It was a damn shame that the engagement was on again. But it wasn’t Parr’s place to say it shouldn’t be. He hardly knew who he was when Mary Beth was around him. He hadn’t expected her to show up here, but then neither had Alma, obviously. His mother would have mentioned it in advance.

Maybe he should have put his shirt on when Mary Beth came around the corner with that box of bean plants. But it had been hot out there and he’d been unwilling to sweat any harder than he already was sweating. He’d felt the effect of her admiring gaze, had to turn away to hide his reaction, practically pretend he couldn’t bang together a cheap kit.

And then Bobby Joe had showed up. Parr rose from the table and fetched himself a cold beer from the fridge, cracking the top off with his thumb.

He hadn’t seen the ring. Bobby Joe had probably intended for him to come over, act impressed. Hell of a thing, how sweet Miss Mary Beth was keeping so many jewelers in business.

Parr didn’t finish the beer or the sandwich. He cleaned up after himself, fast. He needed to get out of here. On his way out, he bent to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, bumping into the phone receiver stuck to her ear. Her raised eyebrows and avid mm-hmms left no doubt that the gabfest was a juicy one. Parr didn’t wait for a hug, even though Alma Weston was an expert at talking nonstop and doing anything else you could think of simultaneously.

“Bye,” she called after him. But the door was already shut. Parr headed to the truck he’d parked in the garage, out of sight. He had to return it to the builder’s supply store where he’d rented it and get the Thunderbird back to the rental place too. Wouldn’t be long before he was back in Memphis.

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

“Only the best. I wanted fourteen-karat gold lettering,” Bobby Joe said. “With the business name below mine—‘Real Estate Investing for Select Clients.’ What do you think?”

“It’ll be nice when it’s done, Bobby Joe.”

Mary Beth smiled through the wavy old glass of the front door at Pete Corlear, a local sign painter who still did everything by hand. He was inside, carefully scraping off names in gilt. The attorney who’d once owned the vintage brick building with his long-dead partners had left it to an out-of-state heir. A discreet FOR SALE OR RENT sign was tucked in the corner.

Pete stopped scraping and gave her a wrinkly smile in return before he resumed his meticulous task.