Mary Beth couldn’t help noticing that Parr had countersigned it first. Bobby Joe moved a few steps over to one of the desks to enter the amount in a ledger that hadn’t been out when she’d looked around before. The ledger was the old-fashioned kind that had perforated stubs to the left of the checks. Her side glance at the top page—six checks with one gone—told her that there was only one check left with Parr’s bold signature. The other four were completely blank.

So he was staying in control of what his younger brother spent and tracking it. That was a relief, if only for Bobby Joe’s sake.

“The weld should hold,” Mr. Corlear said, folding the check and tucking it in the pocket of his work shirt. “If not, call me right away.”

“You bet.”

Affably, Bobby Joe showed him to the door and the two men said their good-byes as Mary Beth looked on.

“Where were we?” he asked her absently as he turned back into the main room.

“Talking about a key that you had made for me. Here’s your things.” She handed them over, taking a chance on him not recollecting what he’d said about her becoming a consultant.

“Oh, right. And I thought I had it in my pockets.” He set the phone and other items on top of a desk and opened its drawers to rummage through them. There seemed to be only a few office necessities rattling around inside—rolls of tape, sticky notes, pencils. Bobby Joe pulled out the wide, flat drawer in the middle of the desk. There were several keys with paper tags, lying there in no particular order.

“Bingo.” He chose a key, seemingly at random.

“How do you know that’s the right one?”

Bobby Joe winked at her. “They’re all the same.”

Which begged the question of who the other four or five keys were for. Mary Beth told herself to just not think about it.

He presented it to her with a flourish.

“Thanks. But I don’t know if I’m ever going to use it.” She slipped the key into her purse.

Bobby Joe lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. “Listen. You and I need to talk.”

“Maybe some other time. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Was it? You’re on vacation.” His fingers tightened.

Mary Beth jerked her head and stepped back. “Stop it.”

He seemed momentarily disconcerted. She reminded herself of what they’d been told to expect. Erratic social interactions, for one thing. Grandiose moods followed by consuming self-doubt was another. And diminished awareness for other people’s boundaries.

“That means he’s going to get on your nerves a fair amount,” one therapist had said in plain English. “Try not to take it personally.”