Something flickered across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion that he was trying to manipulate her with sentiment.
“Yeah. I didn’t expect him to remember about the cookies, much less want to help make them.”
“He talks about your mom sometimes. Not often, but when he does, it’s always with a lot of love.”
Her expression turned guarded again. “He never talked about her when I was growing up. After she died, it was like she never existed.”
He nodded, understanding more than he could say. “Grief does strange things to people. Makes them shut down when they should open up.”
“Is that what happened to you?” The question was direct, her gaze steady on his face.
He felt the familiar tension at being asked about his past. But something about the early morning quiet and the honest curiosity in her eyes made him answer.
“Different kind of loss. But yeah, I shut down too. For a long time.”
She seemed to consider this, her eyes searching his face. Whatever she was looking for, he wasn’t sure she found it.
“Dad seems to trust you,” she finally said.
“We understand each other.” He set his coffee on the step and resumed shoveling.
“I should check on Dad,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Make sure he takes his morning medication.”
He nodded.
As she turned to go back inside, she paused. “Thanks. For being here for him when I wasn’t.”
Before he could respond, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
He stared after her, feeling like something important had just happened, though for the life of him, he couldn’t quite name what it was. He returned to his shoveling, thinking that maybe the rift between Stan and Tessa wasn’t the only thing beginning to thaw in the winter cold.
Chapter 7
Tessa eyed her father with concern as he buttoned his coat. His hands moved more slowly than she remembered, and his fingers fumbled with the buttons. She resisted the urge to step in and help, knowing it would only irritate him.
“Are you sure you’re up for this, Dad? We could skip the festival if you’re not feeling well.” She deliberately kept her tone casual.
Stan shot her a look that hadn’t changed in fifteen years. “I’m fine. I’m judging the gingerbread contest. Can’t let everyone down. Been judging for half a dozen years now.”
Beckett appeared from the hallway, dressed in a flannel shirt and his worn work jacket. His eyes met hers briefly before he reached for his boots. “Lodge will be packed tonight. Miss Judy’s been baking for days.”
“She still makes those cinnamon rolls?” she asked, memories of childhood breakfasts at the lodge surfacing unexpectedly.
“Best in Colorado. She sets some aside for Stan every first and third Sunday of the month.”
Another revelation that caught Tessa off guard. Her father had Sunday rituals with the lodge cook? The same father who used to scoff at community gatherings?
The drive to Sweet River Lodge was short but beautiful. Fresh snow blanketed the pines, and Christmas lights twinkled along the fences of properties they passed. Tessa sat in the back seat of her father’s truck, watching as Beckett and Stan exchanged comfortable conversation about the weather and local gossip. The easy rapport between them still unsettled her.
Sweet River Lodge came into view, its windows glowing with warm light against the darkening sky. Cars filled the parking area, and she could see figures moving about inside the main building. Smoke curled from the stone chimney, and Christmas music drifted through the air. “Looks like the whole town showed up.”
“Always do,” Stan said as Beckett pulled into a space marked ‘Reserved for Judge Grant’ with a handwritten sign.
She couldn’t help but smile at the small-town charm of it all. In Denver, she’d been too busy working double shifts to notice Christmas approaching. Here, it was impossible to ignore.
The main lodge was transformed. Garlands of pine and twinkling lights hung from the rafters. A massive stone fireplace crackled with flames at one end of the room, surrounded by comfortable seating. Tables lined the walls, laden with cookies, hot chocolate, and mulled cider. At the center of it all stood a display of gingerbread houses, each more elaborate than the last.
“Stan!” Nora Cassidy hurried over, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun. She wore a festive red sweater with a small Christmas tree pin. “And Beckett! So glad you made it.” Her warm eyes settled on Tessa. “And Tessa Grant. Welcome home, dear.”
