Home At Last. Deborah Raney

that he wanted to end up with a female carbon copy of himself. But if that list—the one that had silently guided him for over a dozen years now—held any weight, Shayla wasn’t even on the radar. Actually, if the list held any weight, he’d be marrying a carbon copy of his sisters.

      He climbed into the pickup and backed out. Slowly, remembering the events of this morning. The ice had melted from the streets, but he knew he’d drive a lot more carefully for a long time to come.

      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.