2. Daniel #2
"Damn," I mutter, rubbing the sleep from my face.
My head still feels fogged with the dream—the warmth of it, the way her laughter had sounded close enough to taste.
It's been almost two years since I've had a woman in my bed, two years since the last relationship that ended before it could even begin. My body clearly didn't get the memo.
The phone keeps ringing. I squint at the caller ID. Mom.
Of course.
I clear my throat before answering. "Hey, Mom."
"You're here." Her voice comes through soft but firm, like she's already been up for hours. "Can you come down for a minute?"
I blink, sitting up straighter. "Downstairs?"
"Actually, come to the café. I made coffee." A pause. "Please."
Something in her tone pulls me from the haze. I nod even though she can't see me. "Yeah, give me five."
When the call ends, I exhale slowly and run a hand through my hair. It's still dark outside, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a thick blanket. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, letting my pulse settle.
Then I dress.
Nothing fancy—just dark joggers, a gray thermal shirt, and the wool socks I keep for winter trips. I pull on a navy hoodie and rake my hair back. My reflection in the window looks older than I remember: stubble too long, eyes lined from too many late nights at the firm.
By the time I step into the hallway, the lodge creaks faintly with the wind. There's that smell again—cedar and varnish and faint traces of cinnamon drifting up from the kitchen. I take the stairs quietly, hand brushing the banister my father refinished himself.
At the kitchen, I say hello to Mrs. Lacey and then make my way out. The café is a five-minute walk down the hill, snow squeaking under my boots, the cold sharp enough to finish waking me.
When I reach the café's front step, I see her through the glass doors.
Mom's standing behind the counter, wrapped in a thick robe, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a loose bun.
She looks smaller somehow. Maybe it's the hour, maybe it's the years I missed.
Her shoulders seem narrower, her posture softer.
But when she looks up and spots me through the doorway, her smile—tired but bright—cuts right through my chest.
"You didn't tell me you came in last night," she says as I step in.
"I was going to," I admit, and she chuckles under her breath, shaking her head.
"Always working, always arriving after dark."
"Old habits."
She opens her arms. I cross the distance and hug her. She smells like coffee and lavender soap, the same scent I remember from childhood mornings before school. For a second, the weight in my chest eases.
"I missed you," she murmurs.
"Missed you too, Mom."
When we pull apart, she studies me with that look only mothers have—measuring everything at once, searching for the things I don't say.
"I made coffee," she says again, quieter, as if the words might break something if spoken too loud.
I nod. "Lead the way."
The overhead light is dim, and the warmth from the old industrial ovens seeps out from the kitchen. She's already set two mugs on the counter.
"Don't wake the girls," she whispers, pouring.
I pause mid-step. "The girls?"
She glances up with a faint smile. "Tess and Mara. They're sleeping upstairs. They came in late from the Bluejay."
I huff a quiet laugh. "They snitched, didn't they?"
She gives me a look—half amusement, half exasperation. "Don't start."
"I'm not judging."
"Yes, you are. You get that tone from your father."
I grin, holding up a hand. "Guilty."
She gestures to one of the tables near the window. "Sit."
I do, and she follows with two mugs. Her hands are steady, but I notice the faint tremor when she sets mine down. She's tired, no question. The kind of tired that doesn't come from lack of sleep but from carrying too much for too long.
She sits across from me, fingers curling around her cup.
I sip my coffee, letting the taste ground me. "Can't believe you turned my old room into storage. The girls have the rest of the upstairs, and I've got no place to stay."
"I needed space," she says, feigning offense. "Your father's tools, old linens, Christmas decorations—where else would they go?"
"Attic?"
"Full."
We share a look, the kind only two people with the same dry humor can manage.
"Where's Dad?" I ask.
"Sleeping," she says, lowering her voice again. "He was up half the night fixing one of the lodge's heating pipes. We're still getting used to the place."
I glance around the café, noting the small changes—the new espresso machine, the rustic shelving, the framed photographs of the falls in different seasons. "You've done a lot already."
She smiles faintly. "Your father insists it's character-building."
"Buying a lodge?"
"Running it. We wanted something that keeps us close to the town."
