Beckett stood at the stove, his back to her, flipping what looked like pancakes. He wore worn jeans and a faded thermal shirt. His movements were efficient and practiced. The kitchen smelled of coffee and maple syrup, homey scents that felt incongruous with the tension that swirled through the room.
“Well, you finally decided to join us.” Her father folded his newspaper
Not, “good morning.” Not, “it’s good to see you.” Just a pointed comment about her sleeping late. Some things never changed. “Good morning. How are you feeling?” She ignored his tone and moved into the kitchen, stopping a few feet from the table.
“Like I’m being asked how I’m feeling by everyone who walks through the door. Sit down. Beckett’s making enough pancakes to feed an army.” He motioned to the empty chair across from him.
“Just trying to use up the batter,” Beckett said quietly, not turning around. “Coffee’s fresh if you want some, Tessa.”
The casual use of her name caught her off guard. She moved to the cabinet where the mugs had always been kept, finding them still in the same place. Some things remained constant, at least. She poured herself a cup, black, and finally approached the table.
“I’d like to check your vitals and go over your medication schedule,” she said as she set down her coffee.
Stan Grant’s jaw tightened. “I’ve already been poked and prodded by actual doctors, Tessa. I don’t need my daughter playing nurse with me.”
The familiar defensiveness rose in her chest. “I’m not playing anything. I am a nurse. And I’d like to understand exactly what happened and what your treatment plan is.”
“Minor stroke. Taking medication. Resting.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “There’s your treatment plan.”
Beckett approached with a plate stacked with pancakes, setting it in the center of the table. “Doctor said it was a TIA,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “Transient ischemic attack. Blood pressure spiked, causing some temporary symptoms. No permanent damage.” He moved back to the counter and returned with plates, silverware, and syrup. “He’s on a blood thinner and something to control his blood pressure. I’ve got the schedule written down.”
Her father shot Beckett a look that might have been annoyance, but Beckett seemed unperturbed as he took the seat between them.
“Thank you.” She was surprised by the succinct, accurate summary. She turned back to her father. “Any lingering symptoms? Numbness? Difficulty speaking? Confusion?”
“Just difficulty dealing with unnecessary questions,” Stan muttered, but he reached for the pancakes. “I’m fine, Tessa. Or I will be, once everyone stops treating me like I’m made of glass.”
Beckett quietly served himself, then passed the platter to her. The three of them ate in silence for a moment, the only sounds the scrape of forks against plates and the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
“So, how long are you planning to stay?” her father finally asked.
The question hung in the air, loaded with unspoken meaning. How long until you leave again? How long do I have to endure your presence? How long before you run back to Denver?
“I took two weeks off,” she answered, focusing on cutting her pancake into precise triangles. “I have some vacation time saved up.”
Her father’s eyebrows rose. “Two weeks? That’s not necessary. I’ll be back to normal in a few days.”
“TIAs can be precursors to more serious strokes.” She automatically slipped into her clinical voice. “You’ll need to be monitored, and there will be follow-up appointments.”
“Beckett’s been driving me to appointments. Haven’t you, Beck?”
Beck. The nickname surprised her. It suggested a familiarity, a comfort level between them that she hadn’t expected.
“Happy to keep doing it, but having Tessa here will be good too.” He glanced at her. “Extra pair of eyes.”
“I don’t need babysitters. Either of you,” Stan grumbled.
“Stroke prevention is serious, Dad.” The word “Dad” felt foreign on her tongue after so many years of avoiding direct address. “You need to make lifestyle changes. You need diet modifications, regular exercise, and stress reduction.”
Beckett reached for his coffee. “Been working on that already. We’ve been walking every morning. Started eating more fish, less red meat.”
We. The casual way he included himself in her father’s care routine made something twist in her stomach. It wasn’t quite jealousy, but something adjacent to it. This stranger knew more about her father’s daily life than she did.
“Well, that’s... good,” she managed. “The doctor probably recommended it.”
“Actually, it was Beckett’s idea,” her father said, a hint of pride in his voice. “He’s been reading up on heart health. Got me eating oatmeal for breakfast most days, though I drew the line at that green smoothie nonsense.”
Beckett’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “Still working on that one.”
