Chapter 22
The cottage felt smaller when they returned from Miami, as if grief had expanded to fill every corner of the space that once felt spacious and welcoming.
Tara tossed her black funeral dress in the laundry basket and pulled on a pair of jeans and one of Will’s flannel shirts, needing the comfort of familiar textures after the painful goodbye.
“Coffee?” Will asked from the kitchen, where he was already starting their evening ritual.
He’d been staying at the cottage since he’d sold the stuff he didn’t want and had already packed up most of his belongings.
The new house had a workshop attached to the oversized garage, so he’d been working on moving all of his materials and tools over.
“Please.” She joined him at the counter, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him soundly. The familiar scent of his aftershave—woodsy with hints of cedar—grounded her after the artificial perfume of funeral flowers that had clung to her clothes.
Tara watched his hands as he measured the coffee, noting the slight tremor that hadn’t been there before they’d gone. The funeral had affected him more than he was letting on.
“I keep expecting the phone to ring,” she said, settling against the counter. “Keep thinking I should call Patty and tell her about the funeral.”
Will’s hand stilled on the coffee scoop. “Grief’s like that. The habit of loving someone doesn’t disappear overnight.”
Something in his voice, a distant quality, as if he were speaking from experience, made her study his profile. The late afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window caught the silver in his hair, highlighting the lines around his eyes that deepened when he was remembering something painful.
“Today must have brought back memories of Emma’s funeral,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm.
His shoulders tensed slightly before he set the scoop down and turned to face her.
“I was thinking about that during the service. How different it was, but how the feelings...” He paused, searching for words.
“The finality feels the same, you know? That moment when you realize you’ll never hear their voice again. ”
The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with a rich aroma that mixed with the lingering scent of rain on the cottage’s weathered siding. She licked her lips, tasting salt from the tears streaming down her face as she moved closer to him, drawn by the vulnerability in his eyes.
“What was Emma’s service like?” she asked, not sure if she should probe but sensing he needed to talk about it. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”
He leaned against the counter, gripping the edge.
“Small. She’d been sick for so long that she’d lost touch with a lot of people.
Made me promise to keep it simple, just close friends and family.
” He managed a small smile. “She said she didn’t want people standing around looking awkward and not knowing what to say. ”
“Sounds like she knew you well.”
“She did.” His voice caught slightly. “Emma always said she hated how funeral flowers smelled too sweet, how they tried to cover up the sadness with all that perfume. She wanted wildflowers, if anything. Daisies from the field behind our old house.”
The irony wasn’t lost on her, wanting to tell her best friend about her own funeral, and now hearing about another woman who’d had strong opinions about flowers for her final goodbye.
Patty would have laughed at that, would have made some sardonic comment about the terrible lily arrangements or Harry’s obvious discomfort during the service.
“I gave her daisies,” Will continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “Picked them myself the morning of the funeral. The funeral director looked at me like I’d lost my mind, bringing wildflowers to my own wife’s funeral.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “But that’s what she wanted.”
Her throat tightened with emotion — for Will’s loss, for Patty’s absence, for all the ways love persisted even after goodbye. She pulled two mugs from the cabinet, giving him space to continue if he needed to.
“Today, listening to them talk about Patty...” he cleared his throat. “It made me remember why Emma fought so hard for so long. Not for herself, but for me. She knew I’d need time to figure out how to live without her.”
The weight of his words settled between them. Outside, a blue jay called from the oak tree near the window, its voice sharp and clear in the afternoon stillness. Tara could hear the subtle sounds of Will’s breathing, slightly uneven as he composed himself.
“She would have liked you,” he said suddenly, meeting Tara’s eyes. “Emma always said life was too short to waste time on people who didn’t make you laugh.”
“I think I would have liked her too,” she replied, meaning it completely.
Will nodded, then straightened as the coffee finished brewing.
“She told me not to spend the rest of my life missing her. Said she wanted me to find someone who’d make me remember what it felt like to be happy.
” He poured coffee into their mugs, the familiar ritual helping to ease the emotional intensity of the moment. “I think she’d approve of us.”
