Chapter 5
Tessa ran her fingers along the built-in bookshelf that lined one wall of her father’s living room.
The house felt stuffy after three days of being cooped up inside.
The snow had fallen steadily since her arrival, keeping them mostly housebound except for their brief outing to help with the Christmas baskets.
Her father dozed in his recliner, a thin afghan covering his legs. The television played some home renovation show with the volume turned low. Beckett had gone out to shovel the driveway again, insisting that Stan shouldn’t worry about the accumulation.
She scanned the shelves, noting the familiar books from her childhood. Her mother’s collection of poetry anthologies remained untouched, gathering dust in the corner. A row of photo albums caught her eye, leather-bound volumes she hadn’t seen in years.
Curious, she pulled one from the shelf. The cover was worn at the edges, and the once-bright red had faded to a dull burgundy. She carried it to the couch and curled up in the corner, tucking her feet beneath her.
The first page held formal portraits of people she barely recognized from her father’s side of the family.
She flipped forward, pausing when she reached photos from her parents’ wedding.
Her mother looked radiant in a simple white dress, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders.
Her father stood tall beside her, looking impossibly young and.
.. happy. His smile stretched wide across his face, his arm wrapped firmly around his new bride’s waist.
She swallowed hard. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her father smile like that.
She turned the pages slowly, watching as the formal portraits gave way to candid snapshots.
Her parents on a camping trip. Her mother pregnant, her hand resting on her rounded belly.
And then, baby pictures. Tessa as a newborn, swaddled in a yellow blanket.
Her father holding her, looking terrified and proud all at once.
A photo slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
Tessa leaned down to pick it up, her breath catching when she saw the image.
She couldn’t have been more than four or five, sitting on her mother’s lap at the kitchen table.
They were making cookies, both of their hands covered in flour, both laughing at whoever was behind the camera—her father, presumably.
She slid the photo back into place and continued turning pages.
The images documented birthday parties, first days of school, and family vacations.
Then, abruptly, the photos changed. Her mother disappeared from the frames.
Tessa grew older, her smile dimming. The pictures became more formal and less frequent.
School portraits. Awards ceremonies. Her high school graduation.
The last few pages held newspaper clippings of her nursing school graduation and a photo someone had taken of her in her scrubs during her first week at Denver Memorial. She hadn’t known her father had kept track of these milestones.
“Found the old albums, huh?”
She startled, looking up to find her father awake and watching her. “Yeah. I was just... reminiscing, I guess.”
Stan nodded, adjusting himself in the recliner. “Your mother was the one who kept those up to date. I tried to add to them after... well, after. But I was never good at remembering to take pictures.”
“I remember she always had a camera with her,” Tessa said softly.
“Said you never knew when a moment worth capturing would happen.” He cleared his throat. “She was right about that.”
She closed the album, her fingers lingering on the cover. “I miss her.”
“Yeah.” He looked away, his jaw tightening. “Me too.”
The front door opened, bringing a gust of cold air and Beckett, his shoulders dusted with snow and his cheeks ruddy from exertion.
“It’s really coming down out there. Driveway’s clear for now, but we might need to do it again before dinner.”
“Thanks, Beckett,” Stan said. “Appreciate it.”
She watched the easy exchange between the two men, and that familiar twinge of jealousy returned. She stood, tucking the album under her arm. “I think I’ll make some tea. Anyone else want some?”
Stan shook his head, but Beckett nodded. “That sounds great. Let me just get out of these wet things.”
In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove.
She placed the photo album on the counter, unable to resist opening it again to the picture of her and her mother baking.
The memory was hazy, but she could almost smell the spices and feel the warmth of her mother’s arms around her as they mixed the dough.
On impulse, she moved to the wooden recipe box that sat on a shelf above the microwave. It had been her mother’s, a wedding gift from a great-aunt. She lifted the lid and found the box still full of recipe cards in her mother’s neat handwriting.
She flipped through them, pausing when she found one labeled “Ginger Molasses Cookies (Gravy Cookies) Tessa’s Favorite.
” Gravy cookies. How long had it been since she’d thought of them?
When she was a young girl, she had called them gravy cookies because of the icing her mom put on them.
She thought the icing looked like gravy.
Her mother had laughed, and from then on, they were called gravy cookies. She smiled at the memory.
She stared at the card, splattered with old ingredients, and the corners dog-eared from frequent use.
She could almost smell them baking, how they filled the house with the smell of ginger and molasses, and how her mother would let her lick the spoon after they dropped the last cookie onto the baking sheet.
The kettle whistled, pulling her from the memory. She made two mugs of tea and handed one to Beckett when he entered the kitchen in dry clothes.
“Thanks.” He wrapped his hands around the mug and nodded toward the recipe box. “Planning to do some cooking?”
“Maybe. These were my favorite when I was little. My mom used to make them every Christmas. Gravy cookies.” She picked up the recipe card.
“Gravy cookies?”
“Yeah, don’t ask.” She shook her head.
He smiled as he leaned against the counter and blew on his tea. “Your dad mentioned those once. Said they smelled like the holidays to him.”
“He did?” She looked toward the living room, where she could hear the television volume increase slightly.
“Yeah. Miss Judy made gingerbread cookies for the lodge last month, and your dad said they reminded him of something your mom used to make, but they weren’t quite the same.”
She studied the recipe card, noting the ingredients. Basic pantry staples, nothing fancy. “I wonder if we have everything.”
“Only one way to find out. I can help if you want. Though I should warn you, I’m better at eating cookies than making them.”
