“Come on,” Luke cajoled. “Cassie tells me I’m a good listener.” He used the steel toe of his boot to nudge the stool toward Grant.
“Is it because you’re a good listener? Or because you hang on her every word?” Grant teased.
“Maybe a bit of both,” Luke chuckled. “But there’s a good way to test the theory.”
“Touché.” Grant flashed a rueful grin. “Fine, you win. I’ll spill. But only if we keep working.”
“Deal.” Luke flipped open his red pocket knife, ready to continue his engraving.
Grant returned his attention to the gnarled wood, grateful for the distraction. “I got in a fight with my dad this morning. And it was… pretty ugly.”
Luke’s hand stilled a moment, but he quickly resumed carving, not uttering a word.
“I might have called him a bad father.” Grant cringed with the admission, reliving the awful moment all over again.
“And…” Luke prompted.
“And what? I called my dad a bad father. It doesn’t get much worse than that, does it?”
“I mean, did you apologize?”
“He didn’t give me the chance. At the first sign of conflict, he skulked out of the room. Like he usually does.” Grant flinched. There he went again…. It was like a mean-spirited reflex. And he hated it about himself. He never used to be so caustic. But after years of carrying around the pain in his pocket, like a trinket commemorating his unhappy childhood, certain trains of thought had become an unwelcome habit.
Luke didn’t respond right away, and feeling self-conscious, Grant filled the gap. “You and Colt were lucky. You could buy one of those World’s Greatest Dad mugs and it wouldn’t be ironic.”
Deep in thought, Luke kept his gaze glued on his task, digging the blade into the wood, flecks of sawdust flitting to the ground as he removed the excess to expose the beauty underneath.
Swish, swish, swish.
Grant raked the sandpaper over the coarse beam, the muscles in his fingers clenched, waiting for Luke to end his deafening silence.
“Yeah, we were lucky,” Luke said at last, a slight catch in his throat. “I’d give anything to have one more day with him. Even if it was our worst day.”
At Luke’s words, the sandpaper slipped from Grant’s fingertips and drifted to the floor. This time, he didn’t bother to pick it up. “I never got a chance to say this in person. And I should have.” Grant paused, realizing whatever he said next would never be enough. “I am so unbelievably sorry about your dad.” His apology escaped in a hoarse whisper, barely making it past the emotion constricting his throat.
Luke met his gaze from the opposite end of the arch, the spark of pain in his hazel eyes evident in the glow of the overhead light. “Do me a favor, Parker.”
“Anything.”
“Try to patch things up with your dad. You never know how much time you have left.”
* * *
Sitting on Maggie’s kitchen counter with a mixing bowl poised on her lap, Eliza felt like she was five years old again. Which was fitting, considering her immature outburst that morning at Ben’s school. The devastated look on Grant’s face still haunted her. How could she have been so cruel?
Tears pricking her eyes, Eliza watched Maggie crush walnuts for the top of her world-famous cinnamon rolls, taking a mental picture of each subtle movement. The way Maggie’s strong yet graceful hands moved with the rolling pin as though they were molded together. And the streaks of silver peppering her dark curls, coupled with how she brushed them from her forehead using the back of her wrist. Eliza even wanted to remember the soft crunch of the walnuts and the sharp scent of yeast and buttermilk. She wasn’t sure how many more times she’d have the opportunity to bake with Maggie in her bright, sunny kitchen. And she didn’t want to forget a single detail.
Maggie had been offering to teach Eliza her special recipe for months, but Eliza kept putting it off. The cinnamon rolls were Maggie’s final link to the bakery—a coveted connection Eliza wasn’t ready to sever.
Although grateful for the opportunity to run her own business, Eliza had practically raised Ben in the bakery. It was a part of her—ofthem.And it wasn’t lost on Eliza that she still called it the bakery, and not the café, despite its new name and menu.
Eliza gripped the wooden spoon until her knuckles turned white, wrestling with a lifetime of regrets. Nothing had gone the way she’d planned. And she only had herself to blame.
“Maggie,” Eliza said softly. “Why did you hire me?”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Over seven years ago, when I asked you for a job at the bakery, why did you hire me? I had zero job experience. No formal baking skills. And at the very least, being an unwed, teenage mother showed I had terrible judgment.”
