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“Children need a merry holiday season, don’t you think?” she asked.
“I agree.”
Every year he volunteered for the Shop with a Cop program in Portland, riding herd on giddy kids as they picked out gifts for their families. It was one of the bright spots of his year, watching their faces light up with the spirit of giving.
He wouldn’t be doing that this December, which left him feeling more regret than he might have expected.
He cleared his throat. “Is there something I can help you bring out?”
“No. I just need to heat up the garlic bread,” she said. “It shouldn’t take very long.”
“That is a very nice Christmas tree,” his grandfather said, admiring the bushy Scotch pine.
“Thanks. My brothers cut them for everyone in the family. This is the first year I’ve really had room for one of the bigger ones.”
“We made some of the decorations,” Riley said. “Do you want to see?”
For a second, Wes thought she was asking him until he realized she had taken his grandfather’s hand and was tugging him toward the tree.
“I made a snowman but it kind of looks like a potato,” Carter confessed, taking Stanley’s other hand.
“I can help you in the kitchen, if you want,” Wes said, turning back to Hannah.
She looked at him for a heartbeat, like she might refuse. Then she gave a small nod. “Thanks.”
Her kitchen, with white cabinets and warm butcher-block counters, reminded him of her, cheerful and bright without being fussy.
More snowflakes hung here and a red tea kettle sat on the stove, matching a small poinsettia perched on the windowsill above the sink.
“How is the children’s mother doing?” he asked, leaning against the counter while she set the bread on a baking sheet.
“Struggling,” Hannah said quietly. “I can’t imagine how tough it must be, going through cancer treatments on her own.”
“She doesn’t have any other relatives nearby?”
Hannah shook her head as she slid the garlic bread into the oven. “I gather her father is alive but Morgan told me they’re estranged. I don’t think there is anyone else.”
“That’s rough,” he said. “What about the kids’ father? Is he in the picture?”
“He died about a year ago in a motorcycle accident. I think they’re all still pretty traumatized from it.”
Everyone carried their own scars, their own heartbreak. He saw that all the time through his work in law enforcement. Sometimes he was there on a person’s worst day, one brief instant that changed everything. It was his least favorite part of the job.
“What about you?” she asked, glancing over. “How are things going down the street at Stanley’s house?”
“Slowly,” he said.
“Are you having to clear things out?” she asked, pulling out some tomatoes and cucumbers to add to the bagged salad he and his grandfather had brought.
“Kelsey and Eric already did most of that, except for some of the bigger furniture pieces. I’m mostly working on a few basic things. Retiling a bathroom in the basement, ripping up some of the old shag carpet that’s been there since I was a kid.”
“Should you be doing that while you’re recovering from a knife wound?” she asked, concern flickering across her face.
He took a moment before answering. “I’m fine,” he said finally. “Not at full fighting form yet, but I’m doing better.”
She looked like she had more questions, but she let it go.
“I think this is ready,” she said a moment later, pulling the fragrant garlic bread from the oven. Butter sizzled along the edges and his stomach growled audibly.
