Chapter 3 #2
She tilts her head. "Sheriff Tom Parker. Raising a daughter alone in a small town. No decorations despite Christmas being weeks away. Letting a stranger stay in your guest room rather than your perfectly good rental cabin." She ticks these off on her fingers. "There's a story there."
"Not much of one." I stand, gathering our empty plates. "Wife left sixteen years ago. Raised my daughter. End of story."
Kelsie watches me with those perceptive eyes that seem to see more than I want them to. "Christmas time," she says softly. "That's why you don't decorate, isn't it?"
I freeze, plates in hand. How does she know that?
"It’s a small town," she answers my unspoken question. "People talk. Especially when they learn I'm staying with the sheriff."
Anger flares briefly. "Who's been gossiping about me?"
"No one specific." She backpedals quickly. "Just general observations. I'm a writer. I notice patterns."
I want to press further, demand names, but the genuine concern in her expression defuses my anger. She's not being malicious. Just curious. And perhaps a little too perceptive for comfort.
"It's not a big deal," I say, turning away to rinse the dishes. "Christmas is just commercial nonsense anyway."
"Of course." She starts clearing the remaining dishes, moving around my kitchen with unexpected grace. "For what it's worth, I think raising a daughter alone after that kind of abandonment takes incredible strength."
The simple acknowledgment hits me harder than expected. Most people in town either pretend nothing happened or treat me like I might shatter if they mention Caroline. Kelsie's straightforward recognition feels oddly validating.
"Savannah did most of the work," I say gruffly. "Growing up, I mean. She's stronger than I ever was."
"Sounds like she takes after her father."
Before I can respond to that unexpected assessment, my phone rings. Savannah's ringtone.
"Speaking of," I mutter, answering the call. "Hey, sweetheart."
"Dad." Her voice carries that mixture of exasperation and affection I've come to expect. "I've been calling the station all afternoon. Rodriguez says you left early."
"Had some things to take care of at home," I say vaguely, aware of Kelsie pretending not to listen as she loads the dishwasher.
"Home? Since when do you leave work early to go home?" Suspicion colors her tone. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine. Just... had company for dinner."
"Company?" Savannah's voice rises dramatically. "What company? Who's at the house? Dad, did you finally start dating again?"
"It's not like that," I say quickly, my face heating. "Just a temporary houseguest until the cabin heater gets fixed."
"Houseguest? In your house? The house where you barely let me rearrange the furniture?" Her voice rises with each question. "Who is this miracle worker and how did they get past your fortress of solitude?"
"Her name's Kelsie. She's Mason's sister." I lower my voice, though in the small kitchen there's no way Kelsie can't hear me. "Writer from San Diego. Just staying until the part for the cabin heater arrives."
"She. Her. A woman." Savannah sounds delighted. "Dad, this is huge. You haven't let anyone stay in that house since Mom left."
"It's not a big deal," I insist, uncomfortable with her excitement. "Just being neighborly."
"Neighborly. Right." I can practically hear her eyes rolling. "I'm coming over tomorrow to meet this not a big deal houseguest. No arguments."
Before I can protest, she hangs up. I tuck the phone away, aware of Kelsie studiously wiping down the already clean counter.
"Sorry about that," I say awkwardly. "My daughter's coming by tomorrow. She wants to meet you."
"I heard." Her smile is gentle. "Your phone is way too loud. She sounds protective of you."
"Other way around, usually." I lean against the counter, suddenly tired. "Look, about what she said. About not letting people stay here. It's not... I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."
"I don't." Kelsie meets my eyes directly. "I think we both understand what it's like to need space after someone walks out. Different circumstances, same wound."
The simple understanding in her words leaves me momentarily speechless. No platitudes. No psychoanalysis. Just recognition of a shared experience.
"Well," I finally say, "thanks for dinner. It was good."
It's woefully inadequate gratitude, but Kelsie beams as if I've given her a grand compliment.
"Anytime, Sheriff." She hangs up the dish towel. "Maybe tomorrow I'll tackle that ancient coffee maker of yours. Bring it into this century."
"The coffee maker's fine," I protest automatically.
"It makes coffee the color and consistency of motor oil." She pats my arm as she passes, her touch casual but leaving warmth in its wake. "Trust me, you deserve better."
As she disappears upstairs, I stand in my kitchen, realizing it hasn't felt this much like a home in sixteen years.
I wonder what other changes Kelsie Walsh might bring into my carefully ordered life before she leaves.
And why, despite all my best intentions, I'm starting to hope the cabin heater parts take their time arriving.