She could think of lots of not-so-great things Bobby Joe might do with time to kill and Internet access. Mary Beth wouldn’t have given him a tablet. But Parr meant well.

“When are you going to give it to him?”

“Tomorrow, I guess. It could be from both of us, Mary Beth.”

She smiled thinly. “No. You bought it. I’ll let you do the honors.”

He shrugged and put the tablet back into the canvas bag.

“What are those other sketches? That doesn’t look like a kitchen.”

“It isn’t. I decided I’d take on the renovations for Bobby Joe’s office.”

That was something she hadn’t expected to hear.

“Seriously? That’s a lot of work.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Evidently Parr was going to be around Iminga for even longer than she’d thought.

“Nothing my team can’t handle. That old sign painter gave us all a tour this week. He’s a character.”

“Mr. Corlear works hard.”

“He finished the gold lettering on the front windows and he’s starting a roof sign. Nothing’s too good for Bobby Joe.” Parr’s wry comment made her curious.

“And that’s why he gets in over his head. Forgive me for being nosy, but is BJ paying for the renovation?”

“Nope. I am.”

“But—”

“His bank account is cleaned out, Mary Beth. I guess I should say our account. Both of our names are on it.”

“You two have a joint account?”

“Had it for years. Sometimes I fronted him money for houses he wanted to flip. He always paid me back, sooner or later.”

“How?”

“That’s between me and Bobby Joe.”

The Weston brothers stuck together like glue, despite being diametrically opposite personalities. She shouldn’t have asked. Something had happened to the family—some kind of tragedy, a story she still didn’t know and that Alma had never told her—that made Parr protective to a fault.

“Okay. But being overextended is nothing new for him.”

The remark wasn’t meant to be unkind. It was more like a warning, though Parr had to know it. Maybe Parr was at a point in his life where he made so much money he didn’t care if his brother wasted some.

He didn’t dress like he had money. Still, in those worn jeans and the flannel shirt rolled up over his biceps, and those work boots, he got more side glances from the women in the cafeteria than any of the handsome young men sporting white jackets and stethoscopes. They stuck together and loudly talked shop, like they had something to prove. Parr didn’t. He was his own man, and he dominated every setting she’d seen him in.