usual.

Life at Orchard House had become a pressure cooker. The upside of Carmen being utterly consumed with her wedding plans was that it created a little more room for Lola to think. Maybe this was the perfect time to make her mark on the family business. Carmen’s attention to detail had been split.

She’d hit publish on the blog post, sending her post out to her subscribers, thinking it was nothing more than a dream. The window banged. She’d wedged a ruler under it. Shut off the computer. Went to bed.

The next day she’d logged on and been shocked at the number of comments, rolling in even as she watched. People were really interested in the tiny cabins. They wanted in. When were they open? How could they book? Could they book all three for apple picking season? Were they heated?

Which was why, in the beginning, when Marcus had called, she’d listened.

She’d been at the beach across the lake from Blue Hills in Manson, throwing sticks for Daisy, when her phone had rung. Marcus was a PE teacher who’d stayed at Orchard House two summers ago as part of a grass roots effort to bring in the harvest at the winery when Lola’s father, suffering from Alzheimer’s, had nearly lost the business. In truth, it was a miracle Marcus had even stayed in touch. Carmen had framed the work party as a farm-to-table culinary vacation. In reality, it had been hard manual labor. Long days picking grapes in the hot sun. As Papi had said, why would people pay to do work that Mexicans like him had used to claw their way up the immigrant ladder?

But thanks to Carmen, it had worked. They’d brought in the harvest. Paid off the bank enough to keep going. Started the restaurant the following year. They were finally in the black.

“I think the cabins would be amazing. I’m dying to come back there. Staying at an actual winery was incredible! And that view!” Marcus enthused.

“They’re not built yet,” Lola admitted, wrestling the damp driftwood from the mouth of her mutt, an Australian Shepherd mix with one blue and one brown eye. Daisy cocked her head at Lola, body tense and coiled.

Lola couldn’t very well tell Marcus that Carmen was dead set against any diversion of cash. That she felt she’d branched out enough with the restaurant. That was the part that stuck, like a thorn, in Lola’s side. When Carmen spoke of the business end of the winery, it was always as if it was hers alone. There wasn’t even a pretense that Lola had a say.

When Mami had died, Lola had been thirteen. Carmen, two years older, had been the one to wake up Lola and supervise homework while Papi had wandered around the house for six months like a man at sea. Carmen was the middle daughter, but while the eldest, Adella, was their leader when it came to comfort and nurturing, assuming household chores and bagging their lunches, Carmen’s nature was to keep the ball rolling. Supervisor had suited Carmen’s personality just as Lola’s suited playing the rebel. Now Lola was a rebel with a cause.

“Take out a loan,” Marcus said, with the enthusiasm of someone with no skin in the game.

Lola tossed the stick far out into the water. Daisy plunged fearlessly, bounding until she was paddling, zeroing in on the stick. Lola walked down the beach. “I can’t.” Not without Carmen’s signature. “Not right now.”

“Take reservations and use the money to build the cabins. They can be your first guests. Angel investors. People love to be on the ground floor of things like this. I can spread the word if you like. Post it on the blog.”

Lola felt her heart leap at the thought of having ownership of something this unique. Of making her mark on the winery and not having her every contribution disappear down the throats of guests as a line chef at the winery restaurant. Cooking was her passion but working with Neil had tainted the kitchen. Tiny cabins would allow her whole self to shine. She could see them already. Why else had she been haunting Pinterest, poring over photos of tiny cabins like a pregnant woman gazing at babies? She could make them her own. Show her family that she could create something of value on their land. Take ownership. She needed this.

“Thank you, Marcus. That’s a great—” Lola felt a tap on her leg. She looked down to see a little girl in a damp bathing suit. Puzzled, she followed the girl’s pointing finger toward the blue lake. Daisy had bypassed the stick and was swimming, paws churning ferociously, towards the middle of the lake. She was almost out of the protected waters of Manson Bay. “Marcus, I’ll call you back!”

Lola thanked the little girl and sprinted to a man in a speedboat pulling up to the city dock, waving her arms frantically. “My dog is in the middle of the lake! She just took off!” She was breathless with fear. How many high school kids towing wakeboarders were out there on the water?

