Eli leans back in his chair, shaking his head with a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. Grandma Irene must be grinning from ear to ear wherever she is. She’s got her ghostly fingerprints all over this.”
Ruth laughs, reaching across the table to swat his arm. “Language, Eli. Grandma’s probably listening.”
He grins, eyes softening as they drift toward Clara and me. “Then I hope she sees that she’s still matchmaking from the other side.”
The air warms with something that feels like peace. Ruth’s laughter fades into a knowing smile, and even Eli’s usualskepticism gives way to quiet wonder. For the first time since I can remember, it feels like the house itself is exhaling—like every soul, living or gone, is finally exactly where it’s meant to be.
Ruth sets her mug down, that familiar spark of mischief already dancing in her eyes. “So,” she drawls, “what grand adventures are on the agenda today?”
I glance toward the window, the faint rumble of an approaching car in the distance. “My granddaughter’s on her way,” I say, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my mouth. “Grace. You’ll like her, Ruth, she’s got more of Clara’s fire than she realizes.”
Ruth’s brows shoot up, her grin widening like a sunrise. “Ah, the famous Grace that Eli’s been carrying on about.” She presses a hand to her chest with exaggerated awe. “Well, would you look at that? Our Marcel’s a grandpa.”
Clara laughs softly, the sound bright and easy—God, I love that sound. “Grandpa suits you,” she teases, her cheeks blooming pink.
I hook an arm around her waist, tugging her just close enough that only she can hear me. My breath brushes the curve of her ear as I whisper, “Careful, Firefly, or I’ll have to remind you of how this ‘grandpa’ wrecked you last night.”
Her breath catches, that blush deepening until it paints her throat. She swats at my chest, but the corner of her mouth betrays her with a trembling smile.
I lift my coffee cup, fighting the urge to grin. “What?” I ask, feigning innocence. “Just making conversation.”
Then, from outside, comes the crunch of gravel under tires, the slam of a car door. The air shifts—expectant, bright.
Eli looks toward the window, his voice calm but laced with something tender. “That’ll be Grace.”
Ruth stands, smoothing her blouse, her grin pure mischief. “Well,” she says, tilting her head toward me, “let’s go meet the girl who brought your Clara home.”
Eli doesn’t hesitate—he moves to the door, pulling it open just as Grace raises her hand to knock. Morning light spills across the threshold, framing her in soft gold. She looks younger today, though her eyes still carry that sharp curiosity.
“Good morning,” Eli greets warmly as the door swings open. “Come on in, Grace. Coffee’s hot.”
“Morning,” she says, stepping inside, cheeks pink. Her eyes sweep over the kitchen before landing on the rest of us. Eli motions her closer.
“Grace, this is Ruth Montgomery,” he says, a grin tugging at his mouth. “My sister. Don’t let her scare you away.”
Ruth chuckles, giving Grace a quick, welcoming hug before she can even extend a hand. “Eli, I swear,” she says, though her smile says otherwise. “Don’t listen to him, Grace. I’m the glue that keeps this crew together. It’s lovely to finally meet you, sweetheart.”
“You too,” Grace replies, her voice soft but curious, eyes darting between Ruth and Eli.
“Sit,” Eli says, already pouring coffee into a mug. “You look like you’ve been running since dawn.”
Grace sighs as she takes the offered cup. “Feels like it. Been talking to everyone back home. And this already smells better than whatever they’re calling coffee at the motel. I think theirs could strip paint.”
Ruth laughs, leaning back in her chair. “You’re not wrong, honey. That stuff should come with a hazard warning.”
The sound of Grace's laughter fills the kitchen, warm and grounding. She smiles, the tension leaving her shoulders as she sips. Across from her, Clara watches in quiet awe, her fingers trembling against the edge of her mug. She doesn’t speak, but Ican feel the ache radiating off her—the want to touch, to reach across the years that separated them.
I find her hand under the table and lace my fingers through hers. She exhales softly, the gratitude in her eyes enough to undo me.
For a moment, the kitchen feels full—laughter, coffee, ghosts, and family all gathered beneath the same roof.
Grace glances between us, her brow furrowing. “It’s strange,” she says slowly, “but…I feel comfortable here. Like I’ve been here before, somehow.”
Eli’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “That’s the land. Devil’s Ridge tends to keep ahold of the people that are meant to be here.”
Grace exhales, nodding like she believes him. She settles deeper into her chair, laughter easier now when Eli cracks another dry remark about his own terrible biscuits.
The back door creaks open, letting in a rush of cool air and the scent of hay. Isaac steps inside, hat in hand, his gaze sweeping the kitchen before it lands on Grace. “Morning,” he says, voice low and steady. “Wasn’t sure if there’d be any coffee left.”
