She nodded, frustrated by the interruption but knowing this wasn’t the time to press. She went to get her father and helped him settle at the kitchen table. Beckett put the food on the table.
“About time,” Stan grumbled, though there was no real heat in his words. “Doctor visits always make me hungry.”
She handed him his plate, studying him closely. “Everything okay at the appointment?”
He waved dismissively. “Fine, fine. Blood pressure’s down. Doc says I’m doing good.”
“That’s great, Dad.”
They ate in relative silence, Stan occasionally commenting on the food or asking about her morning at the cafe. She answered automatically, her mind still on Beckett and the note. He was quieter than usual, focusing on his food and avoiding her gaze.
After lunch, Beckett excused himself to work on some project in the garage. She helped her father settle back into his recliner with a magazine before cleaning up the kitchen.
Through the window, she could see Beckett in the detached garage, the door open despite the cold. He was standing at a workbench, methodically sanding a piece of wood. His face was set in concentration, but even from a distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders.
The unfairness of it all made her angry all over again. Here was a man who had lost fifteen years of his life for a mistake, who had rebuilt himself from nothing, and who gave so much to others without asking for anything in return. And someone in this town thought he deserved to be publicly shamed.
Worse, she had been part of the problem. She’d been quick to judge him based on his past and slow to see the man he’d become. The realization made her stomach twist with shame.
When the kitchen was clean, she checked on her father, who was dozing with the magazine resting on his lap. She grabbed her coat and headed to the garage.
The cold air hit her as she crossed the short distance between the house and the garage. Inside, the space was neat and organized, tools hanging on pegboards, and wood stacked carefully against one wall. Beckett looked up as she entered, his expression guarded.
“Need something?” he asked.
“Just wanted to see what you’re working on.”
He gestured to the piece of wood in front of him. “Jewelry box. For Miss Judy’s granddaughter. I do small projects to earn some cash.”
She moved closer to examine it. The wood was smooth and golden, the edges precisely mitered. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” He resumed sanding, his movements rhythmic and practiced.
She watched him work for a moment, gathering her courage. “I’m sorry,” she finally said.
He looked up, his forehead creased. “For what?”
“For how I acted when I first got here. For assuming the worst about you.”
His hands stilled. “You didn’t know me.”
“That’s no excuse.” She met his eyes directly. “I’m a nurse. I should know better than to judge someone based on a single fact about their life.”
He set down the sandpaper, his expression softening. “It’s okay, Tessa. Really.”
She took a deep breath. “No, it’s not. And neither is that note. You deserve better. From this town, and from me.”
Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes before he looked away. “I appreciate that.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft whisper of snowfall outside the open garage door.
“You know,” she said finally, “my mom used to say that people show who they really are through their actions, not their words.”
He looked up at her, waiting.
“Your actions show exactly who you are, Beckett. Someone who cares. Someone who helps. Someone worth knowing. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, not quite a smile but close. “Your mom sounds like she was pretty wise.”
