Man With A Mission. Muriel Jensen

can’t always judge that by how things come out,” she answered.

      He looked up from the box to meet her gaze in disbelief. “How do you judge the right or wrong of an action if not by its result?”

      “Maybe by the number of people hurt.”

      “Then her staying should go down as a disaster.” The items located, he rose and carried them to the desk.

      “Her parents were happy she stayed.”

      “How could they have been? She went to Boston for two years.”

      “Well, that wasn’t California, where the two of you had planned to go. They had a hope of seeing her once in a while.” She came to stand beside him while he centered the blotter on the desktop and placed the photos behind it. There was one of him and Haley and their parents on a trip to Disney World, all of them in Mickey Mouse ears. His father looked grim. He’d never had much of a sense of humor. Then there was Haley’s graduation photo, and one of her and Bart on their wedding day. He was supposed to have moved home the day before, but he was still in Florida when the wedding took place, sick as a dog with the flu in an empty apartment. He’d insisted they not hold up the wedding.

      “I just think you need to make peace with this,” his mother said in the same voice she’d used to talk him out of his sulks when his father had been on him. “It happened. You both made your choices, and for better or worse, you’ve lived with them. Now you’re going to be running into each other on a regular basis and it’ll be easier in the long run if you just come to terms with it. And you could be a little nicer.”

      He remembered clearly how he’d felt that night when he’d had to leave without her. He’d been only eighteen, but there’d been nothing young about his love for her. It had been full and mature with roots she’d ripped right out of him.

      “She cut my heart out with a trowel, Mom,” he said, hating how theatrical the words sounded. But they did convey the feeling.

      Adeline shook her head at him and reached for her coat. “Well, she must have, because you certainly don’t seem to have one at the moment. I’m going out for scones.”

      “Thanks.” He handed her a bill from a drawer on the coffee bar. It served as the petty cash safe. “Get one for Cameron in case he checks back in before going home.”

      She glowered at him and he added as an afterthought, “Please.” When that didn’t seem to appease her, he tried, “Thank you.”

      She sighed and walked to the door, turning to say grimly, “Well, at least you learned ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ I’ll be right back.”

      If she were kidnapped by aliens, Lord, he prayed, falling into his chair to soak up the moment’s respite, friendly ones, you know, that play Bingo and have Ibuprofen and mentholated rubs readily available, I could deal with it. She’d be happy. I’d be happy. No, I know. No such luck. I have to learn to cope with her. And with seeing Jackie regularly, too, I suppose. Fine. But just wait until St. Anthony’s needs a microphone for the Blessings Blow-Out auction. See what happens then.

      Hank opened the single drawer in the table to retrieve his Palm Pilot when the room fell into complete darkness.

      He sat still, experiencing a sense of foreboding. Faulty ancient wiring, he wondered, or God responding to being threatened?

      CHAPTER THREE

      JACKIE INSERTED HER KEY in the lock on the front door of her home two blocks from downtown, grateful that her assistant manager had all the night shifts at the inn this week. She anticipated a cozy dinner with the girls and a peaceful evening. That did happen more often than not—at least, it used to—but she knew the moment she opened the door and heard screeching voices that it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

      She heard the baby-sitter’s quiet efforts to calm the girls. They seemed to be having no effect.

      With a wistful wish for a different life—any other life, at least for tonight—Jackie dropped her coat and purse on the nearest chair and hurried toward the kitchen, where the melee was taking place.

      “I can’t believe you did that!” Erica was shrieking at Rachel, who faced her down stubbornly, bony arms folded atop a flowered dress Jackie had never seen before. The fabric looked familiar, though. “It was mine!” she said, her voice high and shrill and almost hysterical.

      Ricky had been a casual father at best, sometimes attentive but more often unaware of his children, caught up with the pressures of his work and his own needs. But the children, of course, had grieved his loss. Erica had turned from a happy, cheerful child to a moody one. Rachel seemed less affected personally, except that she wanted details about death and heaven and didn’t seem to be satisfied with Jackie’s explanation. “Mom bought it for me! You’re such a selfish little brat! I hate you, hate you!” With that Erica flung herself at Rachel.

      Jackie ran to intercept her just as Glory Anselmo caught Erica from behind and held her away. Glory was in her second year at Maple Hill Community College’s computer classroom program. She played volleyball in her spare time and was built like a rock. A very pretty brunette rock.

      “Erica Isabel!” Jackie said, pushing Rachel aside with one hand while catching one of Erica’s flailing fists with the other. Erica was dark-featured, tall and slender, built like her father’s side of the family. Rachel was petite like Jackie, and blond. Both seemed to have inherited personality traits from some long-lost connection to the Mongol hordes. “Take it back.”

      “I won’t! Look at what she did to my pillowcase!”

      “I made it beautiful!” Rachel extended her arms and did an end-of-the-runway turn. That was when Jackie realized she’d cut a hole for her head and two armholes in Erica’s pillowcase, the one patterned with cabbage roses and violets, and was wearing it like a dress. She’d added a white silk cord that also looked familiar.

      Jackie groaned. Glory, she could see, was having a little difficulty keeping a straight face. It was funny, Jackie had to admit to herself, if you weren’t the one required to make peace.

      Glory caught Jackie’s expression and sobered, still holding on to Erica. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bourgeois,” she said. “I should have checked on Rachel. She was being really quiet.”

      Rachel, who had brains beyond her years and an almost scary sense of style in everything she did, said, “I was quiet ’cause I was…what’s that word for when you get a really good idea and you just have to do it?”

      “Inspired?” Jackie guessed.

      Rachel smiled widely, delighted that she understood. “That’s it!”

      “Well, I think you should be inspired to give Erica your pillowcase,” Jackie ruled. “It’s fine to be inspired, but you don’t try out your designs using someone else’s things.”

      “Please.” Erica clearly loathed the idea. “It has pigs and ducks on it. I think she should clean my room for a year!”

      “No way!” Rachel shouted.

      “Then she’ll pay you the amount of the pillowcase out of her savings,” Jackie arbitrated, “so you can buy a new one.”

      Rachel pouted. She was also frugal.

      The tension eased somewhat, Glory freed Erica’s arms.

      “Now take back the ‘I hate you,’” Jackie insisted.

      Erica looked her mother in the eye. “But I do hate her.”

      That cold-blooded admission might have chilled someone who hadn’t seen Erica defend Rachel from the neighborhood bully who’d tried to take Rachel’s candy bar just two days ago. The fact that Erica had demanded half the candy bar in payment for her protection didn’t really figure into it. Rachel understood commerce.

      “No, you don’t.” Jackie touched