Chapter 19
They returned home from the candlelight walk with snow still clinging to their coats and the warmth of community celebration glowing in their faces.
Her father headed straight for his favorite chair by the fireplace, settling in with a contented sigh as Beckett knelt to build up the fire.
The flames caught and danced, casting golden light across the living room and the Christmas tree they’d decorated together just days before.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the two men who had become so important to her.
Her father looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in years, his face soft with contentment as he gazed at the tree.
Beckett worked quietly with the fire, his movements economical and sure.
The scene felt like something from a Christmas card, all warm light and peaceful domesticity.
“I’ll make us some hot chocolate,” she offered, needing something to do with her hands. Dr. Miller’s job offer kept circling through her mind.
“That sounds perfect, sweetheart. Use your mother’s recipe. Beckett knows where she kept the good cocoa.”
The casual way he mentioned her mother’s recipe, shared with Beckett but not with her, might have stung weeks ago. Now it felt like another bridge being built, another connection that bound the three of them together in ways she was still learning to appreciate.
In the kitchen, Beckett appeared beside her as she gathered mugs from the cabinet. He reached past her for the tin of cocoa on the high shelf, his arm brushing against hers in the small space. The contact sent warmth spiraling through her that had nothing to do with the heat from the stove.
“Your mother always added a pinch of cinnamon,” he said quietly, setting the tin on the counter. “And just a touch of vanilla.”
She nodded, afraid to speak, afraid her voice would shake.
“Show me,” she said, surprised by the huskiness in her own voice.
He moved behind her, his hands covering hers as he guided her through the measurements.
She could feel the warmth of his chest against her back, smell the clean scent of snow and smoke that always seemed to cling to him.
When he reached around her to add the cinnamon, she let herself lean back slightly into his solid presence.
“Like this,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he helped her stir. “She said the secret was in the stirring. Slow circles, clockwise.”
The intimacy of the moment wrapped around them like the steam rising from the pan.
She turned in the circle of his arms, finding herself face to face with him in the small kitchen.
His eyes searched hers, and she saw her own uncertainty reflected there, mixed with something deeper and more dangerous.
“Tessa,” he started, but she shook her head.
“The cocoa will burn,” she whispered, though neither of them moved to tend it.
The spell broke when her father called from the living room, asking if they needed help. Beckett stepped back, and she turned to the stove with hands that shook slightly as she finished preparing the drinks.
They returned to the living room with steaming mugs, settling on the couch while her father remained in his chair.
The fire crackled peacefully, and the lights on the Christmas tree cast everything in a warm, magical glow.
Snow continued to fall outside the windows, cocooning them in their own little world.
“This reminds me of Christmas when you were little,” her father said, his voice soft with memory. “Your mother would make cocoa, and we’d sit by the tree after you’d gone to bed, planning what Santa would bring.”
The pain in his voice was gentle now, nostalgic rather than sharp. Healing, she realized. They were all healing in their own ways.
“I have something for you, Dad,” she said suddenly, the words slipping out before she could second-guess herself. She’d been carrying the gift in her coat pocket for days, unsure when or if she’d find the courage to give it to him.
She retrieved a small wrapped package from her coat, her heart beating faster as she handed it to him. She hoped it would express feelings she wasn’t sure she had words for.
Her father opened his gift. Inside was a small leather photo album, and his breath caught as he opened it to find pictures she’d collected from her childhood, her mother’s things, and recent photos from her phone of the three of them decorating the tree.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick. “This is perfect. Look, here’s your mother making those cookies with you. And here we are just last week.” He traced the edge of a photo with one finger. “A family album. A real family album.”
The word family hung in the air, and she felt peace settle inside her. Yes, she thought. That’s exactly what they’d become.
“Well,” her father said, his voice gruff with emotion. “I think I’m going to turn in. Leave you young folks to enjoy the fire.” He stood, pausing to kiss her forehead. “Thank you for the album. And thank you for coming home.”
He squeezed Beckett’s shoulder as he passed. “Thank you for everything, son.”
Then they were alone, the fire crackling between them and the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the corner. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt full of possibility.
She finally broke the silence. “I have a gift for you, Beckett.”
“You don’t need to give me anything.”
She smiled. “But I want to.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small object wrapped in a faded floral handkerchief.
She had found it tucked away in her mother’s sewing box, a forgotten treasure.
Extending her hand, she offered it to him.
His gaze dropped to her palm, and he hesitated before taking it, his calloused fingers gentle as they brushed against hers.
