The crowd gathered once more around the Christmas tree as the bells continued to ring. Someone began singing “Silent Night,” and other voices joined in, creating a harmony that seemed to rise with the falling snow. She added her own voice to the chorus, the familiar words coming back to her from childhood memories of Christmas services with her mother.
As the last notes faded away, the crowd remained quiet for a moment, then they broke into applause. People shouted Merry Christmas, children laughed, and Tessa felt something inside her chest expand and settle at the same time.
She stood between her father and Beckett, warm candlelight flickering in her hands and warmth spreading through her heart. She’d come home to care for someone else, but somewhere along the way, she’d found her own healing. In the quiet strength of the man beside her, in the tentative rebuilding of her relationship with her father, and in the embrace of a community that remembered her as a child and welcomed her back as an adult.
The snow continued to fall, blessing the town and its people with the promise of new beginnings. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it all—the cold air on her face, the warmth of the candle in her hands, the solid presence of the two men who had somehow become her anchors in a world where she had felt unmoored for so long.
When she opened her eyes again, Beckett was watching her. In the flickering light of a hundred candles, she saw her own hope reflected back at her.
The bells continued to ring out across Sweet River Falls, carrying their message of peace and possibility into the snowy night. And then she knew for certain, Tessa Grant was exactly where she belonged.
Chapter 19
They returned home from the candlelight walk with snow still clinging to their coats and the warmth of community celebration glowing in their faces. Her father headed straight for his favorite chair by the fireplace, settling in with a contented sigh as Beckett knelt to build up the fire. The flames caught and danced, casting golden light across the living room and the Christmas tree they’d decorated together just days before.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the two men who had become so important to her. Her father looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in years, his face soft with contentment as he gazed at the tree. Beckett worked quietly with the fire, his movements economical and sure. The scene felt like something from a Christmas card, all warm light and peaceful domesticity.
“I’ll make us some hot chocolate,” she offered, needing something to do with her hands. Dr. Miller’s job offer kept circling through her mind.
“That sounds perfect, sweetheart. Use your mother’s recipe. Beckett knows where she kept the good cocoa.”
The casual way he mentioned her mother’s recipe, shared with Beckett but not with her, might have stung weeks ago. Now it felt like another bridge being built, another connection that bound the three of them together in ways she was still learning to appreciate.
In the kitchen, Beckett appeared beside her as she gathered mugs from the cabinet. He reached past her for the tin of cocoa on the high shelf, his arm brushing against hers in the small space. The contact sent warmth spiraling through her that had nothing to do with the heat from the stove.
“Your mother always added a pinch of cinnamon,” he said quietly, setting the tin on the counter. “And just a touch of vanilla.”
She nodded, afraid to speak, afraid her voice would shake.
“Show me,” she said, surprised by the huskiness in her own voice.
He moved behind her, his hands covering hers as he guided her through the measurements. She could feel the warmth of his chest against her back, smell the clean scent of snow and smoke that always seemed to cling to him. When he reached around her to add the cinnamon, she let herself lean back slightly into his solid presence.
“Like this,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he helped her stir. “She said the secret was in the stirring. Slow circles, clockwise.”
The intimacy of the moment wrapped around them like the steam rising from the pan. She turned in the circle of his arms, finding herself face to face with him in the small kitchen. His eyes searched hers, and she saw her own uncertainty reflected there, mixed with something deeper and more dangerous.
“Tessa,” he started, but she shook her head.
“The cocoa will burn,” she whispered, though neither of them moved to tend it.
The spell broke when her father called from the living room, asking if they needed help. Beckett stepped back, and she turned to the stove with hands that shook slightly as she finished preparing the drinks.
They returned to the living room with steaming mugs, settling on the couch while her father remained in his chair. The fire crackled peacefully, and the lights on the Christmas tree cast everything in a warm, magical glow. Snow continued to fall outside the windows, cocooning them in their own little world.
“This reminds me of Christmas when you were little,” her father said, his voice soft with memory. “Your mother would make cocoa, and we’d sit by the tree after you’d gone to bed, planning what Santa would bring.”
The pain in his voice was gentle now, nostalgic rather than sharp. Healing, she realized. They were all healing in their own ways.
“I have something for you, Dad,” she said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could second-guess herself. She’d been carrying the gift in her coat pocket for days, unsure when or if she’d find the courage to give it to him.
She retrieved a small wrapped package from her coat, her heart beating faster as she handed it to him. She hoped it would express feelings she wasn’t sure she had words for.
Her father opened his gift. Inside was a small leather photo album, and his breath caught as he opened it to find pictures she’d collected from her childhood, her mother’s things, and recent photos from her phone of the three of them decorating the tree.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick. “This is perfect. Look, here’s your mother making those cookies with you. And here we are just last week.” He traced the edge of a photo with one finger. “A family album. A real family album.”
The word family hung in the air, and she felt peace settle inside her. Yes, she thought. That’s exactly what they’d become.
