The Daddy's Promise. Shirley Jump

hello?” Anita said to the pink oval.

      The ham moved away, replaced by an eye and part of a wrinkled cheek. “Why hello, dear. Welcome to Mercy.” The woman straightened and the ham swung into view again. Fully Cooked, Real Maple Flavor, No Refrigeration Needed. “I’m with the Mercy Welcoming Committee.”

      “Do you have a screwdriver with you? Maybe a sledgehammer?”

      “Did you say sledgehammer, dear?”

      “Never mind. Let me open the window.” The back door, Anita knew from an unsuccessful door-pull match this morning, was likely just as stuck. She straightened, then lifted the sash on the small window, fumbling with the finicky metal screen.

      After two good curses and a solid tug, she managed to fling it up. She dipped her head to her knees and crawled out the window and onto the wide wooden porch.

      The woman didn’t blink at Anita’s unconventional entrance. She looked close to eighty years old and wore a bright floral sleeveless dress shaped more like a bell than an hourglass. “Here you go, new neighbor.” She thrust the basket into Anita’s arms. “I’m Alice Marchand.”

      Anita staggered a little under the weight of the wicker container. A hand-drawn smiley face dangled from the handle, with the words “Welcome to Our Town” forming the lips. The basket was piled to the brim with a motley collection of foods and household things: a red flashlight emblazoned with Joe’s Hardware: Screws You Can Use; two bottles of Pete’s Hotter Than Hades Salsa; some calico-topped jars of home-canned food; a Tupperware container of chocolate-chip cookies; and the pièce de résistance, a hand fan from the local funeral home, decorated with Ten Tips for Planning Early for the Afterlife.

      The basket took the prize for hokiest gift of the year. And yet it touched some kind of sentimental nerve because, for a brief second, Anita wanted to cry.

      Crazy. She was hot, sweaty and tired. Nothing more. A glass of lemonade and a good meal and she’d be back to her regular, optimistic self. “Thank you, Mrs. Marchand.”

      “Oh, I’m not a missus. Never did find a man I could tolerate.” She leaned closer and winked. “Besides, I’m holding out for true love.”

      Anita chuckled. “The basket is beautiful. Thanks again.”

      “It’s nothing. Just a bit of Indiana hospitality.” Miss Marchand bent forward, pointing inside it. “There’s some of my neighbor Colleen’s homemade orange marmalade in there, and a loaf of bread baked special by the ladies of the Presbyterian Church. Oh, and a coupon for Flo’s Cut and Go. Our little beauty shop hasn’t been the same since Claire left—that’s who rented this house before you. The new girl, Dorene, is trying, bless her heart, but she’s just not Claire.” Miss Marchand pressed a hand to her gray pouf. “Dorene is mighty stingy with the hairspray. Keep an eye on her with the Aqua Net.”

      “I’ll, ah, keep that in mind.” She should invite the woman in for a glass of lemonade, but doubted a senior citizen would be up to a climb through the window. “Would you like something to drink? I can go in and get—”

      “Looks like you have your hands full already. And, in a few more months, you’ll have them twice as full,” she gestured toward Anita’s stomach.

      Anita glanced down at her legging shorts and oversize T-shirt. She’d just hit the seventh month of her pregnancy and had outgrown most of her regular clothes but hadn’t yet bought many maternity clothes. Stretchy outfits and sundresses were comfortable and the easiest on her tight budget. “How did you know I’m pregnant?”

      “Old lady’s intuition. Not to mention, the little clues sitting in the porch swing.” She smiled, gesturing toward the pregnancy guide Anita had left out there earlier that morning. Beside it sat two pairs of half-crocheted baby booties, one in pink and one in blue.

      “Oh, those! I—”

      Miss Marchand waved a hand in dismissal. “No need to explain. It’s nice to see someone young making something by hand,” she said. “You have a nice day. Oh, and if you need any work done or help with anything, call John Dole. His number’s in there. Now that he’s retired, he works part-time as a handyman. Nicest man you’d ever want to meet, and with the smartest sons you’ve ever seen. I should know. They all passed my biology class with flying colors. Why, Claire even married one of them.” Miss Marchand smiled. “She always was a bright girl.”

      “Did you say John Dole?” Anita’s breath lodged in her throat. “Does he have a son named Luke?”

      Miss Marchand nodded. “Along with Mark and Nate and Katie. Quite the family, the Doles. If you ever get to meet any of them, you’ll love them to pieces.”

      “I already have.” In that instant, Anita saw Luke’s face again, half in shadow in his darkened office. That kiss—no, not a kiss, more an eruption of hot, molten desire. One kiss, nothing more, but it had been enough to scare Luke away and to tip Anita’s perfect, planned-out world off-kilter. “Is he…is he living in town now?”

      Miss Marchand smiled and her silvery blue eyes perked up. “Why, yes he is, dear. He was working at the steel mill, but now he’s got a business at home. He lives just a couple blocks down, too. It’s the little white house on Cherry Street. You should stop over and say hello. If you’re old friends and all.” The sentence came out with a lilt at the end, more question than declaration.

      “Actually, he’s the reason I’m here.”

      “Oh?” Miss Marchand gave Anita’s swollen belly an obvious glance.

      “Oh, no, this isn’t his baby.” She laughed. “When I knew him in California, he raved so much about Mercy, he made it sound like paradise. At least, compared to L.A. That’s why we’re here.” She pressed a hand to her abdomen.

      “Does he know you’re here?”

      “No, I…well, I haven’t had a chance to tell him.” Seeing Luke wasn’t part of her plan. Men in general weren’t part of her plan. All Anita cared about was settling in a nice place, where her baby could grow up happy and healthy, with neighbors who wrapped around their lives like a well-worn quilt. Mercy, with its quaint streets and quiet neighborhoods, seemed perfect so far.

      “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that.” The old woman winked. “News spreads faster than chicken pox here. I’m sure Luke will be dropping in to see you soon.”

      Anita doubted that, but left those words unsaid. “This basket looks great. I really appreciate the welcome.”

      Miss Marchand wasn’t dissuaded by a change of topic. “If you ever want to talk to Luke, just call John. Luke’s there, staying with his folks for a bit. That young man’s been through an awful time.” She tugged on a leather strap and a little dachshund Anita hadn’t noticed before scrambled to her feet, wagging her tail, clearly anxious to be on her way again. When Miss Marchand reached the sidewalk, the dachshund hopped into a little red wagon, obviously the basket’s conveyance. “The number’s right behind the ham!”

      Miss Marchand toodled a wave, then picked up the wagon’s handle and set off down the sidewalk. Anita stayed on the porch, hugging the basket to her chest.

      In L.A., no one would have done something so nice. Her neighbors had never introduced themselves to her or taken the time to give her the phone number of a handyman. It proved to her once again that she had made the right choice for her and her baby.

      The hokier the better, that was her motto from here on out. Hokey was good for raising a family.

      A plaintive squeak-squeak sounded behind her. The mouse sat on the windowsill, nose twitching, watching her. He blinked several times, raised his teeny snout in the air, sniffing.

      “Don’t get any ideas,” Anita told him. “I’m not sharing.”

      The mouse lowered his head, stretched his body toward her. When he did, he looked skinny and deprived. Lonely.

      Anita