As they settled around the kitchen table with bowls of steaming stew, she found herself wondering if she still counted as one of Sweet River Falls’s own. And even more surprisingly, whether she might want to.
Chapter 5
Tessa ran her fingers along the built-in bookshelf that lined one wall of her father’s living room. The house felt stuffy after three days of being cooped up inside. The snow had fallen steadily since her arrival, keeping them mostly housebound except for their brief outing to help with the Christmas baskets.
Her father dozed in his recliner, a thin afghan covering his legs. The television played some home renovation show with the volume turned low. Beckett had gone out to shovel the driveway again, insisting that Stan shouldn’t worry about the accumulation.
She scanned the shelves, noting the familiar books from her childhood. Her mother’s collection of poetry anthologies remained untouched, gathering dust in the corner. A row of photo albums caught her eye, leather-bound volumes she hadn’t seen in years.
Curious, she pulled one from the shelf. The cover was worn at the edges, and the once-bright red had faded to a dull burgundy. She carried it to the couch and curled up in the corner, tucking her feet beneath her.
The first page held formal portraits of people she barely recognized from her father’s side of the family. She flipped forward, pausing when she reached photos from her parents’ wedding. Her mother looked radiant in a simple white dress, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Her father stood tall beside her, looking impossibly young and... happy. His smile stretched wide across his face, his arm wrapped firmly around his new bride’s waist.
She swallowed hard. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her father smile like that.
She turned the pages slowly, watching as the formal portraits gave way to candid snapshots. Her parents on a camping trip. Her mother pregnant, her hand resting on her rounded belly. And then, baby pictures. Tessa as a newborn, swaddled in a yellow blanket. Her father holding her, looking terrified and proud all at once.
A photo slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. Tessa leaned down to pick it up, her breath catching when she saw the image. She couldn’t have been more than four or five, sitting on her mother’s lap at the kitchen table. They were making cookies, both of their hands covered in flour, both laughing at whoever was behind the camera—her father, presumably.
She slid the photo back into place and continued turning pages. The images documented birthday parties, first days of school, and family vacations. Then, abruptly, the photos changed. Her mother disappeared from the frames. Tessa grew older, her smile dimming. The pictures became more formal and less frequent. School portraits. Awards ceremonies. Her high school graduation.
The last few pages held newspaper clippings of her nursing school graduation and a photo someone had taken of her in her scrubs during her first week at Denver Memorial. She hadn’t known her father had kept track of these milestones.
“Found the old albums, huh?”
She startled, looking up to find her father awake and watching her. “Yeah. I was just... reminiscing, I guess.”
Stan nodded, adjusting himself in the recliner. “Your mother was the one who kept those up to date. I tried to add to them after... well, after. But I was never good at remembering to take pictures.”
“I remember she always had a camera with her,” Tessa said softly.
“Said you never knew when a moment worth capturing would happen.” He cleared his throat. “She was right about that.”
She closed the album, her fingers lingering on the cover. “I miss her.”
“Yeah.” He looked away, his jaw tightening. “Me too.”
The front door opened, bringing a gust of cold air and Beckett, his shoulders dusted with snow and his cheeks ruddy from exertion.
“It’s really coming down out there. Driveway’s clear for now, but we might need to do it again before dinner.”
“Thanks, Beckett,” Stan said. “Appreciate it.”
She watched the easy exchange between the two men, and that familiar twinge of jealousy returned. She stood, tucking the album under her arm. “I think I’ll make some tea. Anyone else want some?”
Stan shook his head, but Beckett nodded. “That sounds great. Let me just get out of these wet things.”
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. She placed the photo album on the counter, unable to resist opening it again to the picture of her and her mother baking. The memory was hazy, but she could almost smell the spices and feel the warmth of her mother’s arms around her as they mixed the dough.
On impulse, she moved to the wooden recipe box that sat on a shelf above the microwave. It had been her mother’s, a wedding gift from a great-aunt. She lifted the lid and found the box still full of recipe cards in her mother’s neat handwriting.
She flipped through them, pausing when she found one labeled “Ginger Molasses Cookies (Gravy Cookies) Tessa’s Favorite.” Gravy cookies. How long had it been since she’d thought of them? When she was a young girl, she had called them gravy cookies because of the icing her mom put on them. She thought the icing looked like gravy. Her mother had laughed, and from then on, they were called gravy cookies. She smiled at the memory.
She stared at the card, splattered with old ingredients, and the corners dog-eared from frequent use. She could almost smell them baking, how they filled the house with the smell of ginger and molasses, and how her mother would let her lick the spoon after they dropped the last cookie onto the baking sheet.
The kettle whistled, pulling her from the memory. She made two mugs of tea and handed one to Beckett when he entered the kitchen in dry clothes.
“Thanks.” He wrapped his hands around the mug and nodded toward the recipe box. “Planning to do some cooking?”
