The easy rapport between them was unsettling. Her father had never been the type to form quick friendships or trust easily. Yet here he was, clearly comfortable with this quiet ex-con who’d moved into his house and apparently taken charge of his health regimen.
“So what exactly happened? When did you notice symptoms?” She steered the conversation back to medical territory where she felt more secure.
Her father sighed heavily. “Beckett found me. I don’t remember much.”
“He was in the workshop. He was having trouble finding words. I called 911.”
“You were lucky he was here,” she said quietly.
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Beckett’s here because I invited him. Best decision I’ve made in years.”
The comment stung more than it should have. She took a sip of coffee to hide her reaction.
“How long are you on leave from the hospital?” her father asked, changing the subject.
“I told you, two weeks.” It was actually longer than that. What she didn’t say was that she’d already planned to take time off. Last night was her last shift for a while. She also didn’t mention the panic attack she’d had in the supply closet three weeks ago or the way her hands had started shaking during a routine procedure the week before that. Or how her supervisor had gently but firmly suggested she take some time off before she made a serious mistake.
The telephone rang, saving her from further explanation. Beckett rose to answer it, his movements fluid and unhurried.
“Grant residence.” He listened for a moment, then held the phone out to her father. “It’s Nora from the Lodge.”
Stan took the phone. “Nora, hello.” His voice softened noticeably. “Yes, I’m doing fine. No need to worry.” He paused, listening. “Yes, she’s here. Arrived this morning.” Another pause. “I’m sure she’d love to say hello. Hold on.”
He held the phone out to her. “Nora Cassidy wants to talk to you.”
She hesitated. Nora Cassidy. The name was familiar but distant, like a song she’d once known the words to.
“She owns Sweet River Lodge. You remember Nora,” her father prompted.
Of course she did. Nora with the kind smile and the homemade cookies. Nora, who’d sent a handwritten sympathy card when her mother died. Nora, who’d tried to include Tessa in community events long after she’d stopped wanting to be included.
She took the phone reluctantly. “Hello?”
“Tessa Grant, is that really you? I was just telling your father how wonderful it is that you’re home for Christmas. We’ve missed you around here.” Nora’s voice was warm and exactly as she remembered it.
Christmas. It was just a few weeks away. She never celebrated it anyway and typically volunteered for holiday shifts at the hospital to let colleagues with families have the time off.
“I’m just here to help my father recover. It’s not really a holiday visit.” She ignored how stiff she sounded… or at least tried to.
“Well, you’re here, and it’s the holidays, so I’d say that makes it a holiday visit. You simply must come to the lodge’s Christmas festival. The whole town will be there. It’ll be just like old times.”
Just like old times. The last thing she wanted.
“I’ll have to see how my father is feeling,” she hedged.
“Oh, Stan’s already promised to judge the gingerbread house competition. It’s tradition! Beckett said he’d bring him.” Nora’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Such a nice young man, that Beckett. So helpful with your father. And not hard on the eyes either, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I really should go, Nora. It was nice talking to you.”
“The festival starts at noon on Saturday. We’ll save all three of you a seat at the Cassidy table.” Nora’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion but a foregone conclusion. “And tell your father I’ll be bringing some of my Christmas soup tomorrow.”
She said goodbye and hung up, turning to find her father watching her with a knowing expression.
“Nora hasn’t changed a bit. Still organizing everyone’s social calendar,” he said.
“You’re judging a gingerbread house competition?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. Her father had never participated in town festivals, not since her mother died. Christmas had become just another day in the Grant household, marked only by their careful avoidance of anything that might trigger memories.
“I lost a bet with Jason Cassidy,” he admitted. “But the lodge festival is good. They do it up right.” He glanced at Beckett. “We’re still planning to go, right?”
