Loving Thy Neighbor. Ruth Scofield

and updating would take her to her knees, if she let it. “I can do all things through Him Who strengths me,” she murmured for the hundredth time. “And I can barter, like Mom used to do.”

      They would simply have to make do with fans and one window air-conditioning unit for the summer. The house was as comfortable as she could make it for now. She thought it time to see if the garage was usable.

      Besides, she needed another outlet for her frustrations. She’d spent a long, fruitless hour on the phone this morning with the national aluminum siding company that employed the children’s dad. Her sister, Paula, had said he traveled from city to city with a crew of men. But the company didn’t seem to know if he was an employee or not, nor did they have any idea where he may be found. In this day of the information age, Quincee didn’t understand why finding Mac Stillman was so complicated.

      Unless he didn’t choose to be found, which was probably the case. Paula hadn’t pushed the matter, though, saying it wouldn’t change anything if they knew where he was. He still would find excuses not to give her any child support.

      Quincee hoped that was true; she didn’t want to give up raising the kids, and Paula had left behind a notarized letter naming Quincee as legal guardian. But she thought it only right to inform the man that her sister had died and the children were now in her care.

      Sadness threatened to descend. She and the kids were still dealing with their loss, nearly four months later. But they’d found solace in each other, and her friend Laura had been a great help. And now their moods had lightened with the exciting adventure of owning a home of their own for the first time.

      “I found the hammer,” Kyle said, waving the tool. That brought her thoughts back. “Can we do it now?”

      “Sure, tiger. Let me change clothes.” She eyed his summer shorts. “You two put on some jeans, too. And socks and long-sleeved shirts.”

      She’d expressly forbidden the children from getting into the old shambles without her supervision. Who knew what they’d find in there? The Realtor had told her the heirs of the former owner hadn’t bothered to find out, and no key for it could be found.

      Five minutes later, she and the kids marched out to tackle the rusting padlock. She whammed a major whack with her lightweight hammer, but nothing happened. She tried again, setting off nothing more than a rattle.

      “Let me try,” Kyle said.

      “Okay. Couldn’t hurt.” Quincee handed the child the tool. Sometimes it felt satisfying to hammer at something. An inanimate object. Something that couldn’t sustain lasting damage.

      “Can I try, too?” Kerri begged.

      “Sure ’nuff, Kerri bear. Just be careful not to get your other hand in the way. And Kyle, you step out of her way, too.”

      Quincee left the kids whacking at the lock to walk around the aging structure. A loud rattle and resounding metallic ring told her they’d hit the wooden doors, giving her a chuckle. If those old carriage-style wooden doors couldn’t take the stress, then she may as well count the garage off as a loss, anyway.

      She hadn’t done more than give the structure a cursory outside look before she bought the place. Probably full of mice, she mused. Oversized, it sat against the back property line a foot from an old chain link fence.

      As Quincee squeezed between the back wall and the fence, she caught a flashing sun reflection from the corner of her eye. She glanced over the fence to the tall, narrow house behind hers, spotting a stooped, thin figure with binoculars clamped to his eyes. Waving jauntily, she grinned. A moment later, the old man had disappeared from view.

      Quincee chuckled. She sure did have interesting and concerned neighbors.

      She continued her examination of her garage. As she traipsed around it, listening to the children’s voices float, she decided the old structure wasn’t in as bad a shape as she’d thought.

      Kyle demanded that Kerri give him the hammer, and an argument ensued. Then, hearing additional grown-up voices, Quincee rounded the corner to see an older couple talking with the children.

      “Oh, hello there. I’m Bette Longacre,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Gene. We live just across the street, there.” She pointed to a large brick bungalow in thirties style directly across from the judge’s. Bette had a sweet smile in a plump face and short white hair. “We came over to welcome you and your children to the neighborhood.”

      “That’s nice of you,” Quincee responded, smiling in return. She swiped her hand on the back of her jeans and offered to shake while she introduced herself and the children.

      The adults agreed on using first names.

      “We are trying to open our garage,” Quincee explained. “We have no idea what’s in there.”

      “Oh, I can tell you what some of it is,” Bette said. “Old furniture. Magazines. Bottles. Junk and more junk. Denby never threw away anything in his life if he could help it.”

      “Any toys?” Kerri asked hopefully.

      “Possible. Never knew with Denby,” Gene answered, rubbing his chin. His gaze was speculative behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “He could be a peculiar man sometimes.”

      “Somethin’ going on here?” asked a new arrival. The man who strolled toward them tucked a folded newspaper under his arm as he hitched his baggy shorts over a rounded belly. He had a thick fringe of nondescript hair around his shiny dome of a head.

      “Oh, ’lo, Randolf.” Bette greeted him tentatively with a quick glance at her husband. “Come meet our new neighbors, Quincee Davis and the children, Kyle and Kerri.”

      The two men nodded their greetings toward each other rather like two hounds who claimed the same territory. The new arrival turned her way.

      “Randolf Bader, ma’am. Saw the commotion an’ heard banging,” he said. “Thought I should see what all the ruckus was about. Don’t have many little kids on the street anymore. Big ones, though. Some of ’em can’t be trusted to stay outta trouble.”

      “Randolf lives two doors down from here,” Bette explained to Quincee. “He heads our neighborhood watch program.”

      “That’s good to know,” Quincee said. “Well, Mr. Bader, I’m trying to remove this padlock. There doesn’t seem to be a key to it, and anyway, it has rusted and corroded until it’s completely sealed. So far, a hammer against it hasn’t broken it.”

      “A saw might do it,” Gene said.

      “I think you should get aholt of one of those tools like giant pliers,” said Mr. Bader.

      “Don’t think so, Randolf,” Gene contradicted. “Wouldn’t cut it. Besides, those things take a lot of muscle power.”

      “That let’s you out then,” Mr. Bader said.

      Gene pursed his lips. “And I suppose you could do it?”

      “Wasn’t saying that, now, was I?”

      “You may have to call in a locksmith,” Bette said hastily. “They know about these things.”

      “What’s going on?” said the deep voice behind her. Quincee would recognize that voice from only a syllable spoken.

      Hearing it certainly caused her tummy to dip. She hadn’t heard his approach.

      They all turned his way in unison, as though his presence commanded the highest respect even in the neighborhood.

      Dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the charcoal shade over a stark white shirt coupled with a cranberry red tie, Judge Hamilton Paxton appeared as appropriate to the law profession as if he waved his degree like a flag.

      “Hello, there, Hamilton,” Gene greeted. “Just getting acquainted with your new neighbors.”

      “Is there a problem?” Hamilton asked.