Mrs. Buzzard had pounced on me the second I entered the kitchen and demanded I run an errand for her. She said I owed her since the replacement pans had yet to arrive, which was stretching the idea, but, at the same time, guilt was a magical motivator. She needed me to swing by the Gingerbread Café to pick up her orders for the party, at which point I reminded her about not having my driver’s license.

She handed me her car keys anyway.

And thus, there I stood. Staring. Hoping that very large automobile was an automatic because if it was a manual transmission, I had no chance.

Despite the chilly wind, a trickle of sweat went down the center of my back.

“Hey there, sport.”

I turned to see my dad regarding me with a quizzical expression from the edge of the lot closest to the inn. Relief flooded.

“Dad! What are you doing right now?”

Twenty minutes later, we were seated at the counter of the Gingerbread Café, Dad with a bowl of broccoli cheese soup, and me with a cheeseburger. A slice of freshly made gingerbread waited in the wings for us to share. He had left his office at lunchtime to swing by the inn to grab a bite when he noticed me, so we decided to make a father-daughter meal out of the excursion.

I raised my second cup of coffee. “Merry Christmas Eve Eve,” I said to him, which reminded me that I had yet to respond to Mia’s text.

He smiled and raised his own mug in return. “You too.”

We tapped cups then got back to the business of eating, which, no lie, was much needed. My now-pointless effort to get ideas for Christmas activities to Arthur had cut my arrival to my breakfast shift so close I didn’t actually get breakfast. Irony. Which meant by the time Dad and I were eating, I was fast approaching woozy. But once I had half a burger, a plate of fries, and some coffee in my system, I felt human again. Enough so that I noticed more stress-related gray hairs intermingled with the brown on the back of Dad’s head.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

He glanced up. “I’m fine.” The corners of his hazel eyes crinkled, forming deep lines that seemed to have gotten deeper recently. “Though that’s supposed to be my question to you.”

“Well, today it’s my question to you.” I ate a fry. Then another. And another. “Have you talked with Mom?”

He used his spoon to push around a piece of broccoli in his bowl. “We’ve texted a bit.”

“And?”

“And? When did you get so pushy?” He tried to make it sound light, but I knew he was uncomfortable.

“When my parents started living in different states,” I countered, and that took a bit out of his bravado. “So? How’s it going?”