The day of the dinner started early. Marco was already in the kitchen at six in the morning, chopping onions, boiling stock, and setting out ingredients in careful rows. He moved quickly and quietly, focused. Cooking always helped him clear his mind, and today, he needed it more than ever.
Talia arrived an hour later, hair tied back, wearing her favorite apron with faded sunflowers on the front. She brought three bags of produce from the farmers' market and went straight to work—washing vegetables, seasoning trays of root vegetables, and baking fresh rolls. Her energy was steady. Calm.
Elena handled everything else: table rentals, linens, drinks, and organizing volunteers. She had a clipboard in one hand and her phone in the other, answering questions and giving directions. She'd barely slept, but she didn't show it. Her voice stayed firm. Focused. She didn't let nerves show—not in front of the team.
By noon, the backyard of Bellamy's Table was transformed. A long wooden table stretched through the garden, set with white plates, mismatched cloth napkins, and small vases of wildflowers. String lights hung overhead, and the scent of roasted garlic and herbs floated through the air.
Talia stood near the entrance, checking the setup. "It's beautiful," she said.
Marco stepped beside her. "Simple. But good."
Elena joined them, clipboard finally tucked under her arm. "They're coming," she said. "Some have already parked."
Marco looked at the path leading from the main street to the garden. "Let's see who shows up."
The first guests arrived around five-thirty. A young couple from the hardware store. They brought a bottle of cider and smiled warmly as they found their seats. Then came two teachers from the elementary school. Then an older man who lived near the lake—quiet, always polite, but rarely seen in public.
By six, the table was half full. At six-thirty, it was full.
People from every part of Rosehill sat shoulder to shoulder—some chatting, some watching. Some seemed excited. Others looked like they were still trying to figure out why they were there.
Penny arrived last, walking with a confident step and a large pie in her hands.
Talia raised an eyebrow as she passed. "Didn't expect her."
Elena smiled slightly. "I did. She wouldn't miss a scene like this."
Marco stepped out from the kitchen as dinner was announced. He wore a clean white shirt and a black apron. His sleeves were rolled. His expression was calm, but Elena saw the tension in his jaw.
He walked to the head of the table.
"Thanks for being here," he said. "We wanted to bring everyone together—no menus, no bills, just a good meal. That's it."
He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to.
The servers moved quickly, bringing out the first course—roasted squash soup with cream and rosemary. People murmured as they tasted it. Then came grilled chicken with lemon and herbs, a warm salad with goat cheese and honey, and soft bread rolls that steamed when pulled apart.
Wine was poured. Laughter started to rise.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Halfway through the meal, Penny raised her glass.
"I have a question," she said loudly, eyes on Marco, then Elena, then Talia. "Are you three… together? Like, really together?"
The table went quiet. Even the forks stopped moving.
Elena leaned forward. "We're here together. That's what matters."
"That's not an answer," Penny replied, tilting her head. "But I suppose it'll do."
A man near the end of the table spoke up. "Does it really matter?"
Penny shrugged. "To some of us, it does."
Talia set her napkin down. "We're not here to explain our lives. We're here to feed people. Share something good."
"And you've done that," another voice added. "This is the best meal I've had in months."
The silence broke. Conversation returned. Penny didn't press again.
Later, as dessert was served—pear tart with vanilla cream—Mila appeared at the edge of the garden. She hadn't sat at the table. She'd stayed out of sight most of the evening, helping in the background. Now, she stood beside Marco as he leaned against a tree, watching the guests enjoy the final course.
"You did it," Mila said quietly.
Marco nodded. "Yeah."
"They're still judging you."
"Let them."
She looked at him for a long moment. "You're different than when we were together."
"I had to be."
She hesitated. "Are you happy?"
He glanced across the garden. Talia and Elena were laughing with an older woman from the knitting club. The candlelight made their faces glow. They looked free. Strong.
"Yes," he said. "I am."
Mila gave a small nod. "Then I guess I don't have anything else to say."
Marco didn't answer. She turned and left without another word.
Clean-up started after dark. Volunteers stacked chairs and cleared plates. Leftovers were packed. Talia scrubbed pans in the kitchen. Elena folded napkins into neat squares. Marco took out the last trash bag.
Around ten, the three of them sat down at the long table—now empty, except for one flickering candle.
"No disasters," Elena said.
"No fights," Talia added.
Marco smiled. "And no running."
They clinked glasses, drinking what little wine was left.
"Think they'll still talk tomorrow?" Elena asked.
"Probably," Talia replied.
"But tonight," Marco said, "they listened."
The wind picked up. Somewhere, a dog barked. And in the quiet that followed, there was something solid between them—built not just on attraction or heat, but on real effort.
"We did something big," Elena said.
Talia nodded. "And we did it together."