Page 39 of What Remains of Grace

“Morning.”

“Morning,” she managed, hoping her voice didn’t betray the fact that she was suddenly very aware there was a tall, devastatingly handsome man just outside her window.

Emmie’s voice came from behind her. “Are you staring?”

Jenna nearly jumped. “What? No—”

Emmie grinned, peeking out the doorway to see what Jenna was looking at, already knowing who would be there after his cheerful good morning.

“I was just—”

“Admiring the craftsmanship?” Emmie’s smile turned wicked. “He’s not too terrible looking for an old guy.”

“Emmie.” Jenna hissed her name, waving a hand toward the window. “He can hear you.”

“Can he?”

Jenna risked a glance back and saw Cole pretending to check the boards, but the smile tugging at his mouth said he’d heard every word.

“Yup,” Emmie said, leaning over her shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Definitely heard that.”

Jenna groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m moving back to Georgia.”

“Too late,” Emmie said, heading toward the kitchen. “He already knows you think he’s hot.”

Jenna pressed her palms against her face, then dared one last look out the window. Cole flashed that award-winning smile, shook his head once, and went back to work.

Heat rushed into her cheeks before she could stop it. She turned away from the window too quickly and wandered into the kitchen like movement alone might settle her nerves.

She opened another drawer: old check stubs, a grocery list, a handful of paperclips. Grace’s handwriting curved across the top of a notepad: Order more flour. Check cooler temp. Pray oven holds another month.

Emmie peeked over her shoulder. “She really wrote that?”

“She worried about everything,” Jenna said softly. “That oven was older than me.”

“Contractor Guy is replacing it, right?”

Jenna hesitated. “You want new ovens now?”

Emmie’s eyes softened, the edge of defiance gone. “Mom did.”

Jenna said nothing, just nodded. It was enough.

Emmie pulled another box toward her and peeled back the tape. Inside was a jumble of receipts, bakery notes, and yellowing recipe cards, all stacked in Grace’s familiar looping handwriting. She sifted through them quietly, the edges soft from years of flour-dusted fingers.

“Look at this,” Jenna said, holding one up. It wasn’t a recipe at all, just a note written in black ink across the back of an old order form.

If love runs out, just make more.

Jenna exhaled through a laugh that came out more like a sigh. “That sounds like her.”

Emmie smiled softly, tracing the words with her thumb. “Yeah. She really believed that, didn’t she? That you could just keep making love like a batch of muffins.”

“She did,” Jenna said softly. “And somehow, she was usually right.”

Emmie stared at the note a moment longer, the smile fading but not quite disappearing.

“She made so much of it, though,” she said finally. “Love. Like she didn’t know how to stop. But some people . . .” Her voice thinned to a whisper. “Some people are just intolerant of it. The way some folks can’t handle milk or sugar. Doesn’t mean the recipe’s bad. Just means they can’t digest it.”