Page 8 of Our Now and Forever

Snow tossed the coat she’d removed over her desk. “And what is that?”

“No calling our marriage a farce. You have to give this a fair try, Snow.” Showing more vulnerability than he liked, Caleb added, “You owe me that much.”

She agreed with a nod, an unspoken apology flashing over her features.

As he watched her recount the drawer and complete her paperwork, Caleb let the relief come. He’d found her. She hadn’t left him for another man, and she’d agreed to give him a chance. Caleb had a month to bring his wife around to seeing things his way, and whatever it took, he’d do it. He had to or else go home, get a divorce, and prove his parents right.

That was not an option.

“I’m parked around the corner,” Snow said when she’d finished her closing paperwork. She flipped the switches that darkened the store except for the counter area, which remained illuminated. “You can follow me to my place.”

Caleb shook his head. “I don’t think so. Call me crazy, but I’m not giving you the chance to drive off in heaven knows what direction. You can ride with me.”

Snow bristled as they stepped through the exit. “I can drive myself.”

“Yeah,” he said as she locked the door. “Right across the state line. My Jeep is half a block down in front of the diner. Let’s go.”

She held her ground, staring hard but holding her tongue. He stared back, letting her know he could be as stubborn as she was. When Snow huffed and marched off toward his Jeep, Caleb enjoyed the minor victory.

Under normal circumstances, he’d have opened Snow’s door for her, but she was inside and in a full pout by the time he reached the vehicle. So long as she was going in the direction he wanted, Caleb saw no reason to look like a fool chasing her down the street.

As he climbed behind the wheel and latched his seat belt, Snow asked, “Why do you drive this thing?”

Caleb stared at her. “What’s wrong with my Jeep?”

“You’re rich, Caleb.” Snow tugged the seat belt strap over her right shoulder. “This thing must be like ten years old. Why don’t you drive something a rich guy would drive? Then maybe women like me wouldn’t be so surprised to learn you come from money.”

Since when did having money become a bad thing? “This Jeep is thirty years old, and it’s in mint condition. I drive it because I like it.” This Jeep carried some of the few positive memories Caleb had of family bonding, albeit bonding with an uncle instead of his father. Speaking of ... “And my father is rich, I’m not.”

Her brows shot up. “You have a trust fund.”

“So I’m not poor,” he conceded. “And I didn’t hear you complaining about me having too much money when you were buying a new wardrobe back in Baton Rouge.”

Not that he cared about Snow buying new clothes. As far as he was concerned, she could buy anything she wanted. But he’d spent enough years taking shit for his upbringing, which he’d had no control over, to let her throw it in his face now. And it wasn’t as if he’d intentionally kept his bank account a secret until they were married. The subject never came up.

Snow’s jaw twitched as she stared out the windshield. “Follow Main down to Butler, then make a right.”

Caleb put the Jeep in gear and did as ordered. He didn’t like arguing about money, and fought the urge to apologize for his words. But if she’d left him because of his money, how was he supposed to fix that? Give all his money away and become penniless? Then what kind of a life would they have?

“Turn left up here on Fair,” Snow said after he’d made the turn onto Butler. “The house is the third one down on the right. Pull into the drive and go all the way back.”

As he followed her directions, Caleb’s jaw dropped. The white Victorian was huge. The sweeping front porch with its ornate rail ran the length of the structure, and his headlights illuminated a row of rockers to the right of the front door.

This place was straight out of the antebellum South and screamed old money. What kind of a game was his wife playing?

“You live here?” he asked, the questions building in his mind by the second.

“Pull to the left in front of the garage,” she said, ignoring his inquiry.

The garage, a three-car monstrosity, looked as elaborately decked out as the house. He’d bet his inheritance that the building had been a carriage house long before anyone had heard of Henry Ford.

Following Snow’s lead, who’d bolted from the Jeep the moment he’d cut the engine, Caleb stepped onto the gravel drive, then threw his head back to see the entire house. It was at least three stories, maybe four including an attic, which this place probably had. Didn’t they keep the kids up there in the old days?

It wasn’t until Snow said, “In here,” that he glanced down to see her passing through a garden gate toward a one-level extension on the back of the building.

He caught up and followed her up the stairs, expecting to step into a large kitchen. Instead, he entered what looked like a small room that progressed into a kitchenette area straight out of a decorating magazine. An old-fashioned stove sat on the left wall. Along the back was a counter with a centered sink and two windows above it. The only cupboards were those beneath, and all Caleb could think was where would you put stuff?

The kitchen back home was larger than these two rooms combined. Everything in sight was white, except for the occasional touch of color. A red apple orchard sign on a shelf over the kitchen windows. Blue canisters along the left side of the counter. A green throw over the short white couch, and a burst of flowers in the painting to his right.

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