“Of course I do,” she said. “You want us to buy a house in Ardent Springs. That’s a big step. That deserves a response.”
He’d hoped her response would be a little more than “I don’t know what to say.”
“We don’t have to buy anything,” he said, turning to face her. “If you’re not ready—”
Snow set the flier on the counter as if it were on fire. “We’re not ready.”
Caleb ran a hand through his hair. “Will you at least look at it? For me?”
If she’d only walk through the front door, she’d see the life they could have. A married couple needed a place they could make their own. That was the rational next step. Caleb just had to convince her.
Snow looked as if he’d asked her to drink vinegar, but she said, “I’ll go, but I’m not making any promises.”
Chapter 23
By Thanksgiving morning, Snow had picked out paint colors, a new couch, and marked off where all the flower beds would be. She’d also earmarked several pieces from the store that would decorate her and Caleb’s first home.
Not that she’d agreed to buy the house. But she really wanted to buy the house. Damn the man for convincing her to look at it.
Though she regretted not spending the holiday with her family, knowing she’d be with them at Christmas made the day easier to get through. She’d called them first thing this morning and spoken to several relatives. Mama must have put them all on their best behavior, since no one gave Snow a hard time about her extended absence.
“Does this pie look burnt to you?” Caleb asked. He’d been fussing all morning, stressed about getting the pecan and apple pies just right. Apparently, knowing his would be measured against Lorelei’s grandmother’s concoctions turned her carefree husband into a frazzled mess.
Of course, he couldn’t be happy with an old-fashioned apple pie. Caleb’s pie had to include caramel. Her husband had a sweet tooth the length of Main Street, and he loved being in the kitchen almost as much as being elbow-deep under the hood of an old car.
Snow leaned over the warm pie and breathed deeply. “Lorelei is going to insist you give her the recipe for that,” she said. “And I’m tempted to cut the thing right now.”
“Don’t even think about it.” He covered the confection with aluminum foil before she could reach for a knife. “Grab a couple bath towels so we can get these over there without burning your lap along the way.”
“My lap?” Snow asked. Why couldn’t his precious pies ride in the backseat?
Caleb ripped another piece of foil. “I’m not taking the chance of these things flying around in the Jeep. One quick stop and they’ll be nothing but a pile of mush on the floor.”
He had a point. Snow retrieved two towels from the tiny linen closet in the bathroom.
“You know,” he said, helping her settle both pies across her lap, “next year, we could be the ones holding this dinner.”
Their eyes met, and Snow winced at the joy in Caleb’s eyes. “Like a real married couple,” she said, cutting her eyes away.
Dropping a kiss on her palm, he said, “I’m thankful I found you.”
“I am, too,” she said, her voice catching on the emotion. “Though I wish I’d never left in the first place.”
“But you got us here.” Caleb gave the pies one last check to ensure they wouldn’t move. “So none of that matters now.”
She wished none of it mattered, but there was still the issue of his mother, who had left Snow a less than friendly message the day before, reminding her that she expected her son to return home by Christmas. Alone.
Snow didn’t want to give her husband up to please the hateful woman, but she also had no idea how or when to make a full confession. What she did know was that she would not ruin Caleb’s Thanksgiving by clearing her conscience today.
“You ready?” he asked.
Coming back to the present, Snow held tight to each pie pan. “Ready and already getting warm thighs. Let’s get moving.”
Dinner was incredible. Rosie Pratchett, Lorelei’s grandmother, along with her friend Pearl Jessup and Lorelei, offered a feast like nothing Caleb had ever seen. He’d grown up with all the typical Thanksgiving staples, but his mother had never touched a ladle let alone prepared the home-cooked versions of what had been on the table today. Eight people had gathered at the Pratchett house to celebrate together, including Carrie, who could barely reach the table for her protruding belly, and Mike Lowry.
“I’m thinking I should have worn sweatpants to dinner,” Spencer said, leaning back in his chair with hands flat on his gut. “These women are trying to kill us.”