Page 40 of The Sugar Maple Inn

“I dealt with it.”

Grace moved to the stove, heating butter in a pan until it started to turn golden and smell nutty. Sage leaves went in next, crisping immediately, filling the kitchen with that perfect autumn scent. Behind her, she could hear Reese working on his potato gratin, the smell of cream and garlic joining the symphony of cooking aromas.

“What about Zach’s father?” Reese asked, his tone carefully neutral. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Grace felt her shoulders tense automatically, but something about the rhythm of cooking, the wine Tressa had poured for them before leaving, made her honest. “Anthony Ramone. Used to be a regular at the café when he’d come back from college to town. I thought he was one of the good ones, you know? College boy, nice family who lived in one of those fancy lake houses on the north shore, seemed to have his shit together.”

She started layering her ravioli, the butternut squash filling rich with brown sugar and nutmeg. The pasta was homemade. She’d found fresh dough in the fridge, probably made that morning.

“I got pregnant by accident just before I turned eighteen,” she continued. “He stuck around, to be fair to him. We were together for three years, had all these plans.” Grace pressed the ravioli edges carefully, sealing them. “Then I found out he’d been gambling. Online poker, sports betting, whatever got his adrenaline going. Blew through our savings, money I’d been putting away since I was sixteen.”

“Jesus.”

“We had this massive fight when I confronted him about it. I mean, a proper screaming match, neighbors-calling-the-cops level drama. Thank God Zach was staying at my mom’s—it was supposed to be a date night.” Grace laughed bitterly. “Next morning, Anthony was gone. Left a note saying he needed ‘space to figure things out.’ That was twelve years ago. Zach was just two at the time.”

“Shit. Two.”

“Yeah. Now Zach just gets a Christmas card and birthday card with money stuffed into it each year. No contact, not even from Anthony’s family who moved away years back anyway. Turns out the good boys from the nice families can let you down just as hard as the bad ones.”

“Sounds like an asshole,” Reese said quietly. “Leaving his kid that age. Not having a dad around when he was young.”

Grace sighed. “Age-old story. You still managed to achieve something, though, despite not having your dad around?”

“Thanks to my mom,” Reese said. “She worked herself half to death to keep us afloat after my dad died. Multiple jobs, never complaining. Not exactly the billionaire origin story people expect, hey?” He heated oil in a cast-iron pan, the sizzle mixing with the pop and crackle of the fire. “Mom’s still working at the same care home, actually. Still won’t leave Thunder Bay. Says if she can smell Lake Superior in the morning and hear the plows after a snow dump, she’s right where she belongs. But she does love the fancy cruises my money lets her take now.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught Grace off guard.

“That’s sweet.” She found herself smiling. “My mom made me start working at the café when I was eight. Said it would teach me character.”

“Did it?”

“Taught me I hate cleaning up other people’s messes.”

He paused and watched her. “Wouldn’t you still be doing that if you bought the inn?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I’d hire someone to do that. Why, you interested in the job?” she asked.

He laughed and reached for the wine bottle. “More wine?”

“God, yes.”

Over the next hour or so, they continued talking about their pasts as they cooked. Grace told him about her mom, about growing up in the café, about the complicated dance of loving someone who couldn’t quite see you as anything other than an extension of themselves. The kitchen smelled incredible now—venison and sage, maple and juniper, butter and garlic and all the best things about autumn cooking.

“My mom means well,” Grace said, plating her dish, the ravioli glistening with butter, crispy sage leaves on top. “She just…she built that café from nothing and I think she assumed I’d want the same thing. That her dream would be my dream.”

“And it’s not?”

“It was never mine to begin with. I love hospitality. I love feeding people, making them feel welcome. But I want to do it my way, you know? Build something that’s mine, not just manage something that’s hers.”

“And that’s what the inn represents?” Reese asked, his shoulder against hers as he plated his own dish.

“Yeah.” Grace looked up at him. “What about you? What’s your mom think about you wandering the globe buying properties and starting conservation projects?”

“She worries…a lot. Calls me every day, doesn’t matter what time zone I’m in. Seven AM Montreal time, my phone buzzes. ‘Did you eat breakfast?’ ”

Grace laughed. “I’d be exactly the same with Zach.”

He smiled, full and genuine. “In her mind, I’m still the scrawny kid who’d forget to eat if she didn’t remind me.” A pause then: “She’d like you.”