Chapter 4
Mark Clemons knew how many trucks belonged in his parents’ drive on Sunday evening.
His father’s old pickup sat in its usual spot beside the garage where he could get to it before daylight without backing around anyone.
His mother’s SUV was parked nearer the porch because she claimed groceries counted as cargo and should not be hauled any farther than necessary.
Julia’s blue truck was angled at the edge of the gravel like she had arrived in a hurry.
Knowing her, she probably had. Thomas had parked too close to the mesquite tree again.
James had left his tailgate down, and Samuel’s truck sat halfway over the grass because the youngest Clemons had never met a parking space he respected.
Somehow, everyone had made it. Dinner was going to be a loud affair.
Mark cut the engine and watched the warm light spill from the kitchen windows. The porch had been swept, a wreath was already on the front door, and the curtains glowed gold from the lamps inside. He could smell roast beef before he reached the steps.
Mark stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
The house smelled like roast beef, fresh bread, and whatever dessert Julia had spent all afternoon protecting. Voices carried easily from the kitchen and dining room, overlapping the way they always did when all five Clemons children ended up under the same roof.
“Samuel, if your truck is still in Mama’s flower bed, I’m not helping you explain it,” Julia was saying.
“It’s not in the flower bed.”
Mark hung his jacket on the coat rack and shook his head. He knew better than to get involved.
“Half the tire is in the flower bed.” She sounded vindicated.
Samuel lowered his voice. “The flower bed’s mostly dirt right now.”
Their mama’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “The flowers are dormant.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mark followed the familiar sounds down the hallway.
The dining room table was already set. His mother moved between the kitchen and dining room carrying a basket of rolls while his father stood near the stove with a carving knife in one hand.
Julia guarded a trifle on the counter like someone might try to steal it.
Thomas leaned against the refrigerator talking instead of helping, and Samuel had apparently abandoned the flower-bed debate in favor of sampling carrots from a vegetable tray.
Nothing changed around here.
Mark had just stepped into the kitchen when James backed into him carrying a bowl of green beans.
“Watch it,” Mark said, catching James by the shoulder before the bowl tilted.
James glanced back with a grin. “You’re late.”
“I’m on time.”
“Father’s carving the roast.”
“That doesn’t mean dinner started.”
“Tell that to Samuel. He was eating fifteen minutes ago.” James nodded toward the dining room. “Go tell Samuel his truck is blocking half the yard.”
“I’m not involving myself in that.”
“Coward.”
“Experienced,” Mark corrected, and James laughed as he carried the green beans into the dining room.
His mama looked up. “There you are. Wash your hands and grab the extra chairs from the mudroom.”
“Extra chairs?” Mark moved to the sink when Thomas stepped aside.
“Julia brought dessert, which means she’ll insist it needs its own place on the table.”
Julia appeared in the doorway with both hands on her hips. “It’s a trifle, Mama. It cannot be shoved beside the potatoes like an afterthought.”
Thomas leaned toward Mark and lowered his voice. “She’s been like this for twenty minutes.”
Julia pointed at him. “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to.”
Mark washed his hands, drying them on the towel his mother tossed his way. “I’ll get the chair.”
“Two,” his mama said, “and don’t let James sit in the one with the wobble. He rocks back, and one of these times, it’ll break under him.”
From the dining room, James called, “I heard my name.”
“Then sit properly,” their mama called back without missing a beat.
“If he breaks it, he deserves to fall,” Julia said.
“We can save him from himself,” their mama said. “Besides, do you think I want to replace the chair?”
“I’m sure Mr. Dixon will fix it,” Mark pointed out.
“He’s always so busy,” their mama murmured. “I don’t want to add more to his plate.”
Mark shrugged, retrieved two chairs from the mudroom, and carried them into the dining room.
The table already looked like it had surrendered.
Roast beef sat in the center on a platter, surrounded by mashed potatoes, green beans, glazed carrots, fresh rolls, gravy, cranberry relish because Mama insisted it belonged beyond Thanksgiving, and Julia’s trifle at the far end like a state secret.
By the time everyone sat, the table was crowded enough that elbows became a negotiation.
Their father bowed his head, and the conversation quieted immediately.
“Lord,” his father prayed, voice steady and familiar, “thank You for this food, for the hands that prepared it, for this family gathered around the table, and for another season to remember Your goodness. Bless those who don’t have a table like this tonight and show us where we can be useful. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone answered.
