Page 76 of Hometown Heart

"Plus parsley and good parmesan," I added, filling a pot with water. "My grandmother's recipe. It's my go-to comfort meal."

Silas leaned against the counter, wine mug in hand, watching as I worked. "I wouldn't have pegged you for an accomplished cook."

"Don't be too impressed. My culinary skills are limited to about five dishes, but I've perfected those five."

"Still, that's five more than most single fathers master. Edward didn't cook?"

The question was casual, but I knew better. Silas rarely brought up Edward unprompted. "He cooked extravagantly but rarely. Special occasions only. I handled the day-to-day meals."

"And now?"

"And now Cody and I take turns choosing dinner. His preferred rotation leans heavily on anything with excessive amounts of cheese."

Silas laughed. "A ten-year-old with sophisticated tastes."

As the pasta water came to a boil, Silas moved beside me, cutting the parsley with precise, chef-trained movements. His knife work was impressive, reducing the herb to a fine, uniform chop in seconds.

"Now, who's hiding culinary skills?" I teased.

"Basic knife technique. You don't go through culinary school without learning to chop properly." He swept the parsley into a neat pile with the back of the blade. "Though I haven't used these skills much lately. Baking is more my domain now."

"What happened to your restaurant dreams? Before Tidal Grounds?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than I'd intended. Silas's hands paused momentarily before resuming their work.

"Nico happened," he said finally. "Or rather, Nico un-happened. Disappeared. Took our business plan and contacts with him."

"To Colombia, right?"

He nodded. "Last I heard, he was running a coffee plantation tour business in Medellín. Very Instagram-worthy, according to mutual acquaintances."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If he hadn't left, I'd never have come back to Whistleport. Never opened Tidal Grounds." He glanced up, meeting my eyes. "Never met you and Cody."

We ate at the small table tucked against the cabin's front window, watching as darkness settled over the forest. The simple meal tasted better than expected, elevated by the wine and the company. Conversation flowed easily, punctuated by comfortable silences and an occasional crackle from the fireplace.

Silas poured what remained of the wine into our mugs, the deep red liquid sloshing against the ceramic sides. "Tell me something you've never told anyone in Whistleport."

I considered the request, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I almost became a professional baseball player."

His eyebrows shot up. "You're joking."

"Not at all. I was scouted in high school and offered a spot at a development camp. It would have been a long shot for MLB, but potentially good enough for the minors."

"What happened?"

"Broke my wrist during a senior year tournament: bad break, required surgery. By the time it healed, I'd lost too much training time. The opportunity passed." I shrugged, though the old disappointment still echoed faintly. "It worked out. I found architecture, which suits me better anyway."

"Does Cody know?"

"Not the details. He knows I played but not how close I came to pursuing it professionally. I don't want to put that expectation on him."

Silas nodded, understanding immediately. "Your turn," I prompted. "Something you've never shared."

He hesitated, fingers toying with the rim of his mug. "I write poetry."

"I know that. I heard you at the reading."

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