Chapter 2
Tessa woke with a jolt, her eyes flying open to unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling. No, not unfamiliar. Just forgotten. The glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stuck there as a child had long since lost their luminescence, but their outlines remained, faint ghosts of constellations past.
Her childhood bedroom. Sweet River Falls. Her father.
The events of the previous night came rushing back as she pushed herself upright, wincing at the stiffness in her neck.
She’d fallen asleep fully clothed, her body finally surrendering after the marathon ER shift and the long drive through the mountains.
Sunlight streamed through the faded blue curtains in a warm glow that felt both familiar and strange.
She never slept this late. Not even after night shifts. The realization made her push back the quilt and stand, her body protesting every movement. Her clothes were hopelessly wrinkled, and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
Her duffel bag sat untouched where she’d dropped it.
She rummaged through it, grateful that she’d had the presence of mind to pack a few essentials before leaving Denver.
Clean clothes. Toothbrush. Basic toiletries.
She’d packed in autopilot, the same way she prepared her go-bag for disaster relief work.
The bathroom was directly across the hall.
She opened the door cautiously, half-expecting to find it occupied.
It was empty, but not unchanged. The shower curtain was new, a simple navy blue instead of the sailing-themed one her father had kept for decades.
A man’s razor sat on the edge of the sink.
Beckett’s, obviously. At least he hung up his towel.
She would be sharing this bathroom with Beckett. The thought was oddly intimate, considering she’d just met the man. She closed the door and turned on the shower, letting the water run hot while she examined her reflection in the mirror.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her chestnut hair had mostly escaped its bun, tendrils framing her face in a way that looked less artfully messy and more like she’d been dragged backward through a hedge. She looked every bit as exhausted as she felt.
The shower helped, washing away the hospital antiseptic smell that always seemed to cling to her skin after long shifts. She dressed quickly in clean jeans and a soft flannel shirt, twisting her damp hair into a fresh bun at the nape of her neck. No makeup. She hadn’t bothered to pack any.
Voices drifted down the hallway as she emerged from the bathroom. She heard low murmurs and the occasional clink of silverware against plates. She followed the sounds to the kitchen, pausing at the threshold to take in the scene.
Her father sat at the small oak table by the window, a newspaper spread out before him and a mug of coffee at his elbow.
A cane leaned against his chair. He looked smaller somehow, his shoulders slightly stooped, and his hair was thinner and whiter than she remembered.
But his eyes, when he glanced up and saw her, were clear and sharp as ever.
Beckett stood at the stove, his back to her, flipping what looked like pancakes.
He wore worn jeans and a faded thermal shirt.
His movements were efficient and practiced.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and maple syrup, homey scents that felt incongruous with the tension that swirled through the room.
“Well, you finally decided to join us.” Her father folded his newspaper
Not, “good morning.” Not, “it’s good to see you.” Just a pointed comment about her sleeping late. Some things never changed. “Good morning. How are you feeling?” She ignored his tone and moved into the kitchen, stopping a few feet from the table.
“Like I’m being asked how I’m feeling by everyone who walks through the door. Sit down. Beckett’s making enough pancakes to feed an army.” He motioned to the empty chair across from him.
“Just trying to use up the batter,” Beckett said quietly, not turning around. “Coffee’s fresh if you want some, Tessa.”
The casual use of her name caught her off guard. She moved to the cabinet where the mugs had always been kept, finding them still in the same place. Some things remained constant, at least. She poured herself a cup, black, and finally approached the table.
“I’d like to check your vitals and go over your medication schedule,” she said as she set down her coffee.
Stan Grant’s jaw tightened. “I’ve already been poked and prodded by actual doctors, Tessa. I don’t need my daughter playing nurse with me.”
The familiar defensiveness rose in her chest. “I’m not playing anything. I am a nurse. And I’d like to understand exactly what happened and what your treatment plan is.”
“Minor stroke. Taking medication. Resting.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “There’s your treatment plan.”
Beckett approached with a plate stacked with pancakes, setting it in the center of the table.
“Doctor said it was a TIA,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact.
