Page 71 of Campaign Season
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.Thenget 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.
