hired. “I’m giving having someone else handling the cooking a try. I’ve already got a lot to keep me busy.”
“Anything but that,” Claire had amended almost sheepishly. “I’m afraid I still haven’t gotten the hang of cooking.” And then she brightened. “But I can make beds,” she volunteered.
“This is a boarding house, Claire, not a bed-and-breakfast. People here make their own beds,” Melba informed her matter-of-factly.
“Don’t worry,” Gene had said, putting one arm around his granddaughter’s shoulders as he held his great-granddaughter against him with the other, “We’ll come up with something for you to do until you find your way.”
Claire had sighed then, leaning into him as she had done on so many occasions when she had been a little girl, growing up.
“I hope so, Grandpa,” Claire said, doing her best to sound cheerful. “I really hope so.”
Gene Strickland tried to ignore it, but even after all these years of marriage, he hadn’t found a way to go about things as if everything was all right when it wasn’t. His wife’s scowl—which was aimed directly at him and had been an ongoing thing now for the past two weeks—seemed to go clean down to the bone. There was no use pretending that it didn’t.
So he didn’t even try.
Pushing aside the monthly inventory he was in the process of updating in connection with the boarding house’s current supplies, Gene asked, “Okay, woman. Out with it. What’s got your panties all in a twist like this?”
Brooding dark brown eyes looked at him accusingly from across the large scarred oak desk they both shared in the corner room that served as an office.
“As if you don’t know,” she muttered under her breath, but clearly enough for Gene to hear.
“No, I don’t know,” he’d informed her. “I’d like to think that I’d have the good sense not to ask if I knew. I’ve been with you long enough to know that lots of things set you off and right now, I don’t want to risk bringing up any of them.”
Melba pursed her lips as her eyes held his. “You’re coddling her.”
“Her?” Gene echoed innocently.
“Yes, her. Claire,” she finally said. “Don’t play dumb with me,” Melba warned. “You know damn well that I’m talking about our granddaughter, Gene.”
Unable to properly focus on the inventory while his wife was talking, Gene put down his pen and shook his head. This whole thing with Claire had hit Melba hard, he thought. He had a feeling that his wife blamed herself for not speaking up more to change Claire’s mind about marrying so young. Or, at the very least, getting Claire to wait another year or so before leaping into marriage. But they all knew that the young never listened to the old, he thought, resigned.
Melba needed to change her opinion about Claire’s marriage as well.
Especially since he was going to have to let her in on a secret he would have rather not had to divulge. However, if Melba found out about this on her own—and she had a knack for doing that—then Claire and Levi’s marriage might not be the only one in trouble.
“Claire’s going through a really rough patch right now, Mel.”
“I know that,” the old woman snapped. “And she needs a backbone to get through it, not to be treated as if she was made out of spun glass and could break at any second. She needs to toughen up.” The very thought of a fragile granddaughter exasperated Melba beyond words. “Her parents were just too soft on her. If it were me, I would have never given my permission for those two to get married two years ago.”
“Two years ago she wasn’t a minor anymore, Mel,” Gene gently reminded her. “Legally, she could make her own decisions,” the man pointed out.
Melba threw up her hands. “And look how great that turned out for her,” she huffed.
Gene thought of the newest boarder he’d just taken in—without his wife’s knowledge, certainly without her permission.
Time to lay some groundwork, he told himself.
“Story’s not over yet, Mel. There’s a second act coming. I just know it. Just remember,” he told her, making eye contact with the woman he had slept beside for five decades, “not everyone has an iron resolve like you.” Gene leaned over and kissed his wife’s temple.
“Don’t try to sweet-talk me into going soft, Gene Strickland,” Melba snapped—but with less verve.
It was obvious that even that small a kiss had her lighting up in response. They had a connection, she and Gene. The kind that poets used to celebrate in their works. And spats or not, the warranty on that connection hadn’t expired yet.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he told her with a straight face. “As a matter of fact, I’m appealing to the businesswoman in you.”
Melba looked at her husband, somewhat confused. Where was all this going? “What’s that supposed to mean?” she wanted to know.
“Well, you’re a savvy businesswoman, aren’t you, Mel?” he asked.
“I like to think so,” she said guardedly, watching her husband as if she expected him to pull a rabbit out of a hat or something equally as predictable, yet at bottom, magical. “Okay, out with it. Just where are you going with this?”
He built the blocks up slowly. “Being a good businesswoman means that you like to make money, true?”
“Yes, yes, we already know this,” she told her husband impatiently. Everyone knew she loved making money, loved the challenge of running the boarding house efficiently. Having half a dozen adults—or so—in one place presented a great many hurdles to clear. But so far she was managing to run the place very successfully. “Get to the point. Sometime before next Christmas would be nice.”
He approached the heart of this matter cautiously, determined to set up a strong foundation first. “A good businesswoman wouldn’t allow personal prejudices to get in the way of her making a good-size profit.”
Though Gene had argued against it, Levi had insisted on paying more than the usual going rate for the room. Most likely in an effort to appeal to the entrepreneur in Melba when she learned of his being there.
“A good-size profit,” she repeated. “What are you getting us into, Gene?” she wanted to know, eyeing her husband suspiciously. Usually, she could rely on him to ultimately come through at the end of the day, doing nothing to jeopardize their way of life or their income. But he was making her nervous now with his vague innuendos. Just exactly what did the man have up his sleeve?
“Making money in what way?” she asked her husband when he didn’t answer her question.
“By renting out the last available room in the boarding house for more than the usual rate,” he told her with just a shade too much innocence to satisfy Melba.
“What are you trying to say, Gene? Come on, spit it out,” she ordered. “Just who is it that you’re renting out this last room to?” she demanded. And then, just before her husband could give her an answer, a look of horrified indignation washed over the older woman’s features. “Oh no, you can’t mean to tell me—”
Her voice had gone up so high that it completely vanished at its peak.
Wanting to get this out and then, hopefully, put to rest, Gene supplied the name that Melba seemed incapable of uttering.
“Levi. Claire’s husband. Yes, I rented it out to him,” he told her with an air of finality that let her know that she was not allowed to toss the young man out on his ear under any circumstances.