Where The Ice Gives Way Chapter 121

**Charlotte**

I choose the bakery puzzle.

It feels right after the morning we’ve had. Mara smiles like I’ve made the exact choice she hoped I would, then tips the pieces onto the coffee table in a soft cardboard rattle. We sit on the floor across from each other, legs tucked under us, the fire warm at our side. Mara starts sorting edges, her fingers moving through the pieces while mine hover for a second, not sure where to begin. I’m not sure I’ve ever done a puzzle before. “Corners first,” she says gently.

I find one and pass it to her. She places it at the top of the table, then another beside it, and slowly the mess begins to turn into something more organised. The picture on the box shows a little bakery on a corner street with pink awnings and golden light. There are cakes in the window, tiny tables outside, and flowers spilling from boxes under the glass. It looks too perfect to be real, but there’s something comforting about putting it together one piece at a time. Mara turns a piece between her fingers, studies it, then clicks it into place.

“What was Blake like as a kid?” I ask.

Mara’s smile changes immediately. “Oh, he was trouble.”

I laugh softly. “Really?”

“Beautiful trouble,” she says, picking up another edge piece. “He climbed everything. Trees, fences, bookshelves, Gareth. If it was taller than him, he took it personally.” I grin down at the puzzle. “He also used to fall asleep holding toy cars,” she continues. “Wouldn’t go anywhere without them. He’d line them up along the windowsill and tell me which ones were going to win races. He was very serious about it.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He used to follow Gareth around the yard, too, wearing these little boots that were far too big for him. Gareth would be working, and Blake would be beside him with a plastic hammer, absolutely convinced he was helping.”

The picture in my head makes me smile. Tiny Blake in oversized boots. His dark hair messy. His little hands wrapped around a toy hammer. Gareth pretending to inspect whatever Blake had “fixed,” because I already know that’s exactly what he would have done. My chest warms. Mara fits another piece into place, then glances at me. “Do you remember much about your mother?”

My hands still. She doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She keeps sorting pieces, leaving the question there between us. “A little,” I say, and Mara looks up. “I remember sitting between her legs while she brushed my hair.” My fingers move over a puzzle piece without seeing it properly. “She was gentle. She used to hum when she got to the tangles so I wouldn’t notice her working them out.” Mara’s smile softens. “She sang in the mornings, not loudly, just a little low tune around the house while she made breakfast… And she loved to skate.” My eyes drift toward the window. “She moved differently on the ice. Like she could breathe better there.” Mara doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then she reaches across the table and touches my hand.

“I’m so sorry you don’t have more.” I look back at her, and the sadness is there, but it doesn’t swallow me the way it used to. “It’s okay,” I say softly. Her thumb brushes once over my knuckles, and I smile a little. “I’m making new ones now.”

Mara’s eyes shine before she looks down quickly, pretending to study the puzzle. “Well,” she says, voice warm, “then we’d better make them good ones.” We keep working until the bakery window starts to appear in little pieces. Mara lets me place the first little cupcake in the display case, then pretends to be offended when I find the matching piece before she does. The afternoon slips by softly, and the puzzle grows under our hands.

When the light begins to shift outside, Mara pushes herself up and dusts her hands on her jeans. “We should start dinner before the boys come home starving and dramatic.”

I smile. “Are they always dramatic?”

“Blake pretends he isn’t,” she says. “But he most definitely is when it comes to being hungry.” 

So we cook. She gives me carrots to chop and talks me through the sauce. I stir while she tastes. She adds salt without measuring and laughs when I stare at her. “Cooking has rules,” she says. “But it also has instinct.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It can be. That’s why we taste as we go.” She hands me a spoon, and I taste the sauce. It’s rich and warm, with garlic and herbs and something deeper underneath. “That’s good,” I admit.

Mara smiles, pleased. “See? Instinct.”

By the time the front door opens, the house is full of warmth again. Charlie comes in, dumping his bag by the door and groaning. “I think my legs are going to fall off,” he announces.

Mara doesn’t even look up from the stove. “Then leave them by the door. I just mopped.”

Charlie laughs and drags himself into the kitchen, already reaching for food before she smacks his hand away with a tea towel. Blake follows him a second later, and the moment his eyes find me at the stove, everything in him softens. His shoulders drop, and his smile eases across his lips. His gaze settles on me as he crosses the kitchen and kisses me quickly, one hand warm at my waist. “You smell like sugar.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He nods quickly, and I laugh as he steals one more quick kiss before stepping back. Charlie makes a gagging noise near the fridge. Mara points the wooden spoon at him. “Do you want dinner?”

Charlie straightens. “I saw nothing.”

Blake grins, but his hand brushes mine once before he pulls away. It still sends warmth through my fingers. “I’m going to shower,” he says.

I nod, watching him head for the stairs. Halfway up, his voice slips through the bond. I hope I get to come home to you looking like this every day for the rest of my life.

My hand stills on the spoon, and heat rushes through me so fast I have to look down at the pot. Mara glances over, smiling like she knows exactly what just happened. I bite my lip and keep stirring.

“So how was practice, Charlie?” Mara asks as she starts laying out plates and cutlery on the table. He follows her happily, telling her everything, and my heart grows an extra inch for her. She seems to have an endless amount of love, and she always knows exactly where it’s needed. To anyone else, such a simple question is no big deal, but to Charlie? To kids who never had anyone asking how their day was? It means everything. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay this woman, but something tells me she wouldn’t let me even if I tried.