Page 25 of The Sugar and Spice Kitchen

It was safer to focus on the sexual tension. Because none of that required her to examine the past too closely. The hurt that had survived all these years. The apologies that would never be said.

No. She’d stick to the fantasies. But would she be able to resist the rest?

EIGHT

COLE

Sunday, December 13th

Cole closed his eyes briefly as the wind rushed past him on the snowmobile. Only for a second. Last thing he needed was to wrap himself around a tree.

It was reckless, heading out of town when the sky was pitch-black with nothing but a sprinkle of stars above and a blanket of snow surrounding him, but there was one place he had to go tonight. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he stopped by.

His grandfather’s place sat on the outskirts of town, past the old wooden bridge that needed replacing sooner rather than later, which suited the old man just fine. The further from change, the better. Around him, the pine trees sagged heavily with snow, their branches bent to the ground. Others had snapped clean off. Cole stuck to where he knew the roads were, or where his best guess was that they’d been before the storm buried them.

He’d called earlier, after stopping by the Cinnamon Spice Inn to make sure the generator was in proper working order. His grandfather had told him he was fine, but the man would have said the same thing if the generator had quit and he was freezing by candlelight. Alders men were stubborn that way. His father was the same, still insisting he was “doing great” from his armchair in Queens, even on days when the walk from the bedroom to the kitchen left him winded. Twenty-five years of breathing in what Ground Zero had left behind, and Frank Alders still called it “a bit of a cough” like it was seasonal allergies rather than the thing that had ended his career.

Cole pulled into the driveway and hopped off the sled, his boots sinking into fresh snow. He’d been running on adrenaline and professionalism all day, and standing there in front of his grandfather’s house was the first moment of stillness he’d had since climbing through Emily’s bakery window a hundred years ago.

He took a breath.

The steady hum of the generator rumbled from out back. The house was lit from the inside, warm yellow light in the front window, smoke curling from the chimney. His grandfather was doing alright.

The single-story, sided home had a new metal roof, which Cole had insisted he get after a hailstorm punched a considerable number of holes in his old, shingled roof. His grandfather had called it an unnecessary expense, preferring to tar over what he could see. Cole had called it protecting your investment. Cole had won, though his grandfather had never officially conceded the point.

Cole smiled when he saw the porch light was on. His grandfather always turned the porch light on for him, even when Cole said he wasn’t stopping by, because somehow the man always knew that he would.

In typical fashion, Mr. Alders answered the door before Cole could knock.

“You doing alright, Grandpa?” Cole said by way of greeting.

“I’d bet I’m doing better than you are.” The old man stepped back and held the door wide. “Come on in, son.”

Inside, the fire was going strong, properly stacked, with enough split wood beside the hearth to last days without going outside. The room was warm and unchanged, the way it always was.

Cole cataloged it all out of habit. The same chair by the fire. The same curtains his grandmother had picked out in 1987, and his grandfather had never once considered replacing.

His eyes rested on his grandmother’s glasses, still sitting on the side table as if she’d be back any minute, picking up her book where she’d left off. She was always reading—mysteries, romances, you name it. She’d read picture books to Cole when he spent the night as a child, and later, let him stay up later to read chapter books if he kept his light low. He swallowed the lump the memories had stirred.

Nobody had moved her glasses in the past five months, and nobody would.

Mr. Alders moved through the house, heading for the kitchen. It was their routine. Cole would stop by, have a cup of coffee, talk about the town, and head on out.

“You eat today?” his grandfather asked, his back to him.

“I ate.”

“What’d you eat?”

“Soup.”

“Soup? That’s it?”

“It was a big bowl.”

His grandfather shook his head and opened the fridge. A minute later, there was a bag of cold deli chicken and bread on the counter, and Cole knew better than to argue. He sat down and ate because it was easier than explaining that he hadn’t been hungry, that his stomach had been tight since approximately 3 a.m. for reasons he had no intention of discussing with anyone, least of all the man currently pouring him coffee.

They sat in the living room after, Cole in the chair by the window, his grandfather in his chair by the fire. The way they always sat. The fire crackled and popped and the wind pressed against the windows, and for a few minutes neither of them said anything at all, which was one of the things Cole liked best about his grandfather.