Checkered: A Story of Triumph and Redemption

By Valerie Banfield

Brian Mowery stakes the reputation of Ten-Tenth’s Top Gear on a perfect manufacturing process. Race car drivers stake their lives on his reputation. When a series of mishaps, innuendos, and allegations wander through his shop’s front door, Brian has to act before the incidents wreak havoc on his good name. But, who is to blame? One of the ex-cons on his payroll? An employee from the struggling neighborhood? An outsider?

Six-year-old Mia Nelville, armed with the unabashed support of her Uncle Brian, sweet-talks her parents into giving her a trial run as a quarter midget race car driver. Her racing career promises to run full-tilt—as long as Uncle Brian’s headaches don’t upend his commitment to be her pit boss.

When complications multiply, the man known for gifting second chances finds himself in need of redemption. As Mia witnesses Uncle Brian’s attempts to fix his shattered world, she wonders if his future is destined for the dreaded black flag, or if his choices will earn him the victory lap.

Approximate length: 370 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Banfield
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524207151

Book preview

For Jennifer, my delight.

Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.

Luke 7:50

Chapter 1

Promises

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Brian Mowery stared at the phone and willed it to quit ringing. The effect was as predicable as his wishing his headache into tomorrow. He stood up at his desk, rubbed his clenched jaw, and hit the speaker button.

Yes?

Sheila Howard is on line two. Beth’s hesitant voice shrank with each successive word.

Can you tell her I’m busy?

She’s called three times this afternoon. The syllables trembled at his rebuff. Her voice slipped into a whisper. Um, sh-sh-she said she had to talk to you before we closed for the holiday.

Brian glared out the window, wondering how his day became even darker than the threatening clouds. Meteorologists predicted a rare December thunderstorm this afternoon. No one bothered to warn him its origination would be his office.

Put her through. Brian picked up the foam stress toy and squeezed until the roof of the red and white Formula 1 race car met its tires. When he released his fist, the car flew out of his hand and, just like a stock car forced airborne after a high-speed collision, the little replica hit the wall and dropped to the ground.

Brian? Merry Christmas. Sheila’s happy tone, unlike the weather, was as foreseeable as the trouble she generated.

Merry Christmas to you, Brian mumbled. What can I do for you?

I’ve got an opportunity for you. Her voice was too eager.

Brian closed his eyes, bit his lip, and translated her message: I have a challenge for you and it will cost you plenty. He walked to the window and leaned against the cold sill. This isn’t a good time.

Oh, I know, but my client needs to see you right after Christmas. I’m going out of town and won’t be able to act on her behalf until after New Year’s Day.

Not a problem. We can chat then. He looked at the clouds and watched the zigzag of lightning interrupt the dark silhouette of a distant skyscraper. He still had to pick up wrapping paper. And the turkey. If he didn’t leave soon, the entree would be history. So would his appearance at dinner tomorrow.

No, you don’t understand. She can’t wait that long. Sheila’s cadence picked up speed, preventing his interruption. Listen, she’s great. She’s smart, teachable, willing to do whatever task you have available. I need to get her placed, pronto. Can you help me?

What was her crime?

What?

You heard me. Give me specifics.

Shoplifting, breaking and entering, receipt of stolen goods.

A victim. Right? Brian had heard enough stories from Sheila and her clients to write a screenplay. Sadly, Hollywood folks would find the stories too familiar and mundane to depict them in a motion picture.

Tough home life. Typical bad environment. Bad influences. Not enough breaks. You know the spiel.

Any acts of violence? Of all the things Katie asked of him, she only conceded felons with violent histories. He should have haggled more carefully.

None recorded.

So ... maybe acts of violence, but the arresting officers didn’t find it necessary to include the details?

No, I don’t think so. But ... Sheila coughed and grew silent.

But, what? Brian was weary of the unspoken baggage these women brought into his business. Today’s episode was too raw for contemplation of a repeat.

She seems to have been pretty hard on herself.

Brian didn’t like the implication, and the fishing expedition was getting old. Come on, Sheila, level with me.

Well, you know it’s not unusual for teenagers to cut themselves, right?

Great. Just what he needed to bring to work each day. A scalpel-wielding victim who thinks her life is different now that she’s paid her dues to society. She’s a cutter?

Kind of. She’s not a repetitive cutter. She damaged herself just once. Sheila’s deep breath passed through the airwaves and lit on Brian’s eardrum.

What did she do?

Carved up one side of her face.

Brian winced. No, I don’t think I can do this. Not this one.

But, she needs a chance. You’re the only one I know who hasn’t closed the door on these girls.

Sorry.

