Love Me Forever. Muriel Jensen

three hours flat last week.”

      “You hired her?”

      “No.” Her mother looked surprised. “She said you paid her to do it. You didn’t?”

      Sandy rolled her eyes and took another sip of wine. “She’s always trying to pay me back for letting them rent Aunt Lacey’s house. Honestly. She’s been trying to clean my house, but I told her you always clean it when you babysit, so I guess she thought she’d be sneaky.”

      “Well, she was thorough. I recommended her to some friends and I think she’s picked up a couple of jobs.”

      “That’s great. Maybe she’ll get big enough to hire me.”

      “Oh, honey, you don’t have it for housekeeping.”

      Sandy would have been offended had it not been true. She kept the house tidy enough, but her preference for playing with the girls or taking them to a movie often compromised her attention to detail.

      “If worse comes to worse, you and the girls can always move in here. I promise not to kill you, if you promise not to kill me.” Her mother was right about the potential for disaster. They were alike in many ways, but completely incompatible in sharing living quarters.

      “I do have thirty thousand dollars, so I’m not immediately desperate.”

      “Yes, but letting that get eaten up on monthly bills would be criminal. Have you considered selling your aunt’s house?”

      “No. I promised the Morenos they could live there forever, and I’ll do anything before I take that away from them.”

      “I know you have a wonderfully giving nature, but you have a right to consider yourself and the girls first.”

      “I just keep imagining myself in Celia’s shoes. Being so short of money that your husband steals cash from a store, goes to jail, and you have to somehow support two young girls. If it hadn’t been for my firm responding to Nate’s call for help on Bobbie’s behalf...” She stopped short. It was no longer “her” firm. “Anyway, thank goodness the little house was empty when Armando got out of jail and they had to leave their old apartment.”

      “I worry a little about you being involved with a...a criminal.”

      “Mom. He didn’t use a gun—the clerk went to help a customer and left the register open and unattended. Armando couldn’t feed his family and felt desperate. Anyway, booting the Morenos out is not an option.”

      “Right. Well, there’s got to be a solution. Maybe you’ll find something in the classifieds. Want me to pick up the girls from daycare and bring them here so you can relax a little tonight?”

      “No, thanks.” She sipped more wine and was beginning to feel steadier. Not better, but steadier. “I’ll take them to McDonald’s. They never fight when we eat out. Then, after they go to bed, I’ll check out the want ads. There has to be something in Astoria for a hardworking, fund-raising—” she slid off the stool and quoted her mother “—‘wonderfully giving’ woman.”

      “I’m sorry you’ve had such an awful day, Sandy,” her mother said, walking her to the door, “but I have complete faith in your ability to work things out. You did it for us when your father left and I wasn’t much help for a while. You survived Charlie leaving. And the girls are smart and happy. Which is quite an accomplishment for a woman having to do it all herself.”

      “I’ll be fine,” Sandy assured her mother. She kept her worry about the dearth of jobs in Astoria to herself. “Thanks for the wine and the shoulder.”

      “Anytime.”

      * * *

      DINNER AT MCDONALD’S was peaceful. Turning off her concerns about the day, she watched Zoey, who looked and generally behaved like a princess, talk about one day marrying Sheamus Raleigh, Nate’s nephew, who was eight. The girls saw a lot of him and eleven-year-old Dylan when Bobbie and Sandy exchanged babysitting.

      Platinum hair in a messy ponytail she’d made herself, Zoey held the sock monkey wearing a tutu that went everywhere with her in one hand, and a glittery magic wand that Nate and Bobbie had brought her back from Disneyland in the other. She put down the wand to pick up a nugget of chicken. “Where’s Hunter?”

      “He’s—um—working tonight.”

      “Taxes?” Delicate eyebrows rose over bright blue eyes as she asked the question.

      Sandy was astonished. She was sure Zoey had no idea what taxes were, just that Hunter and Uncle Nate had worked hard because of them the past couple of months.

      “No.” She pulled extra napkins out of the dispenser and wiped a smear of ketchup off Addie’s mouth. “Tax season is over. That’s when they work really hard to get everything done on time. This is just regular work.”

      “Sometimes Hunter wishes he was a cowboy.” Zoey examined a French fry, then snapped off a bite.

      “How come?”

      “They only have to count cows. Counting money is a lot of trouble.”

      Sandy swallowed hard. Zoey quoted Hunter all the time, a reminder that when he was with the girls, he talked to them, enjoyed them, saw that they were never left out of the conversation. He’d never kept the distance from them that he’d kept from her. He would have been a good father.

      Addie, about to be four, and smaller than her sister but already giant in personality, leaned over on her elbows toward her mother. Her hair, the same color as her sister’s, was wild and stuck up out of a tiara, also from the Raleighs’ trip to Disneyland. Addie’s dark blue eyes were alight with intelligence. “Hunter’s coming to my birthday!” she said.

      Great, Sandy thought. But she smiled at that news. “That’s nice.”

      “She told him he had to bring a present,” Zoey ratted, sounding disgusted.

      Making a face at her youngest, Sandy said, “It isn’t nice to ask for things, Ad. Even when it’s your birthday. When did you see Hunter?”

      “He brought stuff to Rainbow,” Zoey replied. Rainbow was the daycare center. “We were having lunch and Addie ran to see him. You’re not supposed to leave the table.”

      Sandy knew that Raleigh and Raleigh did the books for the daycare center. In the tradition of small towns, Raleigh staff often delivered reports or payroll to their clients.

      “Grandma’s going to make your birthday cake,” Sandy said, trying to divert the conversation. “And it will have Tow Mater on it.”

      “Sweeet!”

      Sweet was Addie’s new favorite word. Especially when drawn out, the way the Raleigh boys said it.

      “When I grow up,” Addie said seriously, “I’m gonna have a tow truck.”

      Sandy smiled supportively. She was raising a grease monkey. While other little girls were dreaming of horses, Addie wanted a tow truck. Sandy hoped that somewhere out there another mother was raising a young man who could fall in love with an unconventional woman.

      On the way home, the girls sang “The Wheels on the Bus” song until Sandy turned into the driveway. They did all their usual evening things—watched television, had a snack, took their baths—then Sandy tucked them into bed.

      Now, with a thick black marker in one hand and a cup of decaf in the other, Sandy sat at the kitchen table, opening the Daily Astorian to the classifieds section. She scanned the Personals, the Lost Pets, all the interesting things for sale, then zeroed in on the Help Wanted columns.

      There were all kinds of ads for workers with skills she didn’t have—pipe layer, concrete finisher, licensed insurance agent, bus driver. A logging company was looking for choker setters and rigging slingers. She lingered over that ad. She would have loved to choke or sling someone.

      Discouraged, she circled