“Get in!” the man said.

The rescue wasn’t without its struggles. Like her owner, Daisy didn’t give up easily. The man was kind. He turned off the motor and held Lola awkwardly off the side of the boat as they drifted close to the dog. It took three passes until Lola could reach around the dog’s front legs, pull her to the side of the boat and, with help, lift her aboard. Daisy promptly vomited lake water onto both her rescuers, collapsing into Lola’s arms with relief.

“What was she doing out there, anyway?” the man asked.

Lola explained: Daisy, a rescue dog who’d shown up at the winery and adopted her, was like a homing pigeon. If she knew that home was across the lake, she’d go there. Daisy, like her owner, had a finely tuned sense of belonging. Home, no matter how long it took to get there, was a place worth the struggle.

She couldn’t help it, Lola realized. Any more than Lola could help the need to create something of her own. It was in her nature.

A month and half later, after a long shift in the kitchen, putting up with Horrible Neil, Lola tracked Carmen down in the winery office, high up in the vineyard above the house. The hike up to the winery should have calmed her down. The damp smell of soil mixed with ripening grapes usually gave her a sense of peace, but she was sick of having the same old conversation with Carmen.

Carmen glanced up from the computer. Before Lola could say anything, she glanced at Daisy, who stood at Lola’s feet, unwilling to separate herself from her owner. “Um, can the dog stay outside?”

Her tone was so snarky. Why not say Daisy?

“Sure,” Lola said, simply pointing to the door. The dog reluctantly got it. She didn’t want to be around Carmen any more than Carmen wanted her around. Daisy wasn’t one of those dogs who needed everyone to love her. She was an independent soul.

Carmen gave Lola a tight smile. “If it’s about Neil, the answer is no. We’ve been over this a thousand times. He’s good for business.”

“His Instagram followers alone have doubled our business,” they both said at the same time.

It was Carmen’s favorite line. Her self-proclaimed stroke of genius: a summer “artist in residence” program, offering famous chefs a summer in Chelan, cooking at their winery. Driven as she was, Lola had to hand it to Carmen. She was a marketing whiz. Prior to quitting to save Blue Hills Winery, Carmen had been on the fast track to Senior Director at a big deal Seattle tech marketing firm. At first Lola had wondered why a chef would want to come to sleepy Chelan until she she’d made it sound like heaven on a plate. And if Neil hadn’t been so busy berating the staff for not meeting his big city standards, he could have left early and come in late, availing himself of the blue skies and turquoise water as Carmen had suggested. Carmen didn’t have to deal with a chef who wouldn’t adjust.

“It’s not about Neil,” Lola said, although Felicia and she had been planting their iPhones around the kitchen, trying to catch him in the act of being a colossal creep.

Carmen rubbed her eyes, grimacing. “It’s about the cabins.”

They’d had the same argument approximately a thousand times. Or so it felt. Lola argued that five tiny cabins would bring in business. She laid out the whole thing, again, promising that all she needed was a little money to start. She’d buy a golf cart and ferry fresh baked goods to their guests before starting her shift in the restaurant. She’d manage the cleaning staff, the reservations, the whole thing. The cabins would be heated, so guests could stay in the winter—cross-country skiers, and families whose children could sled in the orchard or hike in the snowy hills. They could build a fire pit and leave kits for s’mores. Bridal parties could stay in the cabins, and they’d ferry the bride by golf cart down to the winery for the ceremony. There were so many wonderful possibilities, not to mention Instagram-worthy moments. By the time she finished her pitch, Lola could see the tiny cabins as if they already existed in their minute perfection. Shrines to her vision. Her tenacity. Her ability to talk Carmen into something. Anything.

“All you’d have to do is sign the checks.”

“Lola, Lola, Lola,” Carmen said, taking off her computer glasses and leaning back in her office chair. Her tone was so condescending, Lola wanted to scream. “‘All you’d have to do is sign the checks.’ Like it’s so simple. We just paid off the bank and we’re in the black. The restaurant is doing really well, thanks to Neil. Why would we add an expense at this point? When we’re finally in the clear?”