I nod, though a part of me still bristles at the memory of our last call—the argument about finances, my sharp tone, her silence on the other end of the line.
She studies me over the rim of her cup. "I know what you're thinking."
"Do you?"
"That you should've been consulted."
I exhale slowly. "It wasn't about control, Mom. It was about—"
"Worrying."
I meet her eyes. "Yeah."
The only sound is the tick of the wall clock and the faint hum of the ovens. The quiet isn't uncomfortable, but it's full of things neither of us wants to say too soon.
She breaks it first. "How's the firm?"
The safe question.
"Busy," I say. "Two big cases back-to-back. I've been running on fumes."
"You always do."
"I'm trying to slow down."
She arches a brow, unconvinced. "You said that last time you visited."
I smile faintly. "I mean it this time."
"You also said that last time."
Touché.
Her gaze softens. "You look tired, Danny."
"Occupational hazard."
"And lonely," she adds gently.
I glance down at my cup. "That too."
She doesn't push. She never does. She's always been the gentler of the two—where Dad's discipline forged us, Mom's patience held us together.
I shift, leaning back against the chair. "You didn't call me down just to ask about work."
"No." Her voice dips. "I wanted to see you before your father wakes up. The last time we spoke… it wasn't good."
"That's an understatement."
"I know." She looks down at her hands, thumb tracing the handle of her mug. "We were excited, Daniel. The lodge felt like a new chapter. I didn't mean to shut you out."
I run a hand along the table's edge, rough wood under my fingers. "I overreacted. I just—when you spend years advising clients not to make risky investments, it's hard to turn that part off."
She smiles faintly. "You got that from me."
"Maybe."
Her laugh is quiet, tired. "You've done well for yourself, you know. Your father and I talk about it all the time. He's proud. We both are."
"Pride isn't the emotion I heard on that last call."
She winces but nods. "No. But we love you, Daniel. Even when we disagree."
"I know."
Silence stretches again. Outside, the snow falls thicker, blanketing the world in white. The café windows fog at the corners, the warmth inside contrasting the sharp cold beyond.
I glance toward the ceiling. "The girls are really sleeping upstairs?"
"Yes. They've been helping with preparations. Mara handles most of the morning shifts with me. Tess jumps between here and the lodge."
"How's Mara doing?"
All I know from Tess is that she had trouble with her pack and needed to lie low in town for a while. I never followed up because I assumed it was resolved and she'd moved to Denver with them.
I guess I was wrong.
Her eyes lift to mine, careful. "Better. Quieter than she used to be, but she'll be okay. Sweet Creek's been good for her."
I want to ask more, but I don't want to seem like I'm prying.
Something flickers in my chest, the ghost of the dream lingering. I take another sip of coffee to chase it away.
"That's good," I say.
Mom's watching me again, that knowing look creeping back. "You remember when she and Tess used to stay up painting in the kitchen? You'd come down to steal cookies and pretend you were studying."
"I was studying."
"You were eavesdropping."
"Semantics."
She chuckles softly, shaking her head. "They were inseparable back then. After her parents passed, we couldn't bear to see her go anywhere else. It was the right thing to do."
"It was," I agree quietly.
"I hope we did right by her."
That catches me off guard. What the hell happened? I wish my nosy little sister was awake so I could ask her.
"I'm sure you did, Mom." I smile. "With all of us, I mean. You did the best you could," I add.
When she looks up again, her eyes are misty. "Sometimes I forget how much time's passed. You kids all grown, living your own lives. And here I am, waking up at four just to talk to my son like he's still a teenager."
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. "You can call me at four anytime, Mom."
She smiles, eyes brightening. "Careful. I might take you up on that."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
We sit there until the first gray light creeps through the windows. She gets up to pour another round, humming under her breath. The sound is so familiar it makes my throat tighten.
When she sets the cup in front of me again, I finally say, "For what it's worth, I'm glad you called."
"I am too."
Outside, the snow keeps falling. Upstairs, the faintest creak of floorboards signals someone moving—maybe Tess, maybe Mara. The day is beginning.
But for now, it's just me and my mother, the smell of coffee and cinnamon, and a fragile peace I didn't know I'd been missing.