Page 25 of What Remains of Grace

“I was,” Emmie admitted, glancing toward the window where the stifled reflection of the bakery sign glowed in the dark. “But . . . I know Mom wanted to fix this place up. She talked about it a lot, how Grandma Hart always dreamed of you and her running the bakery together. How proud she was when you both started to.”

Jenna’s chest ached at the memory. She pressed the heel of her hand against it instinctively, as though she could physically soothe something there.

Emmie shifted her weight, her voice lower now. “I’m glad you stayed, you know. If you hadn’t, they’d probably sell everything, the bakery, the house, and who knows where I’d end up. In Trinity with Great Aunt M, probably. You’re doing the opposite of taking it away; you’re preserving it. Mom wanted it fixed, and I want that too. But it’s more than that.” Emmie took a breath, “This is yours too, you know? The house. The bakery. You shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch when we’ve got two extra rooms. One of them barely counts as a bedroom anymore; the bed looks more like a filing cabinet, but you should take Mom’s room.”

The suggestion landed like a stone in Jenna’s gut.

Emmie waited, searching her face. “It’s weird, you sleeping out here,” she said, gesturing toward the couch. “She’d want you in there.”

Jenna managed a thin smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe,” she said, “just . . . not yet.”

Emmie nodded, accepting that for what it was. “We’ll start our new life tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow.”

And for the first time, the word didn’t sound impossible.

That night, when the house settled, and the hum of the vents was the only sound, she lay awake staring at the ceiling. The day replayed in fragments. Grace’s laughter in memory, Emmie’s voice breaking, and Cole’s steady gaze at the door. Grief and something warmer tangled in her chest until she stopped trying to separate them.

Tomorrow, she thought. And for the first time, the word felt like something she could hold.

7

The Walkthrough

The smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen before the sun came up. Jenna had been awake since before dawn, pacing between the mirror and the suitcase she still hadn’t unpacked, convincing herself it was about being productive.

She told herself she just didn’t want to look like someone who’d been sleeping on a couch for two weeks, even though she had.

Her hair hadn’t seen a curling iron in months. She had found Grace’s in her bathroom under the sink. She picked it up, set it down, then picked it up again. The first outfit, paint-spattered jeans and a faded T-shirt, made her look like she’d given up. The second, dark jeans and a chambray button-down, looked like she cared . . . too much. She landed somewhere in between: fitted enough to look pulled together, but casual enough to claim practicality.

Biscuit watched from the bed, tail flicking like he knew something. She could feel the judgment from the other room.

“It’s not like that,” she told him. “He’s just a contractor.”

The cat just stared, the way cats do, unimpressed and all-knowing. “Probably married anyway,” she muttered, brushing lint from her shirt.

She didn’t understand why she cared. Rugged, manly contractors were a dime a dozen in her former life. But she didn’t really have a type anymore. Not really. Ten years of cautious first dates and quieter endings had trained her to stay half-gone before anyone could leave. When men started asking what she wanted long-term, she disappeared into work, travel, distance, whatever excuse fits the shape of escape.

No one had made her feel anything worth staying for. Not like she was feeling right now.

It unsettled her how easily he’d gotten under her skin, how quickly her thoughts kept finding their way back to him. So, she did what she always did when something scared her: she shifted to logistics.

They hadn’t agreed on a time; he’d just said morning.

In construction, that usually meant eight o’clock sharp. It was the unspoken rule, the universal code for punctual men who carried tape measures and blueprints instead of excuses. Cole struck her as that kind of man: prompt, steady, organized. The kind who said morning and meant it.

She caught her reflection, heat rising in her cheeks. “Get it together, Hart. You’re hiring him, not proposing to him.”

Still, when she stepped outside, the morning air felt charged—like the sky already knew he was on his way.

Cole showed up right on time with a white paper bag from the gas station and two coffees.

“Morning,” he said, offering her one of the cups. “Didn’t risk Hellas this time. Went high- end, the Shell station on the corner.”

She took the cup, fingers brushing his. Even that brief touch carried heat, like he ran a few degrees warmer than the air around him despite the Florida heat.

“Burnt beans and sugar, huh?” she said, sniffing. “You’re really setting the bar high this morning.”