Clara stared.
“You had all this?”
He looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
“How much food was here before winter?”
“Enough for two years.”
She turned.
“You hoarded two years?”
“I don’t call it hoarding.”
“What do you call?”
“Planning.”
She stared.
Then laughed.
“You are worse than me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Caleb leaned against cellar door.
“The winter after mother died, father drank.”
“Forgot supplies.”
“We ran out in February.”
“I trapped squirrel.”
“Ate bark.”
Clara’s expression softened.
He continued.
“After that, I never let winter decide whether I ate.”
She understood.
Their fears were siblings.
Different houses.
Same blood.
She walked through cellar.
“Why didn’t you tell people before?”
“It was mine.”
He answered honestly.
“And people mocked me enough that I didn’t care if they prepared badly.”
Clara looked at him.
“What changed?”
“You.”
“That is too easy.”
“No.”
“You made me ashamed.”
She frowned.
“I did not try.”
“I know.”
“When I saw you opening your pantry to people who laughed at you, I realized I had spent twenty years being proud of not needing anyone.”
“That’s different from being good.”
Clara touched his beard.
“Caleb.”
He kissed her palm.
“I still don’t like most of them.”
She laughed.
“Good.”
“I was worried.”
They married in September.
Not because winter.
Not because gratitude.
Not because community expected.
Because one afternoon Clara stood in her kitchen and realized she was tired of watching him leave after supper.
She said:
“Move in.”
Caleb dropped spoon.
“What?”
“You heard.”
He stared.
“That proposal?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Move in.”
“What about marriage?”
She crossed arms.
“You proposing?”
“Yes.”
“That was poor.”
He laughed.
“I’ve been proposing for months.”
“You’ve been saying every winter.”
“That is proposal.”
“No.”
“Apparently.”
He walked around table.
Dropped to one knee.
Clara immediately started laughing.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I know.”
He took her hand.
“Clara Bennett.”
She waited.
He looked unexpectedly nervous.
“I don’t have ring.”