Page 75 of Embers in Autumn
After dessert the kids drifted toward the living room, drawn by a game and the soft lure of blankets. Conversation softened, coffee cooled, candles burned lower. Sarah leaned into Andrew’s shoulder with a satisfied sigh. Dean’s father told me about the first book he fell in love with, a battered detective novel that had belonged to his own father, pages softened by time and thumbs. I told him about my grandmother’s kitchen and how stories rise from a stove as surely as steam.
Dean’s hand found my knee under the table. His thumb traced an easy circle through the fabric of my dress. Quiet, steady, certain. I set my hand over his without looking and felt the last of my nerves loosen as if a knot had finally given way.
Home did feel like a real place. It smelled like sage and sugar and coffee. It sounded like children laughing and a sister’s mock outrage and a father’s bad jokes. It looked like the man across from me who never seemed to run out of ways to choose me.
When we finally stood to help clear, Sarah caught my sleeve, her smile soft and tired and something like grateful.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, so simple it made my eyes sting. “He is happy. I can see it.”
“I am too,” I said, and believed myself.
In the kitchen we stacked plates, ran warm water, and passed dishes from hand to hand. Through the doorway I could see Dean on the rug with Jacob, demonstrating how to free a metal loop from an impossible tangle, his laugh easy, his head tipped back. Lana sat curled beside her grandfather, the new bookmark peeking from a book she had insisted on bringing to dinner. Sophie had already painted a burst of color on the first page of her pad, an abstract riot of autumn.
I lingered there, dish towel clutched in my hands, and let the weight of the moment sink into me. It wasn’t sharp or fleeting, but slow and steady, like warmth curling through my bones. The room smelled of cinnamon and soap, the kind of scent that felt like home even though I’d spent years searching for it. Outside, the windows had gone dark, the glass catching our reflections and holding them like a memory I wished I could press between pages and never lose.
When Dean lifted his head, his eyes found me as if they’d been waiting all along. He smiled, unhurried, steady, sure. And when I smiled back, there was no fear tugging at the edges of it, no whisper of panic. Only the quiet, glowing truth of belonging.
CHAPTER 23
Dean
The first snow of the season had arrived overnight, not much, just a thin drizzle that clung to rooftops and made the air smell sharper. By noon it had already turned to slush on the sidewalks, but the rooftops still carried a dusting of white, like the town had pulled up a quilt for winter.
Main Street was strung with garlands and lights. Wreaths hung from the lampposts, and shop windows gleamed with displays of evergreen, red bows, and cardboard Santas that looked like they had been reused for twenty years straight. People bundled in coats and scarves shuffled by with shopping bags, their breath clouding in the chill.
Beside me, Dad walked with his hands tucked into his leather gloves, a wool coat buttoned high against his throat. He looked good for seventy—straight-backed, brisk in his pace, eyes alert. A man who had spent a lifetime making decisions quickly and still carried himself like the world expected him to be decisive. He glanced at the stores as we passed by them.
“You’ve been smiling a lot lately,” Dad said, his voice warm but pointed, like he was sliding a chess piece across the board to see how I’d respond. “Even in the mornings. I can’t remember the last time you looked this happy.”
I shrugged, though a smile tugged at my mouth anyway. “Guess life’s been good.”
“Life, or a woman?”
He knew. Of course he knew.
Before I could answer, Mrs. Evans from the bakery calledout as she hustled by, her arms full of wrapped loaves. “Afternoon, Dean! Be sure to stop by later—fresh gingerbread!”
“Will do,” I called back, lifting a hand. My dad’s brow lifted in quiet amusement. Small towns: every conversation was public property.
We reached the corner where one of those Salvation Army Santas rang his bell beside a red kettle. The sound was cheery, insistent, bouncing off the brick walls. Dad reached into his pocket without hesitation, pulled out a crisp twenty, and slipped it in with a nod.
“Always give when you can,” he murmured. “Life’s better when you know how to share it.”
I watched him for a beat, my throat tight, and then we kept walking.
Truth was, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “You’re right,” I admitted quietly. “It is a woman. Amber.”
Dad’s mouth twitched. “The bookseller.”
“Yeah. The bookseller. The woman who somehow makes me forget I’ve got soot in my lungs and scars I stopped counting years ago. I’ve been in love before, or thought I was, but this… Dad, it’s different. I’m madly in love with her. It’s in my bones, like if I lost her I’d never get warm again.”
He stopped then, right in the middle of the street where snow flurries drifted against the lamplight. His gloved hand rested briefly on my shoulder. “Dean, I haven’t seen you like this since before Lana was born. Happier than I have in years.” His eyes softened, almost misty. “Hold onto it. Don’t let fear talk you out of something that feels this right.”
I swallowed hard, the truth of it hitting me deep. Snowflakes melted against my skin, and all I could think of was Amber’s laugh, her smile when she thought no one was looking, the way she had fit so seamlessly at Thanksgiving, like she had always belonged.
“Yeah,” I said, voice rough. “I’m not letting this one go.”
The jewellery shop was warm, hushed, and gleaming, a world away from the bustle of the street outside. The windows were steamed faintly at the corners from the contrast between the chill air and the glowing lamps within. The air smelled faintly metallic, like polished silver, mixed with the sweet tang of wood polish. Glass counters stretched in neat lines, each one displaying rows of treasures on velvet beds: bracelets that shimmered like captured moonlight, necklaces catching and scattering the light, rings sparkling in quiet rows.
