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Chapter Fifty-Three

W hit opened the can of gelatinous cranberry sauce. Even though Clover had gone through all of the trouble to make homemade, which was her family’s preference, he knew his family would want canned.

Since Clover had visited her parents the week before, Whit had seen a change in her. She was a constant ray of sunshine from the minute she got up in the morning until she wished him a goodnight. At least that was how she acted around him. As she’d returned to her job at the flower shop, he hadn’t seen her nearly as much. But she was there for breakfast in the morning, and they had dinner together when they got home. Making up with her family had clearly been the missing piece in her life.

“Okay. The turkey is in the oven.” Clover mumbled to herself as she counted on her fingers a few feet away from him. “Mom is bringing the pies. Bread is proofing. The mashed potatoes are in the slow cooker. Cranberry sauce is in the fridge. Fruit cocktail is chilling. I’ll make the gravy when the turkey is done. What am I forgetting?”

“Did you make a list like I suggested?” Whit asked.

“I don’t need one,” Clover said. “I’ll remember.”

This was the fourth time Whit had heard his wife go through her list of things that needed to be finished. He’d secretly written them down just in case. But he didn’t need to consult the paper in his pocket to know what she’d forgotten.

“Did you set the table?”

“I want to take care of the food stuff first, but the table cloth and dishes are out there already.”

“Did you make the cheeseball and mustard dip?”

Clover beamed at him, a light in her eyes that he’d only noticed over the last week. The light was soft but warm, and it had the most curious effect on his heart. “You’re so smart, Husband! That’s what I forgot. Plus, I have to stuff the celery with cream cheese. Thank you.”

He tightened his grip on the can and spoon in his hands, resisting the sudden urge to wrap his arms around her just to feel her close to him.

Returning his attention to his task, he made sure to get every last speck of cranberry sauce from the can before putting the bowl in the fridge.

“Can I help with anything else?” he asked, watching Clover plop goat cheese and herbs into a mixing bowl.

“You can stuff the celery. Have you ever done it before?”

Whit shook his head. “No, but I think I can figure it out.”

“Great. Put them on a serving plate. Then cover them and put them back in the fridge.”

Whit returned to the fridge, grabbed the celery—which was already cut and soaking in a bowl of water—and a tub of pineapple cream cheese. He’d never had cream-cheese-stuffed celery before. The only appropriate toppings for celery to him were either ranch or peanut butter. But Clover had insisted it was delicious.

Taking up his butter knife, Whit went about his assignment at the counter beside Clover. She took a break from vehemently mashing the cheese and herbs together with a wooden spoon to check his progress.

She giggled. “They don’t have to be perfect.”

Whit frowned down at the two evenly stuffed celery sticks, each one with a smooth leveled-off top. “Why not do something to the best of your ability?”

Clover grinned at him, bumping him with her shoulder. “It will take you more time than necessary if you do it like that. Also, there isn’t enough cream cheese on them. Let me show you.”

Clover took the knife and celery stick he was holding and slathered more cream cheese onto it. It was chaotic and uneven, with way more cream cheese than celery, but Whit enjoyed watching her do it—the tip of her tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated.

“There.” She placed the finished stick next to the two he had done.

“I’ll try my best,” he remarked, picking up one of the finished ones to restuff it.

“I believe in you,” she encouraged with a smile. “Get crazy, go wild, see how much cream cheese it can hold before it falls over.”

“That is not sound life advice.”

“Of course, it is.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

She flashed him another grin. “The best kind.”

Whit smiled to himself. He agreed but wouldn’t tell her so.

As Clover carefully sculpted her cheeseball onto a small plate, Whit said, “After I’m done with this, I’ve got something for you.”

She glanced over at him. “Something for me? What?”

He kept his eyes on the celery in his hand. “It’s nothing big. I got a few picture frames. I thought you might want to include your family on the ancestor altar. We always set out a plate of food for them at big family dinners.”

Clover clicked her tongue softly, and Whit looked over at the sound. Her smile was warm and watery—touched. “That’s so nice of you. I’d love to do that. After I’m done with the mustard dip, I’ll go upstairs and grab some photos from one of my albums. Thank you, Husband.”

Picking up her cheeseball with one hand, she stroked his arm with the other as she passed him on the way to the fridge. Warmth radiated from the spot where she’d touched him so tenderly, spreading through his body. He’d always wondered what people meant when they said something made them feel warm and fuzzy, and now he knew. In that moment, everything was pink and hazy with a rosy glow.

Clover returned to his side and placed mustard, sugar, olive oil, and mayonnaise on the counter. “Okay. Last thing,” she told herself. “Then I can set the table.”

Her mustard dip didn’t take her very long. Whit was still filling celery by the time she was finished though he was nearly done. She’d been right, lack of precision did make the task go faster.