them. The agitation in her heart right then could match Jolene’s for sure. She was tired of this roaming thing. She wanted her roots back.
Tucker was in the denial stage on Monday. On Tuesday, he went to the anger stage. He was mad at Jolene for treating him like she had her mother. She had no rights over his life, even if he shouldn’t have gotten so drunk that he passed out on the floor. Maybe he should get some painter’s tape and divide the inn into two sections. He’d tell her what he did on his half of the inn was his business and not a damn bit of hers.
On Wednesday he woke up thinking about Melanie. They’d had arguments, but they’d always settled things before bedtime, usually with some pretty fantastic makeup sex. The next couple of days, they might walk on a few eggshells around each other, but always by the end of the third day they’d be right back on familiar ground.
This was the third day since Jolene had said, “Prove it.”
The sun had come out the day before, and the temperature jacked up thirty degrees, from freezing on Monday to sixty on Tuesday. That was Texas weather for sure—Tucker wished it was Jolene weather, too. She was still hovering down there around the freezing point.
The first bedroom was finished except for the border, and that was waiting to be picked up at the paint store in Marshall. Jolene had bought new sheets and bedspreads from a wholesale company online. That day they were in the process of hanging drywall in the second bedroom. The bathroom was in place and the closet framed out. This one was going faster than the first one, but then that’s what usually happened—after the first, Tucker knew all the little quirks of the house.
Jolene did what needed to be done or what he needed her to do, most of the time before he even asked. But before it had been fun, and now it was a job. At midmorning, he finally had had enough. He felt bad enough about her having to walk in the bad weather, and then to find him passed out on the floor. But she wouldn’t even look him in the eye after two whole days. Anger, hissy fits, even throwing things he could deal with—but the disappointment in her eyes was killing him.
“So how long are we going to keep this up?” he asked.
“I suppose until we get the remodeling done,” she answered.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he shot back.
“We haven’t even gotten past one weekend yet, so who knows?” She shrugged.
There was only one thing to do if he wanted things back on the footing they’d had before. That was to show her that he wasn’t a drunk. He didn’t have to have liquor or beer. It was simply a numbing agent for the pain. He’d prove to her that he could do without it just to show her that he wasn’t like her mother or that rotten Johnny Ray.
She finished what she was doing and left without saying a word. He put in the last small piece of drywall and started down to the kitchen. When he was halfway down the stairs, he caught a whiff of pot roast and his stomach growled. It wasn’t nearly noon, but he’d gotten spoiled with midmorning snacks. He found her sitting at the table poring over a set of big clothbound books filled with tidy handwriting.
“What are those things?” he asked.
“Aunt Sugar’s ledgers. She kept track of the business transactions by hand. We really should start using a computer program. The books say this place is a gold mine, if we recoup the loss due to the place getting run-down. And that’s drawing the equivalent of a teacher’s salary for each of us.”
Teacher. Melanie. Why did she have to use that for a gauge?
“Do we really need that much of a salary? If we took out less, we could get it paid back quicker and then share the profits at the end of each year.” He put the last slice of something she called hummingbird cake on a paper plate.
“Go ahead and finish that off. I had ice cream for my break,” she said without looking up.
He got a glass of sweet tea and carried it and the plate to the table. Finally, they were talking about something, and her expression had changed from disappointment to excitement. “So do we need an office? Anything we