When she’d first conceived of the idea, Lola had made a PowerPoint presentation for Carmen with spreadsheets on how long it would take to recoup the cost of the cabin construction. She’d included photos and statistics from similar businesses. Granted, none of them were on an actual, large scale vineyard, but she’d done her homework. The first time she’d asked Carmen if she’d gotten the email, Carmen had just mumbled something as she was signing a grocery order. The second time, Lola had gotten an, “Oh yeah.” The third time, Carmen had snapped something about how many emails she got per day. Lola didn’t think Carmen had ever opened the PowerPoint.

It hurt. Made her double down on her desire, her resentment, and her fervent need to prove to the family that her projects were worthy. That her contribution to the family business meant something. There wasn’t any point, Lola decided, in asking Carmen again about the presentation. It would hurt more to know she’d clicked on the slides, and still decided it wasn’t sustainable.

To Carmen, Lola would always be the little sister. The flaky one who’d dropped out of art school. Never mind that Lola had worked backbreaking hours in the kitchen ever since it had opened, and continued to do so even though Carmen had hired an egotistical drama queen who liked to corner female subordinates in the walk-in refrigerator. Who had a way of brushing up against female staff in an accidentally-on-purpose way. Who called Felicia and Lola “his girls,” which made Lola bite her lip so hard that sometimes it bled.

The bottom line was that Carmen always thought she knew better. Would always think she knew better. Lola would always be her little sister. Second.

Which was why, when the email from Marcus’s friend had arrived, asking how to get involved, Lola hadn’t hit delete. Hadn’t responded that no, they weren’t taking reservations because the tiny cabins didn’t exist. Instead, she’d made a file called “Tiny Cabins Investors.” It was strangely satisfying, having that file. Today, when Neil was particularly horrible, it had comforted Lola. As if keeping a secret from Carmen, knowing what she was going to do, was her private little revolt.

It felt delicious.

A hint of her old, rebellious self.

Marcus had unknowingly pried opened a little crack. A tiny bit of daylight, which opened the possibility of doing this without Carmen. One part revenge for Horrible Neil, and two parts sheer, exhilarating freedom. Lola had hemmed herself into Carmen’s ideas of what Blue Hills should look like—which was a clone of every successful winery in Washington. Weddings, wine tastings and a restaurant, if you were lucky enough to live in a tourist destination. That was it. It was a formula, Carmen had often reminded Lola, that worked. A winning formula.

And Lola had twisted herself into Carmen’s vision like a pretzel. Worked herself to the bone in the kitchen, only to have Carmen hire Neil, sight unseen, without saying a word to her except, “Oh yeah, I hired this amazing chef. He starts in two weeks. Check out his Insta.”

Lola had continued to write about the beauty of the tiny cabin experience. The simplicity. How the cabins put you in nature without you having to actually sleep on the ground.

Like the original plan to save Blue Hills Winery, Lola planned on inviting people to become part of the winery experience. Invest in the cabins and have first dibs when the summer reservations opened. Enjoy free breakfasts their first morning. Vote on the artwork to go on the cabin walls. The ideas wouldn’t stop coming.

One day, on a whim, when she was in Chelan, Lola stopped at a bank and opened her own business account. She came out onto the hot sidewalk of Woodin Avenue, blinking in the daylight, shocked at how easy it had been. The account sat there until she linked a Square online business account, gathering courage as she sat at the hard blue-coated tables outside the Lakeside Drive-thru, eating French fries. She came home and opened her Tiny Cabin file. There were forty-five people who wanted to make a reservation. Forty-five people who were willing to buy into a business that she’d created.

The rest had been shockingly easy.

Once she had other people buying into the idea, Lola didn’t look back. Daisy Hollow was so much more than a beautiful spot on the Blue Hills vineyard. Something in Lola wanted to build more memories on the place where she’d fallen in love and shared so many secrets.

