“So I’ve noticed,” she said, thinking of how quickly he’d been accepted. How easily he’d slipped into a place in her father’s life.
“Your father talks about you. Keeps a photo of you on his nightstand.”
She paused, a can of corn suspended in her hand. “He does?”
He nodded. “Told me you were the smartest person in your class. Said you always knew you wanted to help people.”
Something tightened in her chest. “We don’t talk much.”
“I gathered that. But he notices when you send cards. Keeps them in his dresser drawer.”
The revelation left her momentarily speechless. She’d sent those cards out of obligation, brief notes for birthdays and holidays. She’d never imagined her father saving them, much less showing them to anyone else.
“Stan’s not great at saying what he feels,” he continued, carefully placing a small bag of flour in a basket. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond. This stranger seemed to understand her father in ways she never had, or perhaps had never tried to.
“Why are you telling me this?” she finally asked.
“Because everyone deserves a second chance. Even fathers and daughters.”
Before she could reply, Annie called out from across the room.
“We’ve got more supplies coming in! Nora worked a miracle at the lodge.”
The moment broken, she returned her attention to the baskets. But Beckett’s words lingered, stirring up questions she’d long ago stopped asking.
The afternoon passed in a blur of activity. More volunteers arrived with donations, tables were rearranged to accommodate the new supplies, and the assembly line grew more efficient. Beckett came over and said Stan had checked in twice and was doing fine. By four o’clock, they had completed most of the baskets.
“We’ll finish the rest tomorrow morning,” Annie announced to the tired volunteers. “You’ve all been amazing. Thank you.”
People began dispersing, gathering coats, and saying goodbyes. She found herself helping with cleanup, wiping down tables, and organizing leftover supplies.
Beckett approached as she was folding the last empty box. “Ready to head back?”
She nodded, suddenly aware of how tired she felt. The physical work had been a welcome distraction, but now exhaustion was settling into her bones.
As they walked to his truck, snow began falling in large, lazy flakes. The street lamps were coming on, painting a warm glow over the darkening town. Christmas lights twinkled from storefronts and lampposts, transforming Main Street into something magical.
“It’s pretty here,” she admitted, tilting her face up to feel the snowflakes on her skin. “I forgot how beautiful winter can be in the mountains.”
He watched her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. “Some things are worth coming back for.”
The drive home was quiet again, but the silence felt different. Less tense. Almost comfortable. As they pulled into the driveway, she noticed the porch light was on and smoke curled from the chimney. Her father must have started a fire in the old wood stove.
“Thank you,” she said before getting out of the truck. “For the ride. And for what you said about my father.”
He nodded. “Just telling the truth.”
Inside, they found Stan dozing in his recliner, the television playing softly in the background. A pot of something that smelled like beef stew simmered on the stove.
“You cooked?” she asked in surprise when her father stirred awake.
“Heated up,” Stan corrected. “Miss Judy sent it over with Jason this afternoon. Said you two would be hungry after helping with the baskets.”
The thoughtfulness of the gesture caught her off guard. “That was nice of her.”
“This town takes care of its own,” Stan said, pushing himself up from the chair. “Always has.”
