“I miss these cookies,” she admitted. “I tried making them once in my apartment, but they didn’t taste the same.”
“Probably the altitude,” he offered. “Your mom always said that baking’s different up here in the mountains.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe it was because her mother wasn’t there, guiding her hands and laughing when she spilled flour on the floor.
The front door opened, and Beckett came inside, holding a grocery bag. “Got the molasses and a few other things.”
He entered the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter. “They were almost out of molasses. Apparently, everyone’s baking this week.”
She rose to retrieve the bottle. “Thanks for going. We’ve got the butter and sugar ready.”
“Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll just unpack these things and put them away, then I’ve got some work to do in the shed.”
“You don’t have to go back out in the cold. You could help us with the cookies.”
Beckett glanced at Stan, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “Well, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”
“Not at all. Mom always said baking was better with company.”
The three of them worked together, with Tessa mixing, Beckett helping measure ingredients, and Stan offering occasional comments about how her mother used to do things. By the time the dough was ready, the kitchen was warm and fragrant with spices.
“The recipe says to chill the dough for an hour or overnight.” She frowned.
“Your mother rarely bothered with that. She’d just bake them right away.”
“But it says right here?—”
“I know what it says,” Stan interrupted, but his tone was gentle. “But she always claimed she didn’t have time to wait when she had a hungry husband and daughter.”
“Okay, then we’ll bake them now since I have two hungry men in the kitchen.”
She preheated the oven and prepared two baking sheets. She and Beckett took turns rolling the dough into balls, then flattening them, while Stan watched from his seat at the table.
“These look right,” Stan said as she slid the first batch into the oven. “Your mother would approve.”
The compliment, small as it was, warmed her more than she expected. “Thanks, Dad.”
As the cookies baked, the kitchen filled with the rich, spicy aroma of ginger and molasses. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. For a moment, she could almost believe she was eight years old again, waiting impatiently for the timer to ding so she could have the first warm cookie.
When she opened her eyes, she caught her father wiping quickly at his face.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
He nodded, not meeting her gaze. “Just the spices. They make my eyes water.”
Beckett tactfully busied himself with washing the mixing bowls, giving them a moment of privacy.
“They smell just like Mom’s,” she said softly.
Stan cleared his throat. “Yeah. They do.”
She made up a batch of the icing while the cookies baked. The timer dinged, and she retrieved the first batch from the oven. The cookies were perfect, with golden edges. She let them cool for a few minutes before transferring them to a wire rack. She drizzled the icing on each cookie.
Beckett walked over and looked over her shoulder. “Hey, I can see how a kid would think that icing looks a bit like gravy.” He grinned at her.
She smiled at him, then turned and offered one to her father. “Here, first one’s for you.”
He took the cookie, and his hand trembled slightly. He took a bite, closing his eyes as he chewed. When he opened them again, they were definitely misty.
