Home At Last Page 4

  He thought about Shayla and how different she’d seemed this afternoon compared to this morning when she’d looked like she wanted to kill him. There was something about her that drew him. And had from the first time he’d ever spoken to her. He didn’t think it was his imagination that she felt it too. There was definitely a spark there.

  He pulled into the parking lot at work and tried to shift gears and quit thinking about the events of the day. That was one thing he liked about his job: it required a measure of concentration that kept him from dwelling on any problems he might have.

  Not that he had anything to complain about. He’d had a lot of good things happen in his lifetime, and he’d lived long enough to recognize that not everyone was blessed with the kind of life he enjoyed. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing in his life. Something the rest of his family had because they had families. He wasn’t necessarily lonely. He had plenty of friends, and he spent more time than most people with his family. There were a lot of them and they were a noisy bunch.

  No, it wasn’t loneliness exactly. It was that thing about not having any one person in the world you loved above all others—and who loved you above all others. Whenever he heard that Scripture verse in Genesis where God said, “it is not good for man to be alone.” He got that.

  “Hey, Whitman.”

  Link waved across the parking lot at Isaiah Ruiz, one of his favorite guys on the evening crew. “Hey, Izz. Hold up.”

  He jogged to catch up with his friend, glad for a change of subject. It was not good for man to think too hard about being alone.

  ***

  From her uncomfortable vantage point on her hands and knees on the guest room carpet, Audrey looked up at her husband. “What on earth could they have spilled that refuses to come out? It’s almost like paint. Or the world’s largest lipstick.”

  “Well, don’t kill yourself trying to get it out. We have scraps of that carpet. It won’t be that big of a deal to cut a patch out and replace it.” Grant tossed a pillowcase onto the pile of dirty linens, then began stripping off the rest of the bedding.

  “Not those, Grant! Put that sham back on. I don’t wash the decorative pillows.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not every time. We’d be replacing them twice a year if I washed these every time.”

  He acknowledged her with a grunt and struggled to put the sham back on the feather pillow.

  The kids would all be here Tuesday night for the every-other-weekly family dinner and she had a hundred things to get done before then. And a full house of guests every night until then. In fact, tonight’s guests would be arriving any minute now.

  She threw down the brush she’d been scrubbing with and struggled to her feet. “Here. Give me that.” She took the pillow and sham from him. Maybe a little too roughly. She picked two dog hairs from the fabric. “Did somebody let Huck up here?”

  When Grant didn’t answer she shook out the pillow sham and muttered between clenched teeth. “Why is that stupid dog shedding so much? It’s November. Isn’t he supposed to be growing a coat, not shedding one?”

  She looked at Grant, half expecting him to answer her question.

  But he only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’m not shedding.”

  “Ha ha.” He was not going to humor her out of this.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help. What else do you need me to do?”

  “It would take me longer to give you the list than to just do it myself.”

  “Not exaggerating or anything, are we?” He threw her that look that pushed all her buttons.

  “You want to know what you can do to help? You can call the kids and tell them not to come Tuesday.”

  He stared at her as if trying to figure out whether she was serious or not.

  “I can’t do everything, Grant! I’ve got two rooms to get ready and I haven’t even started thinking about what I’m going to make for dinner Tuesday. Never mind getting the house ready.”

  “You don’t have to serve a gourmet meal, you know. The kids would be fine with peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I am not going to serve peanut butter and jelly to my family!” Was he nuts?

  “Okay, pizza then. We can call and order it and have Link pick it up on his way out.”

  “I doubt he’s coming. At least not in time for dinner. He said he was picking up extra shifts until after Christmas.”

  “Then Dallas and Danae can pick it up. You don’t have to knock yourself out every week.”

  “Really? That’s funny because you were the one who came up with this bright idea.”

  “What bright idea? Do you mean our Tuesday night family dinners?”

