BPOV
The first thing I do when I get into Forks is stop by Grandma's old shop. Situated on Main Street next to a small park where, currently, a father and son are playing catch, the old sign, "Marie Makes Cakes" still hangs atop the building, but everything looks old and dingy. I know the door is locked, so I peek in through the window. Little bistro tables with padded chairs are scattered inside and the display case is empty. But I remember when the place gleamed and the case was full of more than just cake.
I can remember coming in after school and running the register when I was too young to be working but knew the ins and outs better than any of her employees. I can remember her teaching me her recipes, ones I still use, and baking together with floured hands and dirty aprons. I remember when I set off on my own after culinary school and how proud she was of me but sad that I wasn't staying here in town.
I feel something hit my foot and look down to see a baseball on the sidewalk next to me. I stoop down to pick it up and look around when a voice calls out to me.
"Over here. Sorry." It's the father and son in the park. He's wearing red plaid and blue jeans with work boots, and his son is a carbon copy in miniature. "The bakery's been closed for a while now."
"I can tell," I say and begin walking over to return the ball.
"Just toss it. The joys of having a kid is I can make him go get it if you don't have a good arm." He smiles, and even from a distance, you can see the mirth in his eyes as they twinkle.
I feel my face flush and think back to junior high softball and heave the ball in their direction. My best guess is that he'll catch it easy, say thanks, and the three of us can be on your way. What happens, however, is that I throw the ball too hard and too high, and he takes it in the face with a loud smack.
"Oh, my God!" I run over to him as he drops to his knees on the grass, and his son runs to his side.
"Daddy? Are you okay?" The little boy is almost in tears as he grabs onto his father, and I can't help but feel so helpless.
"I am so sorry. Let me see your face." I pull at his hands until he drops them, and I can see his eyes. Bright green, red rimmed, and watering, but beautiful. His nose isn't bleeding, but he looks dazed. "How many fingers am I holding up?" I hold up three, and he takes a moment to answer.
"Three. Good arm." He coughs a little and turns to his son. "And that's why I tell you to keep your glove up by your face. Ouch. Daddy's okay, little man."
He scoops his son into his arms, and the little boy wraps his arms around his neck. "She hit you. You're not 'possed to hit people."
"It was an accident, bud. I'm not mad. I'm actually kind of impressed by that pitch." He smiles at me, and I'm dazzled.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think; I just threw it. I could have hit him." Gesturing to the little boy, I swallow deeply, but he shakes his head.
"Your aim was spot on." He extends a hand. "I'm Edward. by the way, and this is Liam. Can you say hi?"
"Hi, my name's Liam, and I'm three and half!" he says with a toothy smile.
"It's nice to meet you both. I'm Bella Swan." Shaking both of their hands, I help Edward to his feet where he sways for a moment.
"Chief Swan's daughter?"
"The one and only, but Charlie hasn't been chief for almost five years," I say as I watch Liam climb all over his father, apparently having forgotten about the injury.
"He was chief when I moved here, so he's still Chief Swan to me." Edward raises his arm up and down as his son clings on, and I can't help but feel a clenching in my gut.
Calm down, Bella! This is someone's husband!
"Are you sure you're okay?" I have to ask, just to make sure. "Do you need a ride somewhere?"
"I'm good, and we walked anyway." Edward hoists Liam onto his shoulders. "Can you say bye to Bella?"
Liam waves from his perch and Edward shrugs. "It was nice to meet you, even under these circumstances."
"You too. Take care, you two." Laughing, I walk back to my car as the two of them head down the street in the opposite direction.
Pulling up in the driveway of my childhood home, I feel like a kid again and can't wait to see my father. It's weird though; there's no cruiser in the driveway anymore, and I know his gun belt won't be hanging by the door. So much of what I love and what reminds me of my dad is his time in law enforcement. Now that he's retired and he's fishing or reading or whatever he does, it's a strange and new dynamic to come home to.
But he's softer now than he used to be. Charlie Swan was never a hard man, but getting him to talk or admit his feelings was always like pulling teeth. He was stoic and sound; now he's open and free. I like him both ways, but it's easier to be around him now that he's not a cop. He's never on duty anymore.
"Are you gonna sit in your car all night or are you gonna come give me a hug?" He's yelling at me from the front porch, and when I laugh and get out, I see he's wearing the slippers I bought him for his birthday and a jacket.
"Hey, old man, have you seen my dad?"
"Old man, my ass." He laughs as I grab my suitcase out of the trunk and lock the car. When I get to the front porch, he holds out a hand. "Stop. Let me take a good look at you."
I turn in place, and he sighs. "You still look like my baby girl." He opens his arms, and I drop my bag and run into them.
"Hi, Daddy." I breathe in his scent. Bluewater cologne and gun oil with just a hint of something fishy. "I missed you too."
"Is that Bella?" I hear Sue call from inside the house, and I smile into my father's chest. It's always been the two of us. But when Dad had the heart attack five years ago, he met his nurse, Sue, and they hit it off. I love Sue for him; they're perfect for each other. She's kind and funny, and she's brought him out of his shell.
"I'm here! Let's get inside; it's cold out here." I grab my bag after pulling away, and we head inside to the warmth of my childhood home. When Sue finally sees me, she crushes me into her arms.
"It's so good to see you, Bella."
I squeeze her right back. "You too, Sue. And I'm ready to help out with Thanksgiving dinner. Dad says it's not just us this year?"
"No, there's a young widower with a little boy that your dad is quite fond of, so he invited them over. They don't have any family in town, so your dad's been like a pseudo grandpa."
"That's so sweet," I say as Sue and I climb the stairs to my room. "I can't wait to meet them."
"You'll love them; he's super sweet and easy on the eyes."
"Please tell me you're not trying to set me up." Pleading, I lug my suitcase onto my twin bed and turn to face her.
"Never. Just stating facts." She smiles and reaches for my hand. "I changed the sheets and left clean towels in the bathroom for you. Are you hungry? We just had sandwiches for dinner, but I can make you one."
"I stopped on the way, but I think I smelled your molasses cookies? I could eat a few hundred of those." I laugh as I shrug out of my jacket, and Sue smiles.
"One day I'll give you the recipe, but you have to promise you won't use them in that fancy bakery of yours!"
"They would be perfect for my bakery, but I promise. Now … cookie time!" I race down the stairs and into the kitchen to find cookies cooling on a rack and inhale deeply.
Thanksgiving Day arrives early and without much fanfare other than my dad watching the Macy's parade and Sue and I drinking coffee while we plan out the day. Charlie is smoking the turkey, and it's already been going for a couple hours by the time I get up. Our plan is dressing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and pies … all from scratch. I start on the pie crusts while Sue works on the fillings. One pecan, one pumpkin, and two apple pies go into the oven about an hour later.
I check on the turkey and baste it while I'm outside and notice that we got a light dusting of snow. I make a mental note to come up after Christmas for New Years.
After the parade is when the real work starts as we start peeling potatoes and boiling pots of water. Oranges are zested and cranberries are bursting in a pot of sugar water and simmering away. Charlie is outside checking on the bird, and Sue is putting the dressing together into a pan when the doorbell rings.
"Oh, they're early," she says as she slides the pan in and rearranges things in the oven. "Would you get the door, Bella?"
I walk into the front hall and can just make out two shapes in the beveled glass of the front door: one tall and slender and one small. When I open the door, I'm shocked to see none other than the boy and his father from the other day. Only now, Edward is sporting a deeply bruised black eye.