Chapter 6
Beckett’s shovel cut through the fresh snow with a satisfying crunch.
The early morning sun spilled across Stan’s driveway as he worked, his breath clouding in the crisp air.
He’d been up since five, with thoughts rambling through his mind, unable to fall back asleep.
Worries about Stan’s recovery—though the man was doing remarkably well—and then the tension between Stan and Tessa.
Tessa.
He paused, leaning against the shovel for a moment. Her presence in the house had shifted everything, like someone had rearranged all the furniture just enough to make him bump into things. He wasn’t sure if it was a good change or not, but it was definitely a change.
Yesterday had been something. The way her face had softened when she found that cookie recipe, and how Stan had actually volunteered to help instead of grumbling about resting.
For a brief moment, the three of them had existed in the kitchen without all the tension that usually stretched between father and daughter like a tripwire.
He resumed shoveling, working methodically down the driveway. The physical labor helped him think. It always had. Prison had taught him to find clarity in routine tasks and use the repetitive motion to sort through whatever was on his mind.
And Tessa Grant was definitely on his mind.
She surprised him the other day at the Bookish Cafe.
He’d expected her to hang back, maybe even refuse to come altogether.
Instead, she’d thrown herself into organizing the Christmas baskets with the same focused efficiency he imagined she brought to her nursing.
The way she’d quickly assessed what needed doing, then quietly taken charge of the sorting system without making anyone feel ordered around or inadequate.
He’d watched her hands while she worked, noting how steady they were when handling the donations, and how gentle they were when showing a child how to arrange items in a basket. Nurse’s hands. Capable hands.
But he’d also seen how those same hands trembled slightly when she thought no one was looking. How she’d flex her fingers and take deep breaths when she thought she was alone.
Something was off. He recognized the signs because he’d lived them himself. The careful control, the hidden moments of vulnerability, and the way she sometimes seemed to retreat inside herself even while standing in a crowded room.
Tessa Grant was hiding something. Not just from her father, but maybe from herself too.
He scooped up another shovelful of snow, tossing it onto the growing bank beside the driveway. The physical exertion felt good and felt productive. Unlike his thoughts about Tessa, which were getting him nowhere he had any business going.
It wasn’t his place to wonder about her secrets. He was here to help Stan, to fulfill his obligations to the reentry program, and rebuild some semblance of a life. Getting tangled up in family drama between Stan and his daughter wasn’t part of the deal.
But he couldn’t help noticing things. Like the haunted look that sometimes crossed her face when she thought no one was watching. The way her smile never quite reached her eyes. The careful distance she maintained, not just from her father but from everyone.
He recognized that pain because he carried his own version of it. The difference was, he’d earned his through his own poor choices. What was Tessa running from?
“You’re out here early.”
The voice startled him. He turned to find Tessa standing at the edge of the garage, bundled in a heavy coat, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.
“Morning,” he said, nodding toward her. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’m usually up early.” She handed him the insulated mug. “Thought you might want this.”
He took the mug. “Thank you.”
She stepped off the steps, her boots crunching in the snow. “You don’t have to do this every day, you know. The driveway.”
“I don’t mind. It helps me think.”
“About what?”
He considered how much truth to offer. “About yesterday. Those cookies seemed to mean a lot to your dad.”
Something flickered across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or suspicion that he was trying to manipulate her with sentiment.
“Yeah. I didn’t expect him to remember about the cookies, much less want to help make them.”
“He talks about your mom sometimes. Not often, but when he does, it’s always with a lot of love.”
Her expression turned guarded again. “He never talked about her when I was growing up. After she died, it was like she never existed.”
He nodded, understanding more than he could say. “Grief does strange things to people. Makes them shut down when they should open up.”
“Is that what happened to you?” The question was direct, her gaze steady on his face.
He felt the familiar tension at being asked about his past. But something about the early morning quiet and the honest curiosity in her eyes made him answer.
“Different kind of loss. But yeah, I shut down too. For a long time.”
She seemed to consider this, her eyes searching his face. Whatever she was looking for, he wasn’t sure she found it.
“Dad seems to trust you,” she finally said.
“We understand each other.” He set his coffee on the step and resumed shoveling.
“I should check on Dad,” she said, abruptly changing the subject. “Make sure he takes his morning medication.”
He nodded.
As she turned to go back inside, she paused. “Thanks. For being here for him when I wasn’t.”
Before he could respond, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
He stared after her, feeling like something important had just happened, though for the life of him, he couldn’t quite name what it was. He returned to his shoveling, thinking that maybe the rift between Stan and Tessa wasn’t the only thing beginning to thaw in the winter cold.