“Transient ischemic attack. Blood pressure spiked, causing some temporary symptoms. No permanent damage.” He moved back to the counter and returned with plates, silverware, and syrup.
“He’s on a blood thinner and something to control his blood pressure. I’ve got the schedule written down.”
Her father shot Beckett a look that might have been annoyance, but Beckett seemed unperturbed as he took the seat between them.
“Thank you.” She was surprised by the succinct, accurate summary. She turned back to her father. “Any lingering symptoms? Numbness? Difficulty speaking? Confusion?”
“Just difficulty dealing with unnecessary questions,” Stan muttered, but he reached for the pancakes. “I’m fine, Tessa. Or I will be, once everyone stops treating me like I’m made of glass.”
Beckett quietly served himself, then passed the platter to her. The three of them ate in silence for a moment, the only sounds the scrape of forks against plates and the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
“So, how long are you planning to stay?” her father finally asked.
The question hung in the air, loaded with unspoken meaning. How long until you leave again? How long do I have to endure your presence? How long before you run back to Denver?
“I took two weeks off,” she answered, focusing on cutting her pancake into precise triangles. “I have some vacation time saved up.”
Her father’s eyebrows rose. “Two weeks? That’s not necessary. I’ll be back to normal in a few days.”
“TIAs can be precursors to more serious strokes.” She automatically slipped into her clinical voice. “You’ll need to be monitored, and there will be follow-up appointments.”
“Beckett’s been driving me to appointments. Haven’t you, Beck?”
Beck. The nickname surprised her. It suggested a familiarity, a comfort level between them that she hadn’t expected.
“Happy to keep doing it, but having Tessa here will be good too.” He glanced at her. “Extra pair of eyes.”
“I don’t need babysitters. Either of you,” Stan grumbled.
“Stroke prevention is serious, Dad.” The word “Dad” felt foreign on her tongue after so many years of avoiding direct address. “You need to make lifestyle changes. You need diet modifications, regular exercise, and stress reduction.”
Beckett reached for his coffee. “Been working on that already. We’ve been walking every morning. Started eating more fish, less red meat.”
We. The casual way he included himself in her father’s care routine made something twist in her stomach. It wasn’t quite jealousy, but something adjacent to it. This stranger knew more about her father’s daily life than she did.
“Well, that’s... good,” she managed. “The doctor probably recommended it.”
“Actually, it was Beckett’s idea,” her father said, a hint of pride in his voice. “He’s been reading up on heart health. Got me eating oatmeal for breakfast most days, though I drew the line at that green smoothie nonsense.”
Beckett’s mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. “Still working on that one.”
The easy rapport between them was unsettling. Her father had never been the type to form quick friendships or trust easily. Yet here he was, clearly comfortable with this quiet ex-con who’d moved into his house and apparently taken charge of his health regimen.
“So what exactly happened? When did you notice symptoms?” She steered the conversation back to medical territory where she felt more secure.
Her father sighed heavily. “Beckett found me. I don’t remember much.”
“He was in the workshop. He was having trouble finding words. I called 911.”
“You were lucky he was here,” she said quietly.
“Luck had nothing to do with it. Beckett’s here because I invited him. Best decision I’ve made in years.”
The comment stung more than it should have. She took a sip of coffee to hide her reaction.
“How long are you on leave from the hospital?” her father asked, changing the subject.
“I told you, two weeks.” It was actually longer than that.
What she didn’t say was that she’d already planned to take time off.
Last night was her last shift for a while.
She also didn’t mention the panic attack she’d had in the supply closet three weeks ago or the way her hands had started shaking during a routine procedure the week before that.
Or how her supervisor had gently but firmly suggested she take some time off before she made a serious mistake.
The telephone rang, saving her from further explanation. Beckett rose to answer it, his movements fluid and unhurried.
“Grant residence.” He listened for a moment, then held the phone out to her father. “It’s Nora from the Lodge.”
Stan took the phone. “Nora, hello.” His voice softened noticeably. “Yes, I’m doing fine. No need to worry.” He paused, listening. “Yes, she’s here. Arrived this morning.” Another pause. “I’m sure she’d love to say hello. Hold on.”
He held the phone out to her. “Nora Cassidy wants to talk to you.”