“I’m really sorry, Caleb,” Snow said. “I never wanted things to go this far.”
He dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “None of this was your fault, darling. She made her bed.”
“You really think this is the end of it?” Hattie asked. “She doesn’t seem like the type to give up this easy.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Caleb had made up his mind. Cutting the cord was something he should have done long ago. “It’s over for me.” Ignoring the pain in his chest, he said, “Now we can get on with our lives.”
“Speaking of that,” Snow said, following Hattie back into the sitting room. “What did all that ‘He’ll have a company’ stuff mean?”
That morning, Hattie had expressed an interest in eventually handing the paper over to Caleb. He’d been flattered, but hesitant. Interning with his father and selling ads for a few weeks at the Advocate didn’t exactly qualify him to run the entire ship. If, at a later date, he felt qualified, Caleb would consider it.
“It’s only an idea for now,” Hattie said. “Your husband is being stubborn, but I’ll wear him down.”
Snow returned to her seat on the colorful couch and said, “I’m sorry we lied to you about being married.”
Hattie brushed off the apology. “You had your reasons. I’m just glad you kids worked it out, especially considering what you were up against.”
Taking his hand and pulling Caleb down beside her, Snow said, “My husband gets the credit for that. When I think of what I almost lost, I want to kick myself.”
“You were a bit annoying in the beginning,” he said, giving her a heartfelt smile. “It’s a good thing I don’t give up easy.”
“I’d like to think I was worth the trouble.” Her amber eyes revealed she already knew the answer. “Wait,” she said, sitting up straight. “Your birthday is Monday. I almost forgot.”
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “We’ve never technically been together on my birthday.”
“Then I suggest you make this a good one, my dear.” Hattie leaned back in the chair Vivien had vacated. “It’s been a long time since this house hosted a party. You’re welcome to change that.”
Twisting her lips, Snow looked to be considering the idea. Then she gave him a look that said this birthday was going to be a good one.
“Thank you, Miss Hattie, but this year, I think we’ll keep it a quiet night for two.”
With a knowing chuckle, the older woman said, “Smart woman.”
By the time they’d finished eating Caleb’s birthday dinner of Granny’s fried chicken, which Snow proudly made all by herself, she had nearly talked herself out of giving Caleb his gift. When she’d come up with the idea and Spencer had generously agreed to help her out, Snow had been excited to see his face. Now she wasn’t so sure. What if he hated it? What if he expected something else?
“What are you fretting about over there?” Caleb asked, tapping his fork on Snow’s plate to get her attention.
“I’m fine,” she said a little too quickly. “No fretting at all.”
“You really are a terrible liar,” he said.
Giving her husband a narrow-eyed glare, she said, “Fine.” Snow reached under the end table on her side of the couch and pulled out a long box. “This is for you.” Before he could take the gift, she pulled it back. “But if you hate it, you have to tell me.”
Caleb reached for the box. “I’m not going to hate it.”
“I mean it.” She struggled for a few seconds before surrendering the present. “I won’t be mad if you don’t like it.”
“Let me have my present, woman,” he said, ripping into the balloon-covered paper like a little boy on Christmas morning. Once he’d loaded her lap with shredded balloons, Caleb opened the end of the box and peered inside. “What is it?”
“Take it out and you’ll see,” she said, anxiety making her words sharper than necessary.
Turning his attention her way, he said, “Is that any way to talk to the birthday boy?”
“You’re killing me.” Snow pulled her legs beneath her, sending the paper onto the floor. “Let’s forget it. I’ll get you something else.”
“Now I’m really curious.” Caleb tilted the box until the triangular block of mahogany slid into his hand. Turning it over, he stared at the metal plate across the front that read his name. “It’s a nameplate.”
“For your desk,” she said, as if this wasn’t obvious. He continued to stare as if waiting for the sliver of wood to do a trick. “You don’t like it.”