Page 23 of Campaign Season (By Design #18)

Chapter

Eight

The kitchen table was crowded, every chair filled.

The air felt thinner without Jonathan. Plates of eggs, toast, and pancakes sat half-eaten, coffee cooling in mugs that remained full.

Family gatherings usually carried lively energy—plans being made, kids interrupting with laughter, Jameson and Michelle teasing each other, and Pearl rolling her eyes. This morning, the rhythm faltered.

Michelle absently stirred her coffee. Marianne pushed syrup around her plate without touching it. Jonah stared at the folded newspaper beside his fork, not really reading. Even the children’s chatter was softer, as if they’d absorbed the mood of the adults.

Candace watched it all in silence, her fork idle in her hand.

She’d expected the ache—Jonathan’s absence at the head of the table was unavoidable—but the stillness pressed on her chest. He would have hated it, she thought.

He would have teased them for moping and reminded them that a holiday wasn’t meant for silence.

Jameson caught her gaze, lifted an eyebrow, and tipped her head toward the kids’ end of the table, where Brody was stacking blueberries into a precarious tower. Candace’s lips curved faintly. Yes. Jonathan would have wanted laughter.

She cleared her throat softly. “Well,” she said, her voice cutting gently through the quiet, “if Jon were here, he’d tell us we’re the sorriest bunch he ever saw. And then he’d eat the last pancake just to prove a point.”

The corners of Michelle’s mouth twitched. Marianne chuckled under her breath. Brody looked up, grinning.

"Yes, he would," Pearl agreed. "And he'd skip out on helping with the dishes."

Candace laughed. "That's a fact."

"Which none of you are doing," Pearl added. "Don't we have a Christmas tree to cut down?"

"We do," Jameson said.

"Like with an axe?" JJ asked, eyes wide.

"More like with a saw," Jameson said.

"Oh," JJ groaned.

"You can help me cut some wood for the fireplace," Jonah told JJ.

"Me too!" Brody said.

"We'll take turns," Jonah said. "If you want to help with the wood, get your coats."

Chairs slid out, scraping the floor.

"Clean off your plates and take them to the sink first," Jonah said. "Wash your hands. Then get your jackets on."

"Sucker," Jameson whispered.

"Jonah," Laura said. "You're not really going to let them chop wood?"

Jonah shrugged. "Don't worry. Dad taught me when I was about four. There's a small axe that's dull out in the barn. It wouldn't cut a stick, but they'll have fun."

The scraping of chairs and the thud of little feet broke the spell. Excitement replaced the hush, coats were tugged from hooks, and voices overlapped as the kids debated who would get the first swing at the “axe.”

Michelle rose, gathering plates from the younger end of the table. “If we don’t clear this mess now, we’ll come back to syrup cement.”

“I’ll grab the coffee cups,” Marianne said, reaching for her mother’s mug.

Candace caught her hand. “Leave that one. I’m still working on it.”

“Fine. But don’t blame me when it glues itself to the table.”

The bustle of clearing dishes and wiping the table began, the familiar choreography of family life falling into place without thought. Cooper and Spencer pitched in, carrying stacks of plates to the sink before dashing back toward the door.

Pearl slipped beside Candace at the counter, drying a plate Michelle handed off. She winked. “Some things never change, do they?”

Candace exhaled, watching the swirl of motion around her—the laughter, the teasing, the clatter of dishes, the thundering footsteps overhead. “No,” she said softly. “And thank God for that.”

Pearl patted her hand before reaching for another dish. "Let's just hope the only thing Jameson cuts with that saw is a tree."

Candace howled. "One can only hope."

The rumble of voices from outside the front door reached the kitchen, followed by a muffled thud against the doorframe.

“Pivot left!” Scott barked.

“I am pivoting left!” Jameson shot back. “If I pivot any farther left, I’ll be outside again.”

Marianne appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and grinning. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

Another thump followed, accompanied by the distinct scrape of bark against wood.

“Hold it steady!” Scott shouted.

“I’m holding it steady! You try wrestling a twelve-foot spruce through a door made for normal people!”

The tip of the tree suddenly lurched into the room, scattering needles across the floor as Jameson’s muffled voice rang out: “Okay, I’m officially stuck!”

Candace set down her coffee cup and shook her head, her lips twitching. “Of course you are.”

Michelle groaned dramatically from the sofa. “Every year. Every single year.”

Brody and JJ raced to the door, hopping with excitement. “Can we help? Can we help?”

“No!” came Scott’s emphatic reply. “The last thing I need is more elbows in my ribs.”

Jameson’s head finally appeared around a branch, her hair dusted with pine needles. She gave Candace a sheepish grin. “Honey, a little help?”

Candace arched a brow. “Should I call the fire department, or do you want to keep pretending you’ve got this under control?”

That earned a ripple of laughter from the whole room.

“Just… guide the top!” Jameson called, her voice muffled again as the tree pressed her back against the frame. “If we can get it angled, we’re in.”

“Or you could just cut it down to size before dragging it inside,” Michelle muttered, earning an approving nod from Marianne.

“Blasphemy!” Jameson hollered. “It’s perfect .”

Candace sighed, shaking her head as she moved toward the door, a smile tugging at her lips. “Every year,” she murmured, “at least you didn't fall off any ladders."

"I fell once!" Jameson exclaimed. "And I was under the tree, Candace. How would I fall?"

