Page 36

Inside, the heavy wood-burner in the living room crackled with a consistent warmth, radiating the familiar scent of dry logs and toasted wood across the house.

Ben stood in the kitchen beside the stove, holding a long wooden spoon, stirring a pot of steel-cut oatmeal as white steam rose toward the timber rafters. He wore his dull flannel shirt, sleeves pushed up past his forearms as he went through the mechanical routine of breakfast. He leveled off a small measuring cup of brown sugar to add to the oats, set out two stoneware dishes, and poured cold milk from a glass pitcher into two cups.

On the surface, everything appeared orderly, precise, and normal. Yet, beneath his disciplined movements lay a pressing, persistent ache that had settled into his chest just the other night. Ever since the shop door had closed behind Maggie, leaving the iron chime echoing into the quiet room, an unspoken weight had returned to Ben’s life.

He hadn’t slept well for two nights. For hours, he’d lain awake listening to the winter wind against the glass, replaying her hasty exit in his mind. He’d offered her honesty and a clear boundary, refusing to settle for a temporary holiday fling. He knew his demand was fair, respectable, and right, but standing alone in his kitchen, the reality of her absence felt remarkably harsh.

Across the pine table, Theo sat in his wooden chair. The boy wore his green flannel shirt and dark corduroy slacks, his brown cowlick sticking up slightly at the crown of his head. A full cup of milk and a spoon rested on his blue placemat, but he hadn’t touched either. Instead, his light eyes were fixed on his grandfather, tracking every subtle shift of Ben’s posture with unblinking concentration.

Ben set a steaming stoneware bowl of oatmeal down on the placemat. “Eat up while it’s hot,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately even. “The ocean wind is blowing hard this morning, and we’ve got to get you to the bus stop on time at least once this week.”

Theo didn’t reach for his spoon. He rested his elbows on the laminate placemat, his chin sinking into his hands as he continued staring across the table. “Are we going down to the Mistletoe Market again next Monday?”

Ben turned back to the stove, grabbing a damp cotton towel to wipe a stray splash of water from the iron top. “Yeah, we’ll head down to the square after school. The committee needs two extra wooden benches near the choir gazebo, and we promised to deliver them before the caroling starts.”

Theo remained motionless, his small brow furrowed into a tight, thoughtful line. “Is Maggie coming with us?”

The simple question hung in the warm kitchen air, pointed and direct. Ben paused with the cotton towel in his hand, his back turned to the table for a long moment. He drew a heavy breath, trying to loosen the tight knot in his throat before facing his grandson.

He turned around, setting the towel over the back of a wooden chair. “Maggie’s busy with the pageant schedule. The committee has a lot of work to finish before Christmas break.”

Theo picked up his spoon, turning it over in his small fingers without dipping it into the oats. “Maggie didn’t come by the shop yesterday afternoon with the cinnamon rolls like she said she would on Sunday. And you were up really late, sitting all alone.”

Ben looked at his grandson, a silent alarm stirring in his chest. He’d assumed he was concealing his inner struggle with complete success, maintaining his usual calm exterior so the boy wouldn’t feel the shift in the house. But looking at Theo’s serious, watchful face, Ben realized with a sudden pang of clarity that his grandson had been observing every detail.

“I can swing by the bakery today and get some cinnamon rolls if you’d like,” Ben replied gently, crossing the pine floorboards to sit in the chair opposite Theo.

Theo set his spoon back down on the table with a tiny clatter. He leaned forward, his eyes searching Ben’s face with a depth of concern that seemed far too heavy for a seven-year-old child. “Is Maggie mad at us?”

“No,” Ben answered firmly, reaching across the pine top to place his hand near the boy’s dish. “She isn’t mad at anyone.”

Theo looked down at his placemat, his lower lip trembling slightly before he bit down on it. “Did she stop coming by because you got sad again?”

The words hit Ben with the force of a sudden wave. He sat completely still in his chair, his broad hand frozen against the table, his breath catching in his throat.

All this time Ben had believed he was protecting his grandson by staying quiet and predictable. He’d convinced himself that keeping his own sadness locked away inside his chest spared his grandson from carrying any burden. But hearing Theo’s question revealed a heartbreaking truth. Theo hadn’t been protected at all.

Ben leaned closer across the table, his voice thick with a deep, fierce tenderness. “Look at me,” Ben requested.

Theo lifted his head, unshed tears hovering at the rim of his dark lashes.

“Nobody is mad, and nobody stopped coming by because of anything you did or anything I felt,” Ben told him with absolute, unwavering conviction. “Grown-up decisions are complicated sometimes, but they have nothing to do with your place in this house, or how much you are loved.”

Theo swallowed hard, his small shoulders relaxing a tiny fraction beneath his green flannel shirt. “Are you sure?”

“I’m completely sure,” Ben promised, reaching out to wrap his large hand over the boy’s small fingers. “Maggie loves you. I am certain of that. But just like I can get sad and unsure about things sometimes, she can as well. She just needs time to herself to think.”

The kitchen grew remarkably quiet as the early morning sun climbed higher over the salt marsh grass, casting a bright rectangular grid of light across the wide pine floorboards.

Steam rose lazily from the oatmeal bowls, but neither of them touched their spoons. Across the kitchen table, Theo sat with his chin resting near his collar, his mouth working side to side as he seemed to be lost in thought.

Without warning, the boy’s voice spoke in the silence. “I wrote a letter,” Theo said, his eyes fixed on the tabletop. “Before Thanksgiving.”

Ben cleared his throat. “What do you mean? Who’d you write a letter to?”

Theo hesitantly met his grandfather’s eyes. “Kids at school were talking about this box in the post office that belonged to Santa. And how you can write letters with your greatest wish inside and send them there, and Santa would grant your wish before Christmas.”

Ben knew of this local rumor that had become a town tradition of sorts, but he was surprised to find that kids Theo’s age were already sharing the stories. “Are you talking about your wish to build a snow fort?”