  Great, stick the knife of guilt in and turn it. But the edge that had come into his voice told her she’d better back off. Grant was a good, kind man, but if she pushed him to a certain point, he kicked into defensive mode and quit being rational.

  Well, she was tired of always having to be the rational one. And this innkeeping business was going to be the death of her. If she kept things up with the inn, her family—her kids and grandkids—got the short shrift. If she did right by her family, their guests at the inn got less than pristine lodging—and coffee cake from a bakery. Granted, a good bakery, but when the inn’s website advertised “homemade” it didn’t seem right.

  She willed herself to temper her words. “I can’t do it all, Grant. I just can’t. I can barely keep up with the day-to-day stuff, and with Christmas barreling down on us, I don’t see how I can possibly—”

  “What do you want me to do about it?” His glare demanded an answer.

  “I never said I wanted you to do anything about it. I’m not looking for you to fix it. I’m just trying to tell you why I’m struggling.” Tears of frustration pressed against the back of her eyelids, and she turned away so he wouldn’t see them, pretending to straighten the embroidered runner on top of the dresser.

  “I’ve told you before I can help out more with the food and cleanup and—”

  “That’s not the point!” She whirled to face him, not caring now if he saw her tears. “You are not hearing me!”

  “What? I’m listening.” He held out his arms as if there was something in that stance that would prove to her that he understood.

  But he didn’t. He was clueless. Recent history told her exactly how it would go down: Grant would force her to give him a list. He’d tell her half the things on the list weren’t even important. Then he’d do two little errands for her, and that was supposed to fix everything.

  She pressed her hands together and worked to even her tone. “I need to not have Tuesday night dinners for a while. At least not until after the holiday—”

  “What?” He started shaking his head before she’d even finished her sentence. “We already cut back to every other week. That is not something I’m willing to give up altogether, Audrey. We can do carryout pizza. Or cut back on bookings if that will help but—”

  “We can’t afford to cut back on bookings. If anything, we need to start booking on Tuesday nights.” Her voice cranked up an octave.

  “We’ve been doing just fine without that income.”

  She flashed him a look meant to convey a rather snarky, “Seriously?” She took a breath, willing herself to remain calm, then chose her words carefully. “You must have a different definition of ‘just fine’ than I do.”

  “The bills are paid. We’re not starving. The cars run. Both of them.”

  “And we’ll never retire.” In the last month alone, they’d spent an extra six hundred dollars on household repairs.

  Grant studied her, gauging, she knew, how close she was to a meltdown.

  He apparently thought one was imminent because he tossed aside the throw pillows he’d been holding and drew her into his arms. “Talk to me, babe. Why are you freaking out like this?”

  She stiffened, not quite ready for the “easy” solution she knew he was likely to offer—simply to
not face the real issues. She wriggled out of his embrace, but reached up to kiss his cheek. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just mad at the situation. We’ll talk about it later. I don’t have time right now.”

  His jaw tensed. “Okay. I’m making an executive decision. We’ll iron things out later. But I’m ordering ahead for Tuesday: six large pizzas. And tonight, you are going to go take a much-deserved soak in the tub.” He grasped her shoulders and directed her toward the door.

  She released a hot breath of frustration and let him steer her into the hall. “I’ll take you up on the pizza, and I’ll take a rain check on the bath.”

  She felt him hesitate behind her, but to his credit he didn’t try to argue. Instead, he said, “Don’t worry about the dishwasher. I’ll take care of that.”

  “As you always do.” She turned, appropriately chastened, but not ready to let him think he’d solved her problems so easily. “And I know you’ll help me Tuesday with the babies and with cleaning up afterward. And I appreciate that. I truly do. I’m just . . . feeling a little overwhelmed with everything right now. I’ll be fine.”

  He patted her shoulders and kissed the back of her neck. “I know you will.”

  She wished “being fine” were as easy as simply speaking the words. But lately it felt like her dream-come-true was snuffing the life out of her.

