“I have a strong work ethic.” She lifted her chin, the gesture warning him this was a hot spot for her. “People think they have all this money, then it’s gone and they’re left with nothing.”
John carefully considered his response. Several weeks ago, during a late-night discussion, Hope had mentioned that her parents had spent money they didn’t have and were deeply in debt when they died. Because her voice had begun to shake at the memory, he hadn’t pushed for details. Still, it was clear their spending habits had profoundly impacted her attitude toward money.
“If you continue to work all those jobs”—he spoke slowly, keeping his tone conversational—“how will you have time for what’s really important?”
Hope’s head snapped back. Her scowl warned that once again he’d hit a nerve. “Are you complaining?”
“I’m saying—”
“Because when you got a sudden urge to go for pizza at three o’clock today, I went with you.” Hope shoved aside the cotton throw he’d draped across her lap moments earlier when she’d complained of being cold. “We both should have been working.”
John raised a brow.
“Responsible people work. They pay bills on time. They put money away for a rainy day.”
“Responsible people also take time for those who are important in their life,” he said mildly. “One of the benefits of being your own boss is you set your own hours. If I’m not hungry when lunchtime rolls around or I’m in the middle of creating something, I keep working. Conversely, if I want to take a midafternoon break, that’s my privilege. I don’t see why it should be any different for you.”
“We’re not talking about me.” Two bright swaths of red cut across her cheeks. “We’re talking about you.”
“Okay.” John shoved his hands into his pockets. “Let’s talk about me.”
“I have serious concerns about your work habits and how you handle your money.”
His cheek stung as if she’d slapped him hard. Despite everything they’d shared in the last weeks, it appeared Hope still didn’t trust him to be a responsible partner. The only consolation was he now understood why she’d been unwilling to fully commit to him and their marriage.
“Let’s start with work habits. I’ve never been late with a project.” John met her gaze steadily. “I may not work eight to five Monday through Friday, but creating art is different than a typical day job. When a design is percolating in my brain, sometimes performing mundane duties around the house or going for pizza helps me get clarity.”
“I suppose I can see that,” she grudgingly admitted.
Hardly a ringing endorsement. John rubbed his neck. It was time to get to the bottom of the deeper issue looming between them. “Tell me why you believe I’m not good with money.”
She squirmed under his penetrating gaze.
“One example.” His voice sounded flat, even to his ears.
“Okay.” Hope surged to her feet and blew out a breath. “Today at the pizza place.”
John cocked his head, puzzled by her return to a subject they’d just discussed.
“You gave the waitress a huge tip.” She began to pace. “The rule is fifteen percent unless the service is stellar, then bump it to twenty percent. Our service was mediocre at best. I saw what you left her.”
Her accusatory tone rubbed like a pair of too-tight shoes. An image of the gray-haired waitress with tired eyes flashed before him. “I left twenty dollars. Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things.”
“She didn’t deserve that much.” Hope tossed the judgment out there, coupling the careless words with an equally careless shrug.
John thought of his mother and the long hours she’d spent on her feet in a similar café. After his dad took off, her tips often made the difference between eating or not. He recalled her joy when someone left more than she expected and likely more than she deserved.
He set his jaw and held on to his temper. “Who are you to say what someone deserves or doesn’t deserve?”
The quiet vehemence in his tone had her eyes widening.
“I may not know everything,” she insisted stubbornly, “but I know money. I’m telling you right now, I won’t be with someone who plays fast and loose with it.”
The words hung in the air.
The implication snaked around his heart, compressing it like a tight, unyielding cobra. She wasn’t threatening to end their marriage because of a generous tip; she was using the incident as an excuse to push him away.
Facts didn’t matter.
He didn’t matter.
John’s anger re-fired on all circuits. “You think you have all the answers, but you don’t. You—”
The loud ring of her phone cut off his words. To his surprise, she took the call.
Hope listened for a second. “We’ll be right there.”
When she turned to him, her face was as white as her shirt. “It’s Verna. She’s fallen.”
Dr. Eli Webster put a hand on Hope’s arm, but addressed his comments to both her and John. “Your aunt sustained an intramuscular bruise to her left shoulder. Otherwise, she’s fit and healthy, which is a good thing.”