"Good thing it didn't fall on you," Michelle said.

"Not helping, Shell."

Pearl entered the room and shook her head. "Every year. When are you going to learn to get a smaller tree?"

Another shove, another thump, and still the tree refused to cooperate.

“Angle it left!” Michelle called.

“Your left or my left?” Jameson’s muffled voice came from somewhere behind the wall of pine branches.

“Pull up the bottom!” Jonah barked.

“I am pulling up the bottom!” Scott grunted, wedged against the trunk. “It’s her up top that’s the problem.”

“Excuse me?” Jameson’s voice shot back. “I’m stuck in the doorway!”

Candace leaned against the counter, arms folded, shaking her head with a chuckle. “Every year,” she mumbled again, though her eyes shone with affection.

The kids were no help, shrieking with laughter and running circles around the adults. Brody and Amanda shouted instructions like referees at a chaotic sporting event. Even Pearl was laughing, rolling her eyes at the unfolding chaos.

Finally, with a dramatic grunt and a spray of needles, the tree lurched forward another foot—dragging Jameson with it. She stumbled in, jeans smeared with dirt, twigs poking out of her collar, and pine needles sticking out of her hair like makeshift ornaments.

Candace’s laughter deepened, warm and fond. She shook her head. "You’re a mess.”

Jameson gave a triumphant grin, brushing her hands off her thighs. “But the tree’s in.”

“Barely,” Scott muttered.

Jonah clapped his hands like a foreman. “All right. Let’s get this beast in the stand before we lose the rest of the wallpaper.”

The kids darted to fetch towels for the dripping trunk, Pearl directed traffic toward the attic for ornament boxes, Michelle fussed about the vacuum, while Melanie corralled the little ones out of harm’s way.

In the middle of it all, Candace stepped close, plucking a pine needle from Jameson’s hair. Then another. And another.

Jameson stilled, tilting her head slightly toward Candace’s fingers. Their eyes met, the noise fading into the background.

Candace smiled softly, brushing a twig off Jameson’s shoulder. “Every year,” she said again, her eyes glistening.

Jameson’s grin softened into something quieter, more vulnerable. “And every year, it’s worth it.”

Jonah called out for someone to hold the trunk steady, and the chaos surged again. But Candace lingered, her hand resting on Jameson’s shoulder, savoring the comfort of this imperfect, noisy, familiar normal.

"You wanted an asylum," Jameson said.

Candace shook her head. "Good thing I married a lunatic."

"JD!" Michelle called. "Stop making googly eyes at Mom and help us!"

Candace chuckled. "That's you."

Jameson snuck a kiss and darted away.

Pearl wrapped an arm around Candace. "I can't remember this place without her," she said.

Candace smiled. "Let's hope we never have to."

It had been a long day, filled with laughter and teasing. The house was quiet, the way it always was after a long holiday meal. The kids had all gone upstairs, though the faint rumble of protest still carried down the staircase.

“Brush your teeth!” Marianne’s voice called from the bottom of the staircase.

A chorus of groans answered, followed by giggles that drifted into the living room.

Marianne appeared briefly in the doorway, her smile tired but warm. “You two coming up?”

“In a bit,” Candace replied, lifting the glass of wine in her hand. “I think I’ll finish this first.”

Jameson raised an eyebrow. “Translation: she’s perfectly comfortable right here.”

Candace leaned more firmly into her side. “Guilty.”

“Don’t stay up too late.”

"Leave them down there, Marianne!" Michelle called out. "I'm too tired, and it's too cold to find Jonah's tent."

Marianne laughed.

"I swear, she should just rent a billboard for Bible Study," Jameson grumbled.

Marianne and Candace exchanged a smile.

"Good night," Marianne said.

"Good night, sweetheart."

"Night, Marianne," Jameson said.

The fire cracked softly, its dwindling flames casting a glow across the room. The clamor of the day—children racing through hallways, voices raised in laughter, and lively debate—had faded into memory.

Candace sipped her wine and exhaled slowly, her cheek pressed against Jameson’s shoulder. She looked over at the twinkling lights on the tree. "You're right. It is perfect."

"Worth a little effort, isn't it?"

Candace shifted to look at Jameson.

"What?" Jameson asked.

"Yes," Candace said. "It's worth all the effort—and the inevitable mess."

"Are we still talking about the tree?"

"It applies." Candace took a deep breath. "Jon would have loved today."

"Oh, I think he was here."

"Do you?"

"Sure. I don't know. I thought about Rick today—and Craig. Maybe that's because they were nearby, or maybe it's their invitation to visit. I don't know. I don't think they're really gone."

Candace set down her glass, leaned forward, and kissed Jameson. She went to brush Jameson's hair aside and found a lost pine needle. She shook her head affectionately. "Every year," she whispered.

Jameson shrugged and pulled Candace back into her arms.

"Candace?"

"Hm?"

"Shouldn't we say our evening prayers?"

Candace laughed softly.

"What would you prefer? Our Father or Hail Mary?"

"Let's leave our fathers out of it. Mary?—"

Candace whacked Jameson's arm. "Close your eyes, you lunatic."

"You want to sleep here."

No reply.

"Candace?"

Candace bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"Candace?"

Nothing.

Jameson sighed and closed her eyes. "Every year," she mumbled.

To Be Continued In

Checks and Balances