phone. When her hand came up empty, she slipped it back into her lap.
She gave him a fond smile. Ashleigh squeezed his hand with pride.
They were two peas in a pod.
Like mother, like daughter.
Er, scratch that thought.
“So is that your plan for the foreseeable future, Chip, flipping houses around Abingdon?” Chip’s father spoke through his mouthful of meat. Every face turned to the man who always filled up his chair, and the room, with his presence. “Seems to me it won’t take long to run out of business that way. After that fixing-upping show, everyone and their teenage daughter wants to be the next Chip and Joanna Gaines.”
“Of course that’s not the only plan,” his mother cut in. She held her hands open. “He has the whole world where he can expand. Marion, Bristol, Kingsport . . .”
“Have to have a contractor’s license for the Tennessee side, love,” his father replied. “And correct me if I’m wrong, Chip, but you don’t have one—”
“Well, he’ll just have to get one,” she replied before he could respond. She smiled through her perfectly white teeth. “Just like you did. Dear.”
Chip’s father paused midslice and took in his wife, who was sitting in the pole-straight posture reserved for civic meetings and tea with his mother.
“Yes.” He coughed. “Yes, of course he could. With that fancy education of yours, son, I’m sure you’re plenty used to taking tests. Probably mastered the art of passing them without studying. You’ll be spreading out to North Carolina and Kentucky before we know it.”
He smiled before returning his attention to the ham.
Right. Chip was probably the only man in America whose father was disappointed his son went to an Ivy League school instead of jumping into the family business.
His mother started to stand. “Did I forget the gravy boat?”
Chip jumped up before she could. “Let me get it for you.”
He pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The porcelain gravy boat sat squarely in the center of the kitchen’s island counter, and it took but a second to snag it and move back toward the dining room. His steps slowed, however, as he heard the conversation.
“What happened with the Lee Street estimate, Pete?” his father said.
“Too low. It was close, but we would’ve only hit 19 percent. Had to throw it back in the pond.”
There was silence, and Chip held his breath. C’mon, Dad. Will. David. Somebody.
Say it.
“So who’s going over to Davenport tomorrow?” his father continued.
Chip felt his heart fall.
Fine.
Nobody in his family was going to mention him, think of him, want to help him at all. Fine.
He could do this on his own. Yes. But it sure was hard to start. And though he’d never mentioned it to them, the savings he’d lost dropping his company and life in Providence cost him dearly. He wasn’t searching for a handout, but his financial situation was dire enough that he had hinted separately to every man in there that if they scouted out a job that didn’t hit the profit margin they wanted, they should pass it along to him. He didn’t have the overhead they had. What they couldn’t do, he could and then some. The favor wouldn’t cost them a penny.
But had any of them thrown him a bone?
Chip pushed the kitchen door open.
“Here ya go, Mom,” he said, then set the gravy boat beside her plate. He smiled down at her. “The potatoes are just as good without it, though.”
She squeezed his hand appreciatively. “Leave it to my son to know just what to say.”
“Chip the smooth-talking salesman,” Pete said. “Our sales are gonna drop 20 percent without him.”
The words were complimentary. The dry tone was not.
Chip pulled out his own chair. It was time to get off the subject of him. “Yeah, so what are you up to these days, Dad? I saw in the paper you all finished the King renovation last month.”
King University was last year’s prize build for McBride Construction, a multimillion-dollar build of a 67,000-square-foot student-center complex. They had declined all other incoming jobs. For the construction companies in the tri-cities area that had garnered those jobs, it was a banner year. Not that there were many in the new-construction business. Anderson Builds, Gilbane, ACL Construction, and of course, now, his.
“Speaking of, Dad,” Will interjected. “I saw your memo about the Barter bid. You can’t be serious about passing on it.”
Chip’s shoulders tensed. He turned his attention to his father.
The man shook his head. “Richardson’s too unpredictable. It’d be a