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Chapter Thirty-Nine

W hit’s jaw dropped open when he walked into the house. His stomach rolled. What had happened to his parlor? The place looked like a kindergarten classroom without the parental pride. A paper chain had been tacked— tacked into his pristine walls!—near the ceiling like a garland. It didn’t even go all the way around, stopping halfway and making the room look incomplete.

Clover bounced down the stairs, her flouncy skirt fluttering as she grinned at him.

“Surprise!” she said, coming toward him. She lifted her chin in pride, her hands on her hips as she surveyed her day’s work. “It’s my family’s tradition. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of junk mail, but I might be able to get it all the way around the room before Thanksgiving.”

She smiled over at him, but as she took in his expression, her smile faltered. “You hate it.”

He blinked, the disappointment in her voice shaking him from the shock at seeing his house so defiled. “No, no, I don’t hate it… I’m just surprised. You said you used junk mail?”

His voice didn’t sound convincing to his own ears, but she didn’t seem to notice because her smile returned.

She nodded. “Of course! I’m not going to waste paper. We usually save mail through the whole year just to see how long we can make it. So stop recycling it from now on.”

Whit imagined the ugly paper chain with its bits of different colored yarn hanging down around every room of his house. He internalized his groan.

She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Anyway, dinner is ready. I made Irish Stew. Oh! And I made cupcakes today as well.”

Seeing how happy her project made her, Whit wrestled with his own instincts. I told her this is her home from now on, too. There’s no way she could have known not to put tacks in the walls. If this is a family tradition, she has the right to do it here. But did she have to use tacks? I don’t even keep tacks in the house. Where did she even get them? She must be missing her family if she’s doing this now.

“How was your day?” Clover asked as she set a steaming bowl of stew in front of him.

“Busy, but not in a good way. Customers came in practically one at a time but didn’t buy much. So I didn’t get any back room stuff done and didn’t have the sales to compensate.”

Clover frowned in sympathy. “That stinks. I got some maybe good news, though.”

He glanced up from the potato on his spoon to look at her when she paused.

“Orion sent me an email with job listings for the brewery he works at. I’m not really qualified for most of them, but there’s one I might be able to do.”

Whit clenched his jaw as he replayed the last time he’d seen the man—the way he’d stood so close to Clover, the way he’d smiled at her. He forced his mouth open to shove the spoon in.

“It would be really great if I got a job someplace where I know someone. Then I could get a ride while I save up for a good car.”

Whit imagined her climbing into the car with Orion, smiling over at him as she thanked him for the ride. Even if they worked in different departments, they would probably have lunch together. Whit’s stomach burned, and he didn’t think it was from the hot stew.

“I thought you were going to wait a while before getting another job? Didn’t you want to adjust to all the changes?”

Clover pouted her lips, and the look disrupted the irritation growing in Whit’s gut.

“I was…but I mean, what am I supposed to do all day? I’m so used to being on the run. I can only cook and clean and do crafts so much. Plus, if I get used to a slower pace, what if I have a hard time adjusting when I do get another job?”

“Why don’t you come help out at the shop, then?”

Clover blinked rapidly. “At your antique shop?”

Whit shrugged. “You don’t have to do it every day. But you helping out at the counter would give me time to do the other things I need to do.”

Whit wasn’t prepared for the force of the smile she beamed at him. It hit him right in the chest.

“Okay!” she exclaimed, her excitement clear and infectious.

Whit’s pulse quickened.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly. Whit thanked Clover for making dinner and dessert, then helped her with the dishes.

Afterward, they moved to the parlor. Clover settled in the rocking chair while Whit sat on the couch. He picked up his latest little project—what would be a hand-whittled cat when he was done with it. Whittling wasn’t his favorite pastime, but it was a relaxing hobby. And his customers often purchased his carved animals.

“Do you mind if I put on one of my programs?” Clover asked him, her tablet in her lap.

“Go ahead. But don’t you want to use the television?”

Clover tilted her head. “This is easier.”

She tapped her tablet a few times, and then set it on the table as the sound of an old-time radio announcer came through the speaker.

“Old Dutch Cleanser, famous for chasing dirt, presents Nick Carter, famous for chasing crime.”

Organ music blared through the little speaker as Clover pulled a nearly finished sweater from her knitting basket.

Whit glanced at her. He didn’t think her program was an old radio crime drama. She’s full of surprises.

She grinned at him. “ Nick Carter, Master Detective is my favorite. Have you ever listened to radio dramas?”

Whit shook his head.

“They don’t always age well, but I still like them. Sometimes they have commercials for war bonds and stuff, too. It’s so interesting—like stepping into the past. You’ll love it since you like history.”