The Magnolia Inn(43)

“Dammit!” He slapped the steering wheel. “This is one sorry date night when we get home at eight o’clock.”

Everything happens for a reason. Her voice singsonged in his head.

“Is that all you are ever going to say to me from now on?” he asked.

Nothing. Not a single word or aura answered his question.

“Okay then, ignore me. I proved last week that I don’t need a bar.” He stormed into the house, poured two fingers of whiskey, took a drink, and carried it to the living room. “Easier on the wallet, anyway.” He kicked off his boots and sat down in the recliner. “And more comfortable.”

He took another sip and set the glass on the end table. Without finishing his drink, he left it behind, wandered upstairs, and leaned against the doorjamb of the room he’d been working on. It was going to be a really nice room when they finished. Sassy wove around his legs, but when he ignored her, she went into the bathroom, jumped into the tub, and curled up. With a sigh, Tucker picked up his tool belt and began to cover the new bathroom with drywall. Sassy slept right through it all.

He didn’t even hear Jolene coming in or walking up the stairs until he felt her presence behind him. “What time is it?” he asked.

“It’s after three in the morning,” she answered. “Why are you workin’ now? I thought you didn’t do anything past your four hours on Saturdays.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“I’m surprised. Last Saturday night you were still out when I got home.” She yawned.

“No, I wasn’t. I got home about two thirty that night. I was passed out in my bedroom when you got home.” He removed his tool belt and laid the nail gun to the side. “That was the last piece. After it’s bedded and taped, we can set the rest of the fixtures in here and put up the tub enclosure.”

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Yep. I’ll get washed up. We got any of them doughnuts left that we bought a couple of days ago?”

“They won’t be fresh, but we can throw some butter on the top and give them twenty seconds in the microwave,” she said as she started downstairs.

He went to the bathroom at the end of the hallway and washed his hands and forearms.

He noticed on his way down the stairs that the railing was loose near the newel post and made a mental note to get that fixed. Sassy caught up with him in the foyer, and he bent to pet her.

“It feels strange to be sober on date night,” he whispered.

The cat meowed at him and led the way into the kitchen, where he poured out a dozen of her special treats. “That’s payment for helping me get things done tonight,” he said and then turned to Jolene. “You made hot chocolate?”

“Just the kind out of a package. I like doughnuts dipped in it,” she said.

So had Melanie, he thought. And cookies and even peanut butter sandwiches. Sounded terrible, but it wasn’t so bad.

“Guess who came to the bar tonight?” She didn’t give him time to answer, but went right into the story of Lucy and Everett.

He was relieved that she didn’t ask why he hadn’t dived into the bottle that night, because he didn’t have an answer, and he sure didn’t feel talking about it.

“Sounds to me like those old gals could hang out a shingle for therapy. Lucy has been cured, and according to Dotty, they took care of her problem a long time ago.”

“Therapists keep you coming back so they can make a living,” Jolene said. “It’s easy to talk to a stranger who’s bound by law to never breathe a word of what you told them. You can tell them anything, and they just nod and ask you how you felt about it. They never tell you how to fix it. You’re supposed to figure that out on your own.” She put two doughnuts on a saucer and put them in the microwave.

“Sounds like you’re speakin’ from experience.”

“I went to one a couple of times.” She took the doughnuts out and set the plate on the table.

“Did it do any good?”

“Yes and no. It taught me that I had to figure out things for myself. No pill or shot of liquor or talkin’ to a stranger would help. Maybe some folks do better than I did, or maybe I didn’t give it enough time, but . . .” She shrugged.

“I’ve been to therapists,” he said and then wondered if he’d said that out loud.

“For detective stuff?” she asked. “Like on television shows when they fire their guns and have to go in before they can have their badge and weapon back?”

“That and . . .” He paused.

He wondered if she even heard him, since she didn’t look up from her plate.

“When my wife was killed,” he went on, “two years ago last fall. It didn’t help me, either, but I can’t blame it on the therapist. I was pretty self-destructive during that time. I drank too much, got fired because of it, and decided to move here, since this is where she grew up. I thought it would help, but it didn’t. Started doing odd jobs for her best friend, who’s in the real estate business. I’ve had all the work I can do.”

“Are you still self-destructive?” She finished off her doughnut.

“Only on Saturday nights. That was date night for us.” He’d never even told the therapist that, but it was easier talking to Jolene than that old guy the police department had sent him to. “But I’ve got this new partner who has a terrific cure for hangovers, and for the first time in a very long while, I won’t need it tomorrow morning.”