Page 36 of Embers in Autumn

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 called out 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.

Dad moved with purpose, stepping toward a case along the side. His gloved hand tapped gently on the glass, his sharp eye landing on a tray of slender bracelets.

“What are you buying?” I asked looking around.

“Something for Sophie and Lana,” he said quietly. “They’re still girls, but they’re not children anymore. Something delicate, but not too much.”

The jeweller, a woman with quick hands and a practiced smile, laid a tray out before us. Among the choices, two silver bracelets stood out: each one fine and light, with butterfly charms no bigger than a fingernail. One was brushed with a pale blue enamel, the other a soft lavender.

Dad studied them for a moment before nodding.

“Yes. These will do.”

I pictured Lana’s grin, how she’d try to keep it cool and fail, Sophie smoothing her hair back while pretending not to care as much as she did. Dad was right. They were perfect.

While he arranged for them to be boxed, I found myself wandering toward another display.

The necklaces here were simple, refined—chains like spun thread, pendants shaped into hearts, stars, circles.

My eyes caught on one piece and refused to move: a white gold chain with a snowflake pendant, delicate and sharp at once, each curve set with tiny points of light.

My mind could only think of one person: Amber .

I could see it already, resting against her skin, her fingers brushing it absentmindedly while she read. She would probably blush when she unwrapped it, laugh softly, say it was too much. But she’d wear it. Year after year, she’d wear it, and I’d know she carried a piece of me with her.

“May I see that one?” I asked.

The jeweller placed it in my palm. The pendant was cool and bright, scattering light like frost on glass. It felt right, even more beautiful up front.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Dad turned from the counter where the bracelets were being wrapped in white paper and tied with twine. His brow rose.

“I never knew you to be so careless with money, son.”

I smiled, slipping my card from my wallet. “Remember when Mom was alive, and you bought her that ridiculously expensive bag? I said the same thing to you.”

His mouth curved, and he gave a small laugh, his voice softer. “I remember.”

I met his gaze, closing my hand around the little velvet box the jeweller handed me.

“Good, cause I remember your answer like it was yesterday. You told me never to feel sorry for spending money on a woman who brings joy to your heart.”

For a moment, the sparkle of diamonds and silver in the cases around us blurred. It was just me, Dad, and the weight of what I felt pressing sharp and certain in my chest.

“Then this Amber girl,” Dad said, his voice full of quiet pride, “must be very special.”

“She is,” I admitted, my throat tight. “More than I can put into words.”

And as I tucked the box into my coat pocket, I knew: Amber was worth every bit of it.

Dad slipped the little velvet box into his coat pocket as we stepped back out into the cold. Snowflakes had begun to fall again, lazy and drifting, sticking to the dark fabric of his sleeve. The air had that crisp, clean bite that only December seemed to bring.

“Speaking of Amber,” he said, tugging his gloves back on. “Should we pay her a visit? See if she wants to join us for breakfast in town?”

I huffed out a laugh, watching my breath cloud the air. “Sure, but I doubt she’ll have time. This week’s been madness for her. Christmas shoppers piling in. You know how it is—everybody remembers their loved ones read once the holidays roll around.”

He grinned. “Then let’s go find out.”

The bookstore windows glowed warm against the gray street as we approached, the glass fogged faintly with condensation.

Inside, the place was alive. Every corner seemed crammed with people, coats dusted with snow, hands full of books and trinkets.

The decorations made it feel less like a store and more like a little slice of Christmas itself.

Amber had gone all out. Garlands of pine and holly framed the door and shelves, tiny golden lights winking between the branches.

Snowflake ornaments hung from strings above the displays, swaying gently as customers moved through.

The Christmas tree dominated the back corner, tall and full, dressed in red and gold ribbons with glass baubles catching the light.

I knew that tree well. I’d set it up for her last week, wrestling with the damn stand while she teased me about looking like Clark Griswold.

Now it stood proud, glowing like something out of a postcard.

And there she was, behind the counter, cheeks pink from the warmth and her hair slipping loose as she rang up another sale. She looked radiant, caught between flurries of customers, smiling that smile that had knocked the breath out of me from day one.

“Cozy little empire she’s got here,” Dad murmured beside me, approving.

Before I could answer, Carol swept into view, arms loaded with books. Of course she was here. The woman had a radar for fresh deliveries.

“Matthew Bennett,” she exclaimed, her voice cutting over the bustle like a horn. “Well, I’ll be damned. I didn’t know you were still alive.”

Dad blinked, then let out a laugh that drew half the shop’s attention. “Carol Whitmore. Alive, kicking, and apparently lucky enough to outlast three of your husbands.”

Her eyes narrowed, though her lips twitched like she was trying not to grin. “Two, thank you. And one of them doesn’t count, we were in Vegas.”

“I stand corrected.”

I dragged a hand down my face. Oh God.

“What brings you here?” Carol asked, arching a perfectly painted brow.

“Shopping with my son,” Dad replied smoothly. “And thinking of breakfast. Care to join?”

I nearly choked. “What?”

Amber, across the counter, froze mid-wrap, her wide eyes darting to me. She looked as floored as I felt.

Carol didn’t miss a beat. “Well, aren’t you forward, Matt. Breakfast, hm? Will you be paying, or should I bring my own purse?”

Dad tipped his head, deadpan. “I wouldn’t dream of making a lady pay. Even one who terrorizes every clerk in this town.”

Amber let out a strangled laugh, covering her mouth.

Carol smirked like she’d won a prize. “Fine then. But only because I skipped toast this morning.” She gathered her books with surprising speed, then turned to Amber. “Put these on my tab, sweetheart. I’ll pay later.”

“Nonsence,” my dad said pulling out his wallet. “My gift to you. It's been to long, old friend.”

“Aaaa, dad?”

I stood there, staring after them as they swept toward the door together. Amber sidled up next to me, her lips twitching.

“Did your father just invite Carol to breakfast?” she whispered.

“Apparently.”

“And she accepted?”

“Apparently.”

Amber snorted and shook her head, eyes dancing.

“Oh, Dean. This is either the beginning of a friendship… or the apocalypse.”

I muttered, “I’m leaning toward apocalypse,” but I couldn’t help the grin tugging at my mouth.

We stood side by side, watching the snow swirl outside the glass door as our parents—God help us both—headed off down the street together.

And for the first time in a long while, I had no idea whether to laugh, pray, or panic.

I shook my head, still staring at the door like maybe it would swing open and Dad would come back to his senses.

“I can’t believe my own father ditched me for some woman,” I muttered.

Amber laughed softly, that low, melodic sound that had undone me since the day I heard it for the first time. She rose on her toes, brushed a kiss against my mouth, and before I could chase it, she plopped a ridiculous red Santa hat onto my head.

“That’s okay,” she teased, straightening it so the fuzzy white puff landed right between my eyes. “You can stay here and help me out through the day.”

I arched a brow. “And what’s in it for me?”

Her eyes glittered as she leaned in closer, her lips barely grazing my ear, her voice a whisper just for me.

“I’m wearing underneath that red lingerie you love… and my break is in one hour.”

Heat flared through me like the first rush of fire when a match strikes. I grinned, tugging her back against me and kissing her hard enough to taste the promise behind her words.

The bustle of the bookstore blurred, the tree lights glowing like sparks around us, and for the first time in years, I didn’t want for a single damn thing.

Amber. Christmas. Home.

That was enough.

The End