The last carefree night they’d had, without sneaking around, it had been summer. Gus’s old truck had rumbled up the driveway to Orchard House, bouncing them both like marbles. Earlier, there had been a beach bonfire. They’d laughed and sung, howling at the moon with the sheer pleasure of being alive. Lola had dragged Gus to the edge of the water, handed him a flat stone and challenged him to a rock skipping contest. Their rocks had tripped along the smooth surface of water, lit by a moon that seemed to hang in the sky for their enjoyment alone. It had been one of those summer nights when their future had seemed to unfurl before them like a ribbon with smooth, silky promise.

At Orchard House, Gus had spilled out of the driver’s seat, racing around to the passenger side to open the door.

“My lady.” He’d bowed, nearly toppling over, laughing too loudly.

Lola had tumbled out, but Gus had caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist, holding her upright.

She’d known something was wrong by the look on his face.

Papi, who’d been waiting on the patio, stepped out of the shadows, telling Lola to go to her room, saying he’d talk to her later. She’d been afraid of him, but still she’d refused, knowing what was coming. She’d stayed and seen the whole ugly thing, knowing it would stay in her brain like a dark stain, a blot. Papi, yelling at Gus, saying he could have killed Lola, driving drunk. Gus, insisting he wasn’t drunk. Lola had known he’d only had one beer, but had he smoked weed too? How many times had she glimpsed him slipping out a side door at a party, returning loose-limbed and smiley? She’d hated it.

“Don’t lie to me!” Papi had yelled.

“We were drinking beer.”

Papi had pointed his finger at Gus. “I know where you come from, Gus. That you haven’t seen how a man honors his family. Protects his family. And for that, I am truly sorry. But I am that kind of man, and I will go to hell before I let you take my daughter down the road you’re traveling.” He’d pointed at Lola. “My girls are all I have, Gus, and you are putting my daughter’s life in danger. Too many kids die on these roads.”

“I would never put her life in danger, sir.” But then Gus had done a dumb thing. He’d smiled. That’s when she knew he’d smoked. Stupid. Stupid. It cost them so much. She didn’t know it then, but it was the beginning of the end. Gus was unraveling.

“You are drunk right now. If I ever see you again with Lola, or on my property, I will kill you. Don’t come near her, or so help me God, I’ll tear you apart. And nobody would think twice.”

Gus Weaver pulled the truck over near a sign that said, “Welcome to Chelan.” Apples, the lake, and a girl waving while water skiing. Dated, but charming. Like his hometown. He took a deep breath as the old truck coughed a little, as if the drive from Seattle had taken the wind out her. After a few long moments gazing at the farm-flanked corridor that led to the faux winery housing developments and then the lake, Gus pressed down on the accelerator, giving the old girl a shot of fuel. She was a gas-guzzling hunk of iron held together by rust and prayer. Somehow or another, he’d been nursing her along since high school. His cousin had brought her to Seattle for him a few years back. He was glad to be in the familiar truck now, because driving her back to Chelan felt like the end of the longest journey of his life.

His family, and all those hard complications. Of wanting to belong, but not wanting to assume the mantle of Weaver, which meant being one of a hard-scrabble clan that you spent your life running from, not to. That was, if you wanted to live past middle age and not live at the bottom of a bottle. Gus had had to have so many normal life things explained to him over the years: the concept of taking a car into the garage before it fell apart, of cooking vegetables, of going to a dentist regularly. All the things that other people took for granted. The first time he’d seen someone take off their shoes before entering a house, he’d thought the man had gone mad. Feral. A good word for the Weaver clan. One they’d embrace.

This approach to Chelan there was nothing but a few scrubby bushes, but Gus knew that when he continued down the slope, he’d see the lake. Ten long years had passed since he’d last seen the lake. He’d grown from a headstrong, angry teen to a steady, strong man. Still, coming back here brought up so many memories. The only good ones were with Lola. As always, the thought of her calmed him, like taking a deep breath. If he was honest with himself, Lola was the reason he’d come back—but Gus couldn’t admit that to anyone, least of all to himself. It had been ten long years. Too long to hope for anything. Besides, he’d left Chelan in true Weaver style. In the back of a police van. Nobody in town would have forgotten it.

Gus put the truck in gear, checking his rear-view mirror and pulling into traffic. The old truck and the young man made their descent into the valley. His first glimpse of the lake caught in his throat. The. . .