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Nan pulled back from the hug, squeezing Tea’s forearms as she craned her neck to accommodate for the six inches that separated them. Nan still wore the same clothes as always; loose jean capris, a soft Life is Good T-shirt, her LL Bean fleece despite the warm night air. But it was hard to ignore the subtle differences, too. The way her face had thinned and the skin at her cheeks drooped. The extra crinkles around her mouth and her bright blue eyes. Her hair was completely gray instead of salt and pepper, and cropped much shorter. But her toenails were painted that same shade of hot pink, and around her neck was the small gold heart-shaped locket her father bought for his parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary.

Tea reached out to wipe the tears from Nan’s cheeks with the pad of her thumb, and returned the sentiment with a watery smile.

“You look good my girl, so strong,” Nan said. “I’ve missed you so.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Nan sniffled and shook her head. “No need to apologize. I understand.”

She swallowed, not feeling convinced by her grandmother’s ability to brush off her prolonged absence. But this wasn’t the moment to air her grievances. This was the time for ginger snap cookies.

Tea followed Nan farther into the cabin and into her grandmother’s domain: the kitchen. No matter what time of day it was, she always had something going on in the kitchen. Fresh baked cookies were almost a daily specialty. She loved hosting “cocktail hour” with whatever dip she’d made that day, like jalapeño popper or spinach artichoke or fresh salsa—always served with margaritas or white wine. And of course supper, which was an overdone affair, despite the fact that Tea and her dad would insist that burgers on the grill were more than enough. Nan never accepted that kind of lazy cooking; casseroles in nine-by-thirteens were more her style.

Tea eyed the cookies on the counter, already cooling on a metal rack. She slid right back into her old bar stool at the counter like she never left. Hers was at the center, where she could prop her feet up on the stool on her right and face the lake.

Like everything else at Wild Pines—the trees that stretched taller the more she drove north, the cabin, the ginger snaps—the lake was also as she remembered. She gazed out the bay window, amazed at how so much of her life could change in eight years, yet somehow ten minutes at Silver Falls was enough to ground her. It was equal parts nostalgic…and unnerving.

Nan opened the fridge. “Did you eat?”

“I stopped by the drive-thru at Dairy Queen and grabbed some fries.”

Nan turned and frowned, her hand still on the door. “That’s all you ate?”

She shrugged. “Haven’t been very hungry.”

Nan shook her head and reached into the fridge. “Well, gal dang, that won’t do,” she grumbled.

Tea watched as she pulled out four different Cool Whip containers, and then a large red Tupperware. She shook her head, amused by Nan’s continued insistence on keeping those flimsy containers because they were “good quality” and it was “wasteful to throw them out.”

“Seriously, Nan—”

“Hush,” she snipped. “Go to the back fridge and grab a bottle of that Sauvignon Blanc your mother insisted I buy you and pour yourself a glass.” She flipped the lid off the red Tupperware and began forking slices of ham onto a plate. “Actually, pour two glasses.”

Tea slid off the stool. “Mom made you grab my favorite wine?”

“There are six bottles back there.”

Tea coughed a laugh, imagining what Nan looked like carting six bottles out of Sip & Pine, the local liquor store. She made her way around the counter to the back hall, reaching out to grab a cookie on the rack on her way, but Nan slapped her hand.

“Dinner first.”

Tea smiled. Yep, nothing’s changed there. “Yes ma’am.”

Minutes later, after Tea poured two glasses of wine and Nan microwaved a heaping plate of ham, cherry sauce, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and a toasted roll slathered with butter and honey, the two sat down at the table to watch the sunset.

“Where’s Pop?” Tea asked, slicing into her ham. Dollops of sauce spilled over the plate and onto the table as she maneuvered her knife and fork. There was no way she was going to finish all of it.

Nan gestured toward the lake. “Where do you think?”

Tea smirked. “Fishing at sunset? I thought he only liked to go first thing in the morning or late at night.”

“Yes, well, I told him with his poor eyesight that he’s no longer allowed to fish in the dark. I think he goes out at all hours of the day now in protest.”

Tea smiled to herself. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Every year, at the start of summer, Nan and Pop make the six-hour drive from their farm in northern Iowa and he wouldn’t waste a second before reaching into the back of their Subaru for his fishing pole.

She chewed slowly as they sat side by side, watching the sun make its descent across the lake. That was the magic of a Minnesota summer up north: The sun was in no rush to set, like it protested the end of another peaceful day. The Richards understood all too well.

She watched as teenagers congregated under the flagpole at the center of the lawn. Two of the boys took off sprinting down the dock and jumped into the lake. The girls squealed with laughter, then jogged after them.