He carefully unfolded the cloth. Lying in the center was a small pocket knife, its handle worn smooth and dark with age. It was a simple, elegant thing, made for a smaller hand but clearly well used.
“It was my mother’s,” she said, her voice quiet in the firelit room. “She kept it in her apron. For cutting twine in the garden, opening letters, whatever she needed.”
He ran his thumb over the polished handle, his expression unreadable but reverent. “Tessa, I can’t take something so precious.”
“You’re not taking it. I’m giving it to you.” She curled his fingers around the knife. “I know you have your own, but I thought… this one shouldn’t be put away in a box anymore. It should belong to someone who understands the value of a good tool.”
He looked up then, his gray-blue eyes meeting hers, and in their depths she saw a profound, unspoken gratitude that made her breath catch.
“I’ll treasure it always.” He set it on the table beside him.
“And I have something else for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another small package, this one wrapped in tissue paper.
“I couldn’t decide which one to give you earlier.
But this one I wanted to give you when we were alone.
” He paused, looking uncertain. “This one felt too personal. Too much like hoping for things I didn’t have a right to hope for. ”
Her heart hammered against her ribs as she took the package.
Inside was another carved ornament, this one even more delicate than the first. It was a snowflake, intricate and beautiful, with each point and curve carved with exquisite detail.
The wood was pale and smooth, and when she held it up to the firelight, the carved patterns created shadows that danced like real frost.
“It’s incredible,” she breathed. “Beckett, this is art. This is museum-quality work.”
He ducked his head, embarrassed by the praise.
“I’ve been working on it for weeks. Every night after you and your dad went to bed, I’d sit in the garage and carve.
I kept thinking about you, about how you came back here and changed everything.
How you made me believe I could be more than my worst mistake. ”
She looked up from the ornament to find him watching her intently.
“Each snowflake is different,” he continued, his voice soft. “Unique. No two are ever the same. And I thought about how you’re like that. One of a kind. And how maybe what we’re building here, the three of us, maybe that’s unique too. Something that’s never existed before.”
He paused, taking a shaky breath. “To families that choose each other. To second chances and new beginnings.”
The ornament blurred in her vision as tears gathered in her eyes.
She set it carefully on the coffee table and looked at him, really looked at him.
This man who had been broken by his past but had somehow found the strength to build something beautiful from the pieces.
This man who saw her clearly, flaws and fears and all, and chose to carve her gifts that spoke to the deepest parts of her heart.
“Beckett,” she whispered.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes searching her face. “I know I don’t have the right to ask for more than friendship. I know my past makes me a risk. But Tessa, these past weeks with you, they’ve been the best of my life. You make me want to believe in possibilities I thought were lost to me.”
She couldn’t find words for everything she was feeling. The gratitude, the tenderness, the growing certainty that this man had become essential to her in ways she was still discovering. So instead of speaking, she acted.
She leaned forward and kissed him.
It was soft at first, tentative, a question more than a statement.
But when he kissed her back, his hands coming up to frame her face with infinite gentleness, she deepened it.
The kiss was slow and careful but certain, full of all the words they hadn’t said and all the hope they’d been afraid to voice.
When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his, breathing unsteadily.
“I don’t care about your past,” she whispered. “I care about who you are now. Who you are with me, with my father, with this town. I care about the man who carves beautiful things in the garage at night and makes hot chocolate with cinnamon because that’s how my mother liked it.”
His thumb traced across her cheekbone, catching a tear she didn’t realize had fallen.
“What about Denver?” he asked quietly. “Your job, your life there?”
She thought about Dr. Miller’s offer and about the possibility of staying and building something real and lasting in the place where she’d grown up.
“My life is here now,” she said, surprised by the certainty in her own voice. “Maybe it has been all along, and I just needed to find my way back to it.”
He kissed her again, and this time there was joy in it, bright and warm as the fire crackling beside them.
Outside, snow continued to fall on Sweet River Falls, lovingly covering the town in a blanket of white.
Inside, by the Christmas tree and the dying fire, two people who had been lost found their way home to each other.
Dear Reader, thank you for reading my story.
I hope it brought you a bit of the magic of the Christmas Season.
If you want to read more about Sweet River, try my Sweet River series full of family, friendship, and more of the quaint small-town mountain charm.
See more of Annie and Nora. Oh, and meet Gloria…
a troublemaker that rivals my character, Camille, in some of my beach stores.
If you missed the first Christmas Seashells and Snowflakes book, Seaside Christmas Wishes, be sure to grab it for a nice trip back to Belle Island and Lighthouse Point.
As always, thanks for reading my stories. I truly appreciate all my readers. ~Kay