  5

  Shayla scooted the little vanity bench back, lifted the hem of her long skirt, and bent to slather lotion on her ashy ankles and feet before slipping into the new sandals she’d found at the Goodwill. Six dollars, which had meant leaving behind a little dress Portia had begged for. But the dress was raggedy, and Portia truly didn’t need more clothes. Besides—Shayla finished fastening the strap—she’d wanted these sandals. Especially when she’d seen the exact pair in a store downtown for almost a hundred dollars.

  Sometimes she resented that her budget dictated shopping at secondhand stores, but if she could get past the embarrassment of living on the verge of being a poverty statistic, she rather enjoyed the challenge of finding something the original owner had paid a pretty penny for and worn twice—and likely taken a healthy tax credit for as she dropped it off at a donation center in her fifty-thousand-dollar SUV, all proud and smug because she’d helped the poor.

  Cut it out, Shayla Jean. She was thinking like Jeremiah. Jerry had let the chip on his shoulder drag him down. Down and under.

  She pushed the memories away. Her brother was a topic sure to elicit tears if she pondered too long on it. And she wasn’t going to let anything ruin this date with Link Whitman.

  A date. When was the last time she’d been on a real, live date? She couldn’t remember. Probably Danny Sherwood. That loser was enough to make any woman swear off dating. The man had what Mama had called Roman hands and Russian fingers. Mercy! Somehow she didn’t think she’d have that problem with Link Whitman. He was the very definition of a gentleman.

  “What’s so funny, Shay?”

  Shayla looked up to see her own smiling face in the mirror, and Portia’s reflection behind her. “Nothing, sweetie. Now go get your shoes on. Mr. Link will be here in a few minutes and we don’t want to make him wait.”

  “Hows come Mr. Link is takin’ us to a movie?”

  “How come?” She pushed off the bench and inspected her niece’s hair. “Well, I guess because he wants to. He likes us. And he thinks you’re a cutie.” She licked her forefinger and thumb and smoothed a wayward wisp of Portia’s hair. With her fawn-colored hair and blue eyes, this child was going to be a stunner when she grew up.

  Portia tilted her head and gave a knowing grin. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “Mr. Link? No. And don’t you go saying that in front of him either. He’s a friend. Just a friend.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a boy.”

  “Go get your shoes on.”

  “And he’s your friend. So that’s boy friend.”

  “Hush, girl.”

  “Can I wear my sandals?”

  “No, it’s too cold.”

  “No fair! You’re wearin’ sandals.” Portia put her hands where her hips would have been if she had any meat on her bones.

  “When you’re a big girl, then you can wear sandals in November.”

  “I am a big girl. Big Daddy said so.”

  Shayla knelt and got on eye level with the child, making her voice stern. “You do not sass. Do you understand me? You’re a big girl, but you’re not a grown-up yet.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “I most certainly am the boss of you.” Shayla grabbed Portia by her bony shoulder—a little harder than necessary.

  “Ouch!”

  “Do you want to go to the movie with me and Link or not?” Portia loved movies, but Shayla wouldn’t put it past the little snot to refuse, just to be obstinate. And if she did, Shayla would have no recourse but to tell Link she was sorry, but they’d be staying home.

  But apparently the movie won out. Portia only pouted and hung her head.

  Shayla sighed and rose. If she’d learned anything from her sweet mama, it was that you couldn’t let a child win when it came to minding. Portia was a sweet girl, but she could push the limits with the best of them. She was what Mama had called a strong-willed child. Portia took after her dad that way. Except Shayla felt sure Mama would have worked the will out of Jeremiah if she’d lived long enough. But Daddy had gone easy on Jerry—on both of them—after Mama died. Shayla had been old enough and meek enough that Mama’s discipline had already “took.”

  But her brother was a different story. And look where it landed him. Impulsively, she pulled Portia into her arms. Poor baby. At least Shayla had known a mother’s loving care until she was grown. This baby was growing up without mother or father in her life.

