Man With A Message. Muriel Jensen

the mistress’s former boyfriend came looking for him.

      “You have to make better choices in men, though,” Mariah said sleepily. “Stop supporting them and find someone who’ll work with you for a change.”

      Parker put an arm around her and sighed. “I know. It’s just that all that sunshine and harmony we got from Mom and Dad really sank in with me. You were more resistant. You’re probably a throw-back to Grandma Prudie, who loved them both but was convinced they were crazy.”

      Grandma Prudie had been their father’s mother, an Iowa farmwife who related to the earth, all right, but only because it bestowed the fruits of an individual’s labor. She thought her son and his wife’s belief in the earth’s unqualified bounty, in man’s intrinsic goodness and life’s promised good fortune were poppycock. And she’d said so many times before she died.

      Mariah had loved her parents’ generous natures and their obvious delight in everything, but she’d never been able to understand such innocence in functioning adults. Until she’d finally grasped that—whether deliberate or simply naive—it brought them aid from everyone. Neighbors admired their sunny dispositions and gave them things—firewood, a side of beef, help with bills—so that they could maintain a lifestyle everyone else knew better than to expect. This had confused Mariah for a long time, until she concluded that it was still proof of man’s basic goodness—his willingness to support in a friend what he knew he couldn’t have for himself.

      “I feel that my life’s been very blessed,” Parker continued, “and that I have a lot of blessings to return. So I try to help those in need.”

      Mariah yawned. “Yeah, well, some people are just in want, Parker, not need. It’s noble to help, but not to let yourself be used.”

      “I know. I’m off men for a while. How ’bout you?”

      “I’m off them forever.”

      “That isn’t healthy. You want children.”

      Mariah sat up to frown at her. “Park, have you missed the last year of my life? I’m not going to have children.”

      Parker took advantage of the moment to place a pillow on the banquette and reach into a bamboo shelf for a folded afghan. She pointed Mariah to the pillow and covered her with the crocheted blanket.

      “I know you’re not going to give birth to them, but there are other ways to get them. Just because Ben wouldn’t do it doesn’t mean you can’t do it on your own.”

      Mariah was about to shake her head, then decided that would not be a good idea. She simply placed it on the pillow, instead. “I don’t want them anymore. It’s just all too much trouble. Children should have two parents, and men are just too determined to form a dynasty, you know?”

      “Well, Ben was. But that doesn’t mean they all are.” Parker’s voice suddenly changed tone from grave to excited. “And a gorgeous plumber has just breathed life back into you! It could be fate has plans for him to give you more than simply oxygen.”

      Mariah groaned and leaned deeper into the pillow. “Park,” she said, her sleepy voice muffled. “Don’t even start.”

      She drifted off to her sister’s reply: “Sometimes, Mariah, fate moves whether we’re ready or not.”

      HANK WHITCOMB HAD ARRIVED to work with the cleanup crew. Cam met him in front of the carriage house while carrying his tools back to his truck. He’d long ago walked Brian to the Lightfoot ladies’ residence on the other side of the campus, where they’d taken all the other children when the water cleanup had proved too noisy and disruptive for them to stay. It was 2:00 a.m.

      Talking with him was a small, very pregnant dark-haired woman with a camera around her neck and pad and pen in the hand she held up to stifle a yawn. She was Haley Megrath, Hank’s sister, and publisher of the Maple Hill Mirror.

      She and Hank came to his truck as he set his tools down on the drive.

      “Hi, Cam,” Haley said with another yawn as she walked past him toward the steps. “You’d think people could have their crises during the day, when plumbers and reporters are awake, wouldn’t you?”

      “Yes, you would. Maybe the Mirror could launch a campaign toward that end.”

      She waved and kept walking. “I’ll see what I can do. ’Night, guys.”

      “I’ll wait for you and follow you home,” Hank called after her.

      She turned at the top. “I’m fine. Go home to Jackie.”

      “I’ll buy you a mocha at the Breakfast Barn on the way.”

      She grinned. “Okay. Who cares about Jackie.” She blew him a kiss and disappeared inside.

      Hank opened the lid of the truck’s toolbox for Cam. “One of our more dramatic messes,” he said with a laugh. “Hey, Freddy!” He patted the back window as Fred’s head appeared. The dog was barking excitedly. Hank leaned an elbow on the side of the truck as Cam put away his tools. “I hear you rescued Mariah Mercer from drowning.”

      Cam shook his head. “That’s a little overstated. Brian—one of the kids—held her head out of the water. I just carried her to a bed.”

      “Where you gave her mouth-to-mouth and she French-kissed you.”

      Cam frowned. “No, she didn’t.”

      “Yes, she did. Ashley told me.” Hank grinned. “She’s thrilled about it. She adores Mariah and thinks it’d be wonderful if she could find a husband.”

      Cam gave Hank a shove out of his way as he dropped pipes into the back. “Yeah, well, I don’t think Mariah Mercer has designs on me. After she kissed me, she slugged me.”

      “Really?”

      “Yeah. Probably a reaction to the bump on the head, or something. No big deal.”

      “So I can tell my mother you’re still on the market?”

      Cam opened the passenger side of the cab to let Fred out, the gesture half practical, half vengeful. The dog leaped on him elatedly, then went right to Hank, who always had treats in his pockets. Fred backed Hank up to the side of the truck, his paws on his chest, alternately kissing him and barking a demand for treats.

      Pinned to the truck, Hank reached into a pants pocket. “How big is this guy going to get?” he asked, quickly putting a biscuit in the dog’s mouth. “He doesn’t beg—he just mugs you for what he wants!”

      “I’m not sure. I guess some Labs get to a hundred pounds or more. Jimmy didn’t tell me that when he sold him to me.” Jimmy Elliott was a fireman and another of Whitcomb’s Wonders.

      Treat in his mouth, Fred ran off around the side of the carriage house.

      “You must be beat,” Hank said. “You have a class in the morning?”

      “In the afternoon. I’ll be fine. I’m a little wired, actually. Letty brought us coffee and I don’t think she bothered to grind the beans.”

      Hank took a key out of his jacket pocket and offered it to Hank. “Why don’t you go take a look at the lake house,” he suggested. “You and Fred can even sleep there if you don’t want to go back home tonight.”

      Cam tried to push the key away. “Hank, I appreciate the offer to buy your house. There’s not a place in town I’d like better. But I keep telling you—I don’t have the cash.”

      Hank nodded. They’d argued this before. “We’ll find a way to keep the payments way down.”

      Hank had married Jackie Fortin, the mayor of Maple Hill, a brief two months ago. In doing so, he’d acquired two little girls, ages seven and eleven, and infant twin boys. He’d bought the big house on the lake as a bachelor, but now found that the old family home Jackie occupied was closer to school for the girls, and closer to city hall for