For the first time since arriving in Sweet River Falls, she felt a genuine smile form. “Let me check the pantry.”
To her surprise, they had almost everything they needed. She found flour and sugar. The spices were there, though the ginger was nearly empty. The only thing missing was molasses.
“I could run out and get some,” Beckett offered.
She hesitated, looking at the snow still falling outside the window. “I don’t want you to have to go back out in this.”
“It’s no problem. I need to pick up a few things for dinner anyway. Any other requests while I’m there?” He finished his tea and set the mug in the sink.
“I guess get more ginger and the molasses. Thank you.” She handed him some cash from her wallet, which he tried to refuse.
“I’ve got it covered. Save that for something else.”
“Please, take it. I’m the one who wants to make the cookies.”
He relented, tucking the money into his pocket. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
After he left, she gathered the rest of the ingredients and began measuring them out. She found her mother’s old mixing bowls in a lower cabinet, still in the same place after all these years. The familiar weight of the ceramic bowl in her hands brought back more memories.
Her father appeared in the doorway, leaning on his cane. “What are you up to in here?”
She held up the recipe card. “I found Mom’s recipe for gravy cookies. Thought I might make a batch.”
Something flickered across his face, too quick for her to identify. “Haven’t had those in a long time.”
“Not since Mom died,” she said quietly.
He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Need any help?”
The offer surprised her. “Um, sure. Beckett went to get molasses, but we could start creaming the butter and sugar.”
He shuffled to the table and lowered himself into a chair. “I’ll supervise from here, if that’s all right. Doctor said I should take it easy.”
“That’s fine.” She brought the butter and sugar to the table, along with the mixing bowl and a wooden spoon. She sat across from her father and began working the butter with the spoon to soften it.
“Your mother always used to let the butter sit out overnight. Said it made for better cookies.”
“I remember.” She added the sugar and continued mixing. “But I’m impatient.”
Stan’s lips rose in what might have been a smile. “You get that from me. Your mother was the patient one.”
They sat in companionable silence as she worked, the only sound the scrape of the spoon against the bowl. It was the longest they’d been alone together without tension since she’d arrived.
“I miss these cookies,” she admitted. “I tried making them once in my apartment, but they didn’t taste the same.”
“Probably the altitude,” he offered. “Your mom always said that baking’s different up here in the mountains.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe it was because her mother wasn’t there, guiding her hands and laughing when she spilled flour on the floor.
The front door opened, and Beckett came inside, holding a grocery bag. “Got the molasses and a few other things.”
He entered the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter. “They were almost out of molasses. Apparently, everyone’s baking this week.”
She rose to retrieve the bottle. “Thanks for going. We’ve got the butter and sugar ready.”
“Don’t let me interrupt. I’ll just unpack these things and put them away, then I’ve got some work to do in the shed.”
“You don’t have to go back out in the cold. You could help us with the cookies.”
Beckett glanced at Stan, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “Well, if you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”
“Not at all. Mom always said baking was better with company.”
The three of them worked together, with Tessa mixing, Beckett helping measure ingredients, and Stan offering occasional comments about how her mother used to do things. By the time the dough was ready, the kitchen was warm and fragrant with spices.
“The recipe says to chill the dough for an hour or overnight.” She frowned.
“Your mother rarely bothered with that. She’d just bake them right away.”
“But it says right here—”
“I know what it says,” Stan interrupted, but his tone was gentle. “But she always claimed she didn’t have time to wait when she had a hungry husband and daughter.”
“Okay, then we’ll bake them now since I have two hungry men in the kitchen.”
She preheated the oven and prepared two baking sheets. She and Beckett took turns rolling the dough into balls, then flattening them, while Stan watched from his seat at the table.
“These look right,” Stan said as she slid the first batch into the oven. “Your mother would approve.”
The compliment, small as it was, warmed her more than she expected. “Thanks, Dad.”
As the cookies baked, the kitchen filled with the rich, spicy aroma of ginger and molasses. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. For a moment, she could almost believe she was eight years old again, waiting impatiently for the timer to ding so she could have the first warm cookie.
When she opened her eyes, she caught her father wiping quickly at his face.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
He nodded, not meeting her gaze. “Just the spices. They make my eyes water.”
Beckett tactfully busied himself with washing the mixing bowls, giving them a moment of privacy.
“They smell just like Mom’s,” she said softly.
Stan cleared his throat. “Yeah. They do.”
She made up a batch of the icing while the cookies baked. The timer dinged, and she retrieved the first batch from the oven. The cookies were perfect, with golden edges. She let them cool for a few minutes before transferring them to a wire rack. She drizzled the icing on each cookie.
Beckett walked over and looked over her shoulder. “Hey, I can see how a kid would think that icing looks a bit like gravy.” He grinned at her.
She smiled at him, then turned and offered one to her father. “Here, first one’s for you.”
He took the cookie, and his hand trembled slightly. He took a bite, closing his eyes as he chewed. When he opened them again, they were definitely misty.
“Just like hers. You did good, Tessa.” His voice sounded rough.
“Thanks, Dad.” She offered a cookie to Beckett, who accepted it with a grateful nod.
“These are amazing,” he said after taking a bite. “Best cookies I’ve had in years.”
She took one for herself, the warm spices filling her mouth, transporting her back to Christmas mornings and snow days and quiet evenings around the kitchen table.
Her mother might be gone, but this small piece of her remained, preserved in a handwritten recipe card and the memory of flour-covered hands.
As she watched her father take another cookie, his eyes still suspiciously bright, she felt something shift between them. Not forgiveness, not yet. But perhaps understanding. And for now, that was enough.