  Sometimes it terrified Shayla that she was trying to fill not just Tara’s shoes for Portia, but Jerry’s and Mama’s too. She sighed. If she thought about it too long, she felt every one of her thirty-three years.

  “Come on, girlie. Mr. Link will be here any minute. We don’t want to make him wait.” She checked her hair in the mirror. She’d spent half the afternoon straightening it, oiling and blow-drying, and flat-ironing it to within an inch of its life. But the humidity was already winning, and she could almost see her hair frizz before her eyes. Why couldn’t she have inherited her mother’s hair? Straight blonde hair that hung almost to her waist. Until she’d lost it all to the chemo.

  “Is Mr. Link gonna kiss you?” Portia looked up at her with a sly grin.

  She froze. “Girl! What would make you even think such a thing?”

  “That’s what people do on dates.”

  “Who told you that?”

  Portia shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I just know it.”

  “You know no such thing!” She felt her heart race. This whole evening could be a disaster in the making. “Get your jacket on. And don’t you say one word about that to Mr. Link. In fact, you just keep your lip buttoned tonight.”

  Portia giggled. “My lip don’t have buttons. You’re funny.”

  “It’s doesn’t. Your lip doesn’t have buttons.”

  “I know it doesn’t. That’s what I said!”

  She gave a little growl. “Never mind. Just go get your jacket.”

  She heard a car outside and her heart accelerated. “Lord, what have I done?” she whispered.

  ***

  Link wiped his palms on his jeans and reached to open the door. Finding it locked, he knocked on the wood framing the paned glass.

  A light came on at the back of the bakery, and he saw movement near the open staircase at the rear of the store. A minute later, Shayla, with Portia trailing behind, unlocked the door and peeked out. “Hi there. We’re ready.” She held up a car booster seat. “Do we need this?”

  He looked at Portia. “If she’s big enough for a booster seat, I’ve got them in the backseat of my truck—for my nieces and nephews,” he explained. “I wasn’t sure if she still nee
ded a regular car seat.”

  “No. She’s big enough for a booster. Thanks.” Shayla stepped outside and locked the door behind her.

  “You look nice.” Link grinned at her, then peeked around her shoulder at Portia. “You look nice too, young lady.”

  Portia stuck out her lower lip in a pout. “Shay won’t let me wear sandals.”

  “Well, it’s kind of cold for sandals, don’t you think?”

  “Careful, there.” Shayla looked down at her own feet, which were shod in a pair of strappy open-toed shoes that his sisters would have declared “darling.”

  “Oops,” he said, feigning a wince. “Double standard?”

  “Always,” she said.

  He looked at her again. “You look really nice.”

  “So you said.” She dipped her head, looking embarrassed by his compliment.

  “I’ve never seen you with your hair down.”

  She smoothed a hand self-consciously over the shiny, dark brown hair that framed her heart-shaped face. “The inspector kind of frowns on that during business hours.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess I can see that. Well, it looks great.” The truth was, he preferred her hair curly and a little wild. But she would have looked good bald, so he wasn’t lying. “You look great. Really great.”

  “Okay, okay, I get the picture.”

  “What? You don’t like a compliment?” This woman was a puzzle. His sisters ate up stuff like that.

  “Sorry. No, I like a compliment fine. Thank you.” She tapped her niece’s shoulder. “Portia, what do you tell Mr. Link? He said you look nice.”

  She smiled up at him. “I know. Big Daddy says I’m bee-yu-ti-ful.”

  “Portia Beth!” Laughing, Shayla shook her head. “We’re working on manners.”

  “That means please and thank-yous,” the little girl told him.

  “That’s right.” Shayla gave her a stern look. “Now would you please tell Mr. Link thank you for the compliment?”

  “Thank you.” Portia suddenly turned shy.

  “You’re welcome.” He opened the passenger-side door of his truck, tipped back the seat, and put down the built-in booster. “Hop in, young lady.” He lifted her into the back. She couldn’t have weighed twenty-five pounds.