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Maggie closed the door firmly against the evening draft before unbuttoning her coat and hanging it on the wooden peg near the pantry door. “Are you now? That sounds and smells like a serious project for a Tuesday evening.”

“It’s clam chowder with sweet corn,” Theo explained, his demeanor glowing brightly in the hall light as he pointed toward the kitchen. “We found the recipe written on an index card in the sideboard drawer, and we bought fresh cream from the market near the harbor docks.”

Maggie stepped through the rounded archway into the kitchen, stopping in her tracks as a thick cloud of white steam met her at the counter. The room was almost too warm and filled with the aroma of diced potatoes, salt pork, and sweet corn, but beneath the savory scent lay a sharp, undeniable odor of scorched cream.

Ben stood beside the cast-iron stove, wrapped in a canvas shop apron over his dark blue wool sweater. He held a large wooden spoon in his right hand, his tall frame rigid as he stared down into a heavy black cast-iron soup pot. The mixture inside was bubbling sluggishly around the edges, showing dark brown flecks floating up from the bottom where the cream had burned onto the iron plate.

He looked up as Maggie entered, a faint smile touching his lips despite his tense shoulders. “The card said to bring the cream to a gentle simmer on medium heat. I turned my back for thirty seconds to grab the oyster crackers from the pantry, and the bottom caught fire.”

Maggie walked over to the stove, leaning closer to look into the iron pot. “Did you use the large burner?”

“That one heats up the fastest,” Ben acknowledged, setting the wooden spoon down on a paper towel with a raspy sigh.

“Perhaps a bit too fast.” She gave him an apologetic look.

Ben groaned and dropped his hands to his hips. “The cream curdled right as it touched the cast iron. I tried to scrape it loose, but the burnt flavor is already through the whole batch.”

Maggie picked up the wooden spoon and gave the chowder a slow, careful stir. A fresh plume of steam rose, carrying the unmistakable bitter tang that shouldn’t be there. She set the spoon back down and turned the knob around until the burner clicked off. “Sadly, there’s no saving a scorched cream base. Once it burns, the whole pot takes on the taste of bitter ash and toasted pennies.”

“Ew,” Theo said from where he had hoisted himself up to sit on the counter at the opposite end of the kitchen.

“What a vivid and disgusting description.” Ben let out a low, rumbly chuckle, shaking his head as he unknotted the canvas straps of his apron and pulled it over his head. “I can build an eighteen-foot wooden dory that holds true in a gale, but a pot of milk defeats me every single time.”

Theo’s legs swung and lightly tapped against the cupboards beneath him. “Does this mean we’re eating cereal for dinner?”

“We are not eating cereal,” Ben replied, reaching down to ruffle the boy’s dark hair. “Though I’m afraid the chowder is officially retired for the night.”

“Sad to say it’s true,” Maggie said with a shrug. “The soup did look like it had a lot of potential.”

“Ooh!” Theo’s face lit up with a sudden, hopeful idea. “Can we go down to the Cove Diner? They serve the cranberry pancakes all day, and the server always gives me an extra cup of whipped cream on the side.”

Ben tipped his head at Maggie, his eyes asking the question before his mouth could. “What do you think, esteemed guest? The diner’s only a few blocks down Main Street, and it’s far nicer than standing over a ruined pot of almost-soup.”

Maggie felt the smile that stretched her cheeks, her heart lifting at the easy, comfortable rhythm settling between them. “Cranberry pancakes sound like an absolute improvement over scorched chowder. Let me get my coat.”

Five minutes later, the three of them stepped out onto Harbor Lane, the cold winter air gently stinging their cheeks. Theo walked between them, his coat zipped up as far as it could go, holding Ben’s large hand on his left and Maggie’s gloved hand on his right.

The streetlamps along the harbor path cast yellow circles on the shoveled pavement, and across the dark water of the channel, the red and green navigation lights of the fishing boats glowed like holiday jewels in the night.

The red neon sign of the Cove Diner glowed above them as they approached, casting a crimson light across the gravel parking lot. Inside, the restaurant was filled with the cozy aroma of roasted turkey, fried onions, and fresh coffee. Warm air hummed from the heating vents, pushing back the cold ocean wind that blew in when the three of them entered.

They settled into a corner booth near the back of the diner, where red vinyl seats were patched neatly at the seams, and clean paper placemats featured a hand-drawn map of Cranberry Cove. The server, a cheerful woman named Martha who had worked at the diner for close to thirty years, set out a bowl of fresh dinner rolls and brought over a hot pot of coffee for Maggie and Ben, along with a tall glass of milk for Theo.

They each ordered their favorites, and before long, Martha returned carrying a tray of heavy white plates. Theo’s eyes widened as she set down a stack of fluffy cranberry pancakes topped with a melting square of butter and a generous dollop of whipped cream. Ben received a steaming bowl of beef stew with warm corn muffins, while Maggie slid her silverware to the side to make room for her deep bowl of vegetable soup and crackers.

Theo picked up his fork with enthusiasm, not waiting a single moment before he cut into his pancakes, syrup drizzling over the edge of his plate. “The whipped cream swirl is even bigger than last time,” he noted happily, taking a grown-up-sized bite.

Maggie smiled across the table, leaning her forearms comfortably against the laminate edge. “That looks like a proper dinner after a cold evening walk.”

Ben picked up his spoon, stirring the steam from his stew. “It certainly beats a pot of scorched cream,” he noted ruefully, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

For the next twenty minutes, the conversation flowed easily around the small booth as they filled their bellies. They talked about the Mistletoe Market, the upcoming school pageant, and the high school choir rehearsing near the gazebo. Theo ate with a hearty appetite, wiping syrup from his chin with a paper napkin while telling Maggie about the snow fort he planned to build in the backyard as soon as the snow built up enough.

When Martha cleared away the empty plates, Theo leaned back against the red vinyl cushion, his hands resting on his stomach. He looked across the table at Maggie. “Did you and your husband ever have children?” he asked, not a concern in the world about the possibility of his words coming across as insensitive.

The question hung in the warm air, and Maggie loved that this sweet young boy was so curious about her life. Across the table, Ben had frozen with his coffee mug halfway to his lips. He set the cup down carefully on its saucer, turning toward his grandson with the intent in his eyes to redirect the topic, but Maggie reached across the laminate table, placing a reassuring hand on Ben’s sleeve to show it was alright.

She turned her attention to Theo, her expression gentle and entirely unbothered. “We didn’t,” she replied softly. “We wanted a family very much, but we weren’t able to have children.”