Tara accepted her mug, wrapping her hands around its warmth. The coffee was perfect, not too strong, with just a hint of vanilla that had become their preference. “I’m glad you told me about her. About the daisies.”
She shook her head, a small smile touching the corner of her mouth. “Patty would have hated those lilies. Too formal. Too funeral-ey, she would have said.”
“What would she have wanted?”
“Wildflowers. Daisies. Something that looked like it belonged in a field instead of a cemetery.” Tara took a sip of coffee, letting the warmth spread through her chest. “She always said funeral flowers should celebrate life, not mourn death.”
Will kissed her, pulling her close. “Smart woman. Just like Emma.”
Through the window, the lake stretched like a mirror, reflecting the pale afternoon sky.
Snow still clung in patches along the far shore, but here and there, brown earth showed through, promising spring wasn’t as far away as it felt.
The sight filled Tara with unexpected hope.
For healing, for new beginnings, for the way love could bloom again even in the shadow of loss.
* * *
Sheriff Bo Cooper had been awake for twenty-three hours straight when his radio crackled with another weather update.
The storm that had been predicted as “light snow” had turned into a full-scale blizzard, with winds howling down from the mountains and visibility near zero.
This was life in the mountains. A spring tease and then a dump-truck load of snow.
“This is Unit 2 requesting status on Highway 9,” came Deputy Martinez’s voice through the static.
“Still closed,” Bo replied, rubbing his eyes as he leaned back in his desk chair. “Tree down at mile marker fifteen. DOT says they can’t get a crew out until the wind dies down.”
He’d sent most of his department home hours ago, keeping only essential personnel on duty. In weather like this, the smart thing was to hunker down and wait it out. But emergencies didn’t wait for clear skies.
His phone buzzed with a text from Francesca.
Everything okay? Saw your truck still at the station.
He smiled despite his exhaustion. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have had anyone checking on him during a storm. Now he had someone who worried when he worked too late, who left hot coffee on his desk when she stopped by the station, who made him remember there was life beyond badge and duty.
He texted back.
Long night. Storm’s worse than expected. You safe?
Her response came immediately.
Store’s closed today. Cozy at home with hot chocolate and a good book. Stay warm.
The simple exchange warmed him more than the coffee that had gone cold hours ago.
He and Francesca had been taking things slow.
Dinner at Lettuce Eat, drives along the parkway, quiet conversations at the bookstore’s.
After her experience with Trevor, she needed time to trust again. Bo was a patient man.
“Sheriff?” Martinez’s voice came through the radio again. “We’ve got a possible medical emergency out on Cedar Lane. Caller reports his wife is in labor, but they can’t get to the hospital. Roads are impassable.”
Emily and Evan. He knew she was due soon, and with first babies, labor could be unpredictable. Bo was already reaching for his coat. “ETA?”
“Fifteen minutes if we’re lucky. Visibility’s maybe fifty feet.”
“I’m en route,” Bo said, grabbing his emergency kit. “Call Dr. Winters, tell him we might need medical advice over the radio.”
The drive to Cedar Lane was harrowing, even with chains on his tires and years of experience driving in mountain weather. The snow was coming down so hard his windshield wipers could barely keep up, and the wind rocked his SUV like a child’s toy.
But as he navigated the treacherous roads, Bo found himself thinking about Francesca, about the conversation they’d had just last week about the future. About how she’d finally started talking about tomorrow instead of just today, about dreams instead of just survival.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for serious yet,” she’d said, her green eyes uncertain as they sat by the fire in her apartment above the bookstore.
“That’s okay,” he’d replied, meaning it. “We’ll take it one day at a time. But Francesca? I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready for serious, I’ll still be here.”
Tonight, driving through a blizzard to help bring new life into the world, Bo realized he’d never meant anything more in his life.
* * *
The contractions had started just after midnight, gentle waves that Emily had initially dismissed as false labor. By two AM, they were coming every ten minutes. By three, she could no longer talk through them.
“We need to get to the hospital,” Evan said, pacing their bedroom as Emily breathed through another contraction.