“Or maybe I’m just unable to let go of what I used to be.” Susan heard the weariness in her own voice. “Sometimes, I wonder if I know how to exist without my catering business defining me.”
Paul reached across the space between them and held her hand. His fingers were warm, calloused from years of knife work and hot pans. “You’re far more than what you’ve done or do. I’ve watched you with your students. That matters just as much as running a successful business.”
Susan squeezed his hand, grateful for the reassurance even as doubt lingered. “What were your favorite Christmas memories growing up?” she asked, deliberately shifting the conversation to safer ground.
Paul smiled, the kind that softened his entire face. “My grandmother’s kitchen on Christmas Eve. She’d start preparations days in advance, and the entire house would smell like butter, vanilla, and caramelized sugar. She made cookies shaped like stars and angels, each one decorated with such care that it seemed wrong to eat them.”
“Did you help her bake?”
Paul nodded. “Every year we were in France. She’d let me measure the flour and crack the eggs, even though I made a mess. She’d tell me stories about Christmases in her village. There’d be midnight mass in an ancient stone church and children singing carols in the snow. Each Christmas, her mother’s kitchen would be full of neighbors gathering to share food and warmth.” His thumb traced patterns across Susan’s knuckles. “Those stories taught me that cooking isn’t just about sustenance. It’s about creating experiences people remember long after the meal ends.”
Susan pictured a younger Paul standing beside his grandmother, flour dusting his nose while she guided his hands through pastry dough. “She sounds like she was extraordinary.”
“She was.” Paul’s voice held both fondness and loss. “She died when I was a teenager, but her influence shaped everything I’ve done since. Each time I develop a new dish, I think about whether she’d approve.”
“What about your parents? Were they part of those Christmas celebrations?”
Paul’s expression clouded. “My father worked constantly. He owned a hardware store and couldn’t afford to close during the holiday season when everyone needed last-minute supplies. When we weren’t in France, my mother tried to create some Christmas magic. But it was hard managing four children on her own.” He paused. “That’s probably why those evenings with my grandmother mattered so much. They were islands of calm in a chaotic childhood.”
Susan understood that type of family life. It wasn’t neglect, but an awareness that the adults around you were too overwhelmed to provide the attention you craved. “My father traveled for work,” she offered. “He’d leave before Thanksgiving and not return until after New Year’s. My mother would put up a tree and wrap presents, but her heart wasn’t in it. She missed him too much.”
Paul gently squeezed her hand, letting her know he understood. “That must have been difficult.”
Susan nodded. “It was. I remember pressing my nose against the window Christmas morning, watching other families leave for church or visiting relatives, and feeling like we were stuck in place. We were always waiting for someone who never made it home for the important moments.” The old ache had dulled over the years, but it still surfaced occasionally. “I promised myself that when I had my own family, I’d make Christmas meaningful.”
“Did you?” Paul asked.
Susan thought about those years with her ex-husband, how they’d started with such hope and gradually deteriorated into routine disappointment. “I tried. Richard would praise the meal and the decorations, without understanding the hours it took to make everything look amazing. Eventually, I stopped trying so hard.”
Paul studied her face in the lamplight. “That sounds lonely in a different way.”
“It was.” Susan finished her coffee, letting the last swallow warm her throat. “We couldn’t have children, and that didn’t help either. But those years taught me something valuable. I learned that I didn’t need someone else’s approval to make celebrations meaningful. I started volunteering at shelters on Christmas Day, helping serve meals to people who had even less than I did. That brought more joy than any elaborate dinner party ever had.”
Paul nodded. “You have a remarkable capacity for finding purpose in service. Not everyone does.”
“I think we’re similar in that regard,” Susan told him. “You could have stayed in California, built an empire of restaurants, and made a fortune. Instead, you came to Montana and opened a restaurant that’s focused on the community.”
“Sometimes smaller is exactly the right size.” Paul’s expression became serious as he placed his mug on the coffee table. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
Susan’s pulse quickened. Whatever Paul wanted to say sounded serious. “All right.”
“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?” Paul asked quietly.
The question hung in the air between them. Susan set her own mug down, buying herself a moment to gather her thoughts.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “For a long time, I was certain the answer was no. After Richard left, I told myself I was done with marriage. That I’d proven I wasn’t good at it.”
“And now?”
Susan studied their joined hands. “Now I’m not so sure. I’ve changed since leaving Georgia. I understand myself better—what I need, what I’m willing to compromise on, and what I’m not.” She looked up at Paul. “But understanding yourself and being ready to trust someone else with your life again are two different things.”
Paul nodded slowly. “I feel the same way. Michelle and I failed each other in ways that still haunt me. The idea of making those kinds of promises again terrifies me.”
Susan frowned. “Then why ask?”
“Because I need to know if it’s something you’ve closed the door on completely, or if it’s just locked for now.” His thumb traced gentle circles on her palm. “I’m not asking you to marry me, Susan. I’m just trying to understand what our future might look like if we keep moving forward together.”
Susan felt her throat tighten. His honesty deserved the same in return. “The door isn’t closed. But it’s not wide open either. I’d need time. A lot of time. I’d need to know that whoever I married understood that I come with scars and fears and habits I’m still trying to break.”