Immediately, James reached for the rolls at the same time Samuel reached for the potatoes.
Julia scolded Thomas for taking too much gravy before everyone had some.
Mama told Mark to take a bigger piece of roast because he worked too hard to eat like a bird.
Their father placed another slice on Mark’s plate before Mark could argue.
“Subtle,” Mark said, looking at the roast.
Father passed him the gravy. “Your mother gave me the look.”
“I did no such thing,” Mama said while giving their father the exact look in question.
Samuel laughed into his tea.
Julia pointed her fork toward him. “Don’t laugh. Mama gave you that look last week when you tried to claim crackers counted as lunch.”
“They did count as lunch.”
“They counted as evidence of poor judgment,” their mama interjected.
“See?” Julia said. “Mama agrees with me.”
“Mama agrees with proper nutrition,” Samuel argued.
Thomas leaned back in his chair, expression solemn. “I think we can all agree Samuel should not be trusted with meals, vehicles, or electrical wiring.”
Samuel stared at him. “Only one string of lights sparked.”
“It smoked,” James said. “It was dangerous.”
“It was unplugged!”
“Eventually,” Julia said.
Mark ate his roast and let the argument move around him.
The dining room held the full weight of their family’s history—the scrape on the baseboard from the year Thomas had tried to bring a calf inside during a freak freeze, the faint nick on the table from Julia’s attempt to carve a pumpkin with a kitchen knife, the cabinet door that never closed quite right because James and Samuel had once slammed into it while wrestling over the last cinnamon roll.
He knew every mark in the room. Every story. Every rhythm.
Samuel had been assigned parking duty for the Christmas Festival, which seemed to offend him less than the fact that everyone assumed he belonged there.
“You do have a gift for making people move along,” James said.
Samuel looked up from his plate. “That was one time.”
“Mrs. Barlow still remembers the confused armadillo comment.”
Samuel’s ears reddened. “She parked across two spaces.”
Their mama lifted her napkin and covered a smile. “She was your Sunday school teacher for three years and deserves more respect than to have her parking compared to an armadillo, Samuel, especially giving your track record with parking jobs.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. I said it respectfully.”
Father shook his head, but his mouth twitched. “Son, there is no respectful version of confused armadillo.”
Thomas pointed his fork toward the far side of the table. “Put Samuel at parking. If he insults enough people, they’ll leave faster and free up spaces.”
“That would be efficient,” Mark said.
Samuel looked betrayed. “You too, Mark?”
Mark glanced toward the window. “You and parking… You have a truck on the grass, and your back tire is still in Mama’s flower bed.”
Samuel stopped chewing. “I was going to move it after dinner.”
Julia laughed. “You’ve been saying that for an hour.”
Their mama set down her fork. “Samuel.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Move it after dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
James leaned over to Mark. “You saved the flower bed.”
“I saved Samuel’s life.”
His father passed Mark the rolls again. “Take another one for that.”
Mark took one because arguing would only delay the inevitable.
The teasing shifted, as it always did, from one sibling to another.
Thomas got questioned about a calf that had gotten loose under his watch at Shooting Star Canyon Ranch, where all the siblings worked.
Their father still helped there whenever he had time, which wasn’t all that often anymore.
James got reminded that he had promised to haul chairs for the church Christmas concert and could not suddenly claim ignorance.
Julia defended her trifle from “uncultured men” who thought dessert should come in pie form.
Samuel argued that if the Lord hadn’t wanted people eating dessert before dinner, He would not have invented taste buds.
Through it all, Mark ate, laughed when required, and added a comment when someone deserved one.
Then Julia’s attention landed on Thomas. “So,” she said, spearing a carrot, “are you going to ask Cassidy Monroe to the Christmas dance, or are we all supposed to keep pretending you don’t look at her every time she sings at church?”
Thomas nearly dropped his fork. “I do not.”
James grinned. “You absolutely do.”
“I look at the choir.”
“Which is where Cassidy is,” Samuel said.
Julia leaned forward. “She smiled at you last Sunday.”
“She smiles at everyone.”
“She didn’t smile at me,” James said.
“That’s because she has standards,” Thomas muttered.
Their father laughed into his tea, and Mama gave Thomas the kind of interested, gentle look that had terrified all of them at one point or another.
“I think Cassidy is lovely,” she said.
Thomas groaned. “Mama.”