Page 42 of The Cul-de-Sac War

He fought the childish urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, Mom. I went with Intrigue.”

She’d been married into construction for forty-one years but had learned more about the industry in the last month for his sake than all previous years combined.

“North Star? Or Interesting Aqua?”

She beamed at him, proud as ever at the fact he was willing to “experiment with color.”

He hesitated, aware of the darting looks between his brothers. “The North Star.”

Ashleigh jumped in, clasping his hand. “You need to come by and see what he’s done just this past week, Mrs. McBride. You’d think you walked into the wrong house.”

Right. The house was empty of furniture, the floors were scratched with one hundred years of wear and tear, and the upstairs bathroom was one giant, gaping hole waiting for an accident. But whoa now, people, we have cabinets.

“I’ll do that,” his mother replied, reaching out of habit for her calendar on her phone. When her hand came up empty, she slipped it back into her lap.

She gave him a fond smile. Ashleigh squeezed his hand with pride.

They were two peas in a pod.

Like mother, like daughter.

Er, scratch that thought.

“So is that your plan for the foreseeable future, Chip, flipping houses around Abingdon?” Chip’s father spoke through his mouthful of meat. Every face turned to the man who always filled up his chair, and the room, with his presence. “Seems to me it won’t take long to run out of business that way. After that fixing-upping show, everyone and their teenage daughter wants to be the next Chip and Joanna Gaines.”

“Of course that’s not the only plan,” his mother cut in. She held her hands open. “He has the whole world where he can expand. Marion, Bristol, Kingsport . . .”

“Have to have a contractor’s license for the Tennessee side, love,” his father replied. “And correct me if I’m wrong, Chip, but you don’t have one—”

“Well, he’ll just have to get one,” she replied before he could respond. She smiled through her perfectly white teeth. “Just like you did. Dear.”

Chip’s father paused midslice and took in his wife, who was sitting in the pole-straight posture reserved for civic meetings and tea with his mother.

“Yes.” He coughed. “Yes, of course he could. With that fancy education of yours, son, I’m sure you’re plenty used to taking tests. Probably mastered the art of passing them without studying. You’ll be spreading out to North Carolina and Kentucky before we know it.”

He smiled before returning his attention to the ham.

Right. Chip was probably the only man in America whose father was disappointed his son went to an Ivy League school instead of jumping into the family business.

His mother started to stand. “Did I forget the gravy boat?”

Chip jumped up before she could. “Let me get it for you.”

He pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The porcelain gravy boat sat squarely in the center of the kitchen’s island counter, and it took but a second to snag it and move back toward the dining room. His steps slowed, however, as he heard the conversation.

“What happened with the Lee Street estimate, Pete?” his father said.

“Too low. It was close, but we would’ve only hit 19 percent. Had to throw it back in the pond.”

There was silence, and Chip held his breath. C’mon, Dad. Will. David. Somebody.

Say it.

“So who’s going over to Davenport tomorrow?” his father continued.

Chip felt his heart fall.

Fine.