Chapter 14
Fourteen
Ethan woke in the pre-dawn darkness with a groan that turned into a smile before he’d even opened his eyes.
His body ached in the best possible way.
Muscles pleasantly sore from yesterday’s tree decorating and hauling firewood, his lips still tingling with the ghost memory of Lydia’s mouth on his.
He stretched, feeling his spine pop in three places, and let himself lie there for a moment in the warm cocoon of his blankets.
Last night had been … what had last night been?
Perfect didn’t seem like a strong enough word.
Sitting on the couch with Lydia in his arms, the Christmas lights painting everything in soft color, sharing stories and pain and hope in equal measure.
Kissing her until his lungs burned and his body ached with want.
Feeling her respond to his touch, hearing that small gasp when his hand had found her breast, knowing that she wanted this as much as he wanted her.
For the first time in three years, Ethan had gone to bed thinking about the future instead of the past.
He rolled out of bed with another groan, this one genuine as his feet protested the cold floor.
The house was silent around him. That deep, complete silence that only came in the hours before dawn, when even the mice were sleeping.
Through his window, he could see stars still scattered across the sky, though the eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten with the promise of sunrise.
Saturday. A full day off. No shifts, no calls, nothing pulling him away from this house and the people in it.
Ethan padded out his room in his bare feet and flannel pajama pants, not bothering with a shirt despite the morning chill.
The woodstove had burned down to embers overnight, and he fed it fresh logs, watching the flames catch and spread.
The kitchen was dark and quiet, but he moved through it with the ease of long familiarity, starting the coffee maker and pulling out the griddle.
Pancakes. The kids would love pancakes.
He’d learned to cook in the Army. Not well, but functionally.
And had gotten better after Sarah died, when the alternative was living on frozen dinners and takeout.
But he’d never cooked for children before.
Never measured out flour and sugar and eggs with the knowledge that small, eager faces would light up at the result.
The domesticity of it should have felt strange. Should have felt like a betrayal of the life he’d planned with Sarah. But standing in his kitchen, mixing batter and heating the griddle, Ethan felt … content. Like pieces of himself that had been scattered were finally clicking back into place.
The coffee maker gurgled and hissed, filling the kitchen with that rich, dark smell that meant morning. Ethan poured himself a cup and took his first sip standing at the window, watching the sky lighten from charcoal to slate to the pale pink of early winter sunrise.
Sarah would have liked this, he thought. Would have liked Lydia and the kids. Would have been the first to invite them in, to make them feel at home. She’d always had that gift. Making people feel seen, feel valued, feel like they mattered. It was one of the dozens of things he’d loved about her.
“She’s happy where she is now,” Michael had said. “She wants you to know it’s okay.”
Ethan took another sip of coffee and let himself believe it.
Let himself imagine that wherever Sarah was, she was smiling at him, making pancakes for children who weren’t his own, dating a woman who wasn’t her, building a life that hadn’t been part of their plan.
And that she was okay with it. More than okay. Glad for it.
The thought made his throat tight, but it was a good kind of tight. Like something that had been knotted for three years was finally loosening.
By the time the sun crested the mountains and filled the kitchen with buttery light, Ethan had a plate stacked high with golden pancakes and the bacon was sizzling in the cast iron pan.
He’d set the table, something he never did for himself, with plates and forks and the good maple syrup he’d been saving.
The one from Vermont that cost twice what it should, but tasted like liquid gold.
He heard them before he saw them. The patter of small feet on the stairs, hushed whispers that weren’t quite as quiet as they thought, a stifled giggle from Rosie.
“Is he up yet?” Eli’s voice, trying for mature and responsible but unable to hide his excitement.
“I smell pancakes!” Rosie, not bothering to whisper at all.
“Shh, you’ll wake him.”
“I think he’s already awake if he’s making pancakes, dummy.”
“Don’t call me dummy!”
Ethan smiled into his coffee and waited, listening to their whispered argument, feeling something warm and fierce bloom in his chest. This was what this big house was supposed to sound like. Children’s voices, morning chaos, the beautiful noise of life.
They appeared in the doorway like a pair of conspirators, Eli in his pajamas with his hair sticking up in seventeen directions, Rosie in the purple pajamas with the faded unicorn on the front. They froze when they saw him, guilty expressions crossing their faces.
“Morning,” Ethan said, keeping his voice casual. “You two hungry?”
“YES!” Rosie launched herself across the kitchen and wrapped her arms around his legs. “You made pancakes! Real pancakes! The good kind!”
Eli followed more slowly, but his eyes were bright. “Thanks, Mr. Cole. You didn’t have to?—”
“Ethan,” he corrected gently. “And I wanted to. Can’t have you two going hungry on a Saturday, can I?” He ruffled Rosie’s curls, then nodded toward the table. “Go on, sit. Before they get cold.”
He watched them scramble into their chairs, their excitement barely contained, and felt that warm thing in his chest expand. He served them each three pancakes, perfectly golden, with crispy edges just the way he liked them, and set out the butter and syrup.
“Can we use a lot?” Rosie asked, eyeing the syrup bottle in the shape of a maple leaf with the intensity of a general planning a campaign.
“However much you want,” Ethan said, sitting down with his own plate. “It’s Saturday. Special rules apply.”
Rosie’s face lit up, like he’d just told her Christmas was coming twice this year.
She grabbed the syrup bottle and poured with the abandon of someone who’d been told she couldn’t have something and was now making up for lost time.
The golden liquid flooded her plate, covering the pancakes, pooling around the edges, glistening in the morning light.
Eli was more restrained, but not by much. He cut his pancakes into precise squares before drowning them in syrup, his fork work methodical even as his leg bounced under the table with barely suppressed energy.
Ethan ate his own breakfast slowly, savoring it less for the taste and more for the company.
For the sight of two kids eating like food was a gift instead of a given.
For the incomprehensible amount of joy radiating from Rosie as she stuffed syrup-soaked pancake into her mouth, her cheeks bulging like a chipmunk.
“Good?” he asked.
“Mmf mrrf!” Rosie said through her mouthful, which Ethan interpreted as enthusiastic agreement.
“These are really good, Ethan,” Eli said more clearly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Ethan took a sip of his coffee, watching them over the rim. “So I was thinking, it snowed pretty good last night. Fresh powder. You two know what that’s perfect for?”
Two pairs of eyes locked onto him, Rosie’s mouthful of pancake momentarily forgotten.
“Sledding,” Ethan said, and grinned at their explosion of excitement.
By mid-morning, they were loaded into Ethan’s truck. Kids in the back, Lydia in the passenger seat, and a collection of sleds borrowed from Mrs. Figgs strapped down in the bed. They’d already retrieved the winter gear from the barn earlier in the week, and now they were bundling into it.
Rosie’s snowpants were too big, bunching at the ankles and making her walk like a tiny, grape-juice-stained astronaut. Eli’s jacket sleeves were too short, exposing his thin wrists to the cold. But they were warm enough, and their excitement more than made up for the ill-fitting clothes.
“Ready?” Ethan asked, shouldering two of the sleds.
“READY!” Rosie shouted, bouncing on her toes.
The drive to Wears Valley took them through winding mountain roads that climbed steadily into hills white with fresh snow.
Ethan drove carefully, hyperaware of Lydia beside him and the precious cargo in the back seat.
The roads were clear but slick, and the last thing any of them needed was an accident.
Caleb was waiting for them at the sledding hill.
A long, gentle slope that was perfect for kids and lined with families already enjoying the fresh snow.
He’d shown up at Ethan’s house that morning with thermoses of hot chocolate and an old-fashioned wooden sled that looked like it belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting.
“Michael figured you could use an extra adult,” Caleb had said gruffly. “Keep an eye on things.”
Now, watching him help Eli position his sled at the top of the hill, showing him how to steer with his feet, Ethan felt grateful all over again for this man who kept showing up exactly when he was needed.
“You ready?” Caleb asked Eli.
The boy nodded, gripping the rope handles with white-knuckled determination.
“On three. One … two … THREE!”
Eli launched himself down the hill with a whoop that echoed across the valley. His sled picked up speed, snow spraying out behind him in white plumes, and when he reached the bottom, he tumbled off in a laughing heap.
“Again!” he shouted, dragging his sled back up the hill. “Again, again, again!”
Rosie was less coordinated but no less enthusiastic. She went down the hill on her stomach, shrieking with delight, and had to be helped back up by Lydia because she couldn’t get traction in her too-big snowpants.