But, she has a son. She wants to be his mom. She can’t take care of him without a job. I promise she’ll be a hard worker. She’ll be dependable. Just give her a break. Please. Brian?

Brian stared across the room and stopped at the photograph of Katie. Too bad Sheila knew about the promise. She pulled the trump card, the parent card, over and over again. And, just like always, he caved. What’s her name?

Clare Dalton.

Tell her to be here at eleven on Friday. Fax her stats and release paperwork so I can run a background check before she gets here. Brian dropped into his chair and ran his free hand through his hair.

You’re my hero. You won’t regret this. Listen, have a wonderful holiday. Let’s get together for lunch the first week in January. Okay?

Sure thing. Merry Christmas. It was too much trouble to sound sincere.

The promised deluge pelted and streaked the windows, leaving the skyline to waver like a drunken sailor just off the boat. Brian strode around his desk and opened his office door. Beth looked up as she stuffed her hand into the arm of her coat. Her eyes went wide and her face paled, as if she were guilty of some infraction. No, she probably balked at his grimace. The little waif, horrendously underweight and timid to a painful degree, glanced at the clock. He followed her gaze. Three o’clock. Quitting time.

Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.

I th-th-thought we were closing at three today. She held her chin down and peered through pinched eyes.

Brian swallowed. Would this woman ever get past her past? Can you do one more thing before you go, or do you need to catch the bus?

Th-th-the bus comes in ten minutes, she stammered.

Okay, you better go. I just need a background check. I can pull it myself.

Are you s-s-sure? She still held her gaze downward. A strand of long, stringy blonde hair slid from behind her ear and obscured her expression.

I’m sure. Oh, and I almost forgot. Just a second. Brian sprinted into his office and extracted a white envelope from his top drawer. He returned to the reception area and extended it to Beth. Merry Christmas.

She was slow to hold out her hand, but took the envelope and slipped it into her faux leather handbag. She pulled a pair of red mittens out of the gaping side pocket of the large tote, revealing a broken metal zipper that lacked a pull and half its teeth. The distrustful young woman looked as tired and tattered as her accessory.

Thank you. Merry Christmas.

Brian opened the door for his employee. See you Friday.

Friday? Beth’s eyes brimmed.

Duh. He’d forgotten. You have Friday off.

Yeah.

Well, then, I’ll see you on Monday. Merry Christmas.

Beth sniffled and lifted the edge of one side of her mouth. You too. She slipped out of the door, hunched her shoulders, and disappeared into the downpour.

~

Brian stuck the dark green bottle into his deep coat pocket before he slung a gift bag over one arm and hefted his contribution to the meal into the crook of the other. He bent his knees just enough to grab the handles of two small gift bags with his free hand, but when his car keys dropped into a puddle deep enough to drown a small dog, he put the small bags back into his car and left the door open while he trudged to the porch. He deposited five pounds of gold-foil wrapped turkey breast onto the wrought iron bench, slid the gift bag off his arm, checked to confirm a snug fit around the stowed bottle, and retraced his steps to the car.

Murky water reached his wrist before his fingers found the submerged keys. He rubbed an icy film from his fingertips before shaking frigid droplets of water from his hand. When he reached for the gift bags, his deep exhale took the form of miniscule ice crystals before it disappeared without a trace. By nightfall, the brisk air would turn unmarked puddles into miniature ice rinks. If he didn’t remember, he’d find himself sitting on his rear end when he tried to get back into his car for the ride home. He closed the car door with a cautious shove of his hip and took a wide step around the puddle.

Dean Nelville opened the front door before Brian could ring the doorbell. Dean wore a pair of black dress pants and a heavy beige sweater of the Irish persuasion, which drew attention to his warm hazel eyes. The family man rubbed the back of his bald head and delivered a welcome, while two little girls with big brown eyes, mischievous smiles, and matching sets of brown pigtails peered from behind their father.

Mommy, Lindsey yelled, Uncle Brian’s here.

Mia leaned through the doorway and offered a fist bump and a giggle.

Mia, can you hold the door open for your old dad? Dean retrieved the turkey from the bench while Brian added the large gift bag to his own load.

Once inside, Brian slipped out of his boots, followed Dean into the kitchen, and planted a kiss on Susan’s cheek. Hey, kiddo, Merry Christmas. He pulled the bottle out of his coat pocket and put it on the counter next to what he hoped was a deep dish apple pie. He leaned over the pie and sniffed.

Merry Christmas. Yes, it’s apple. Susan wiped her hands on a dishtowel, pushed a loose strand of straight espresso-colored hair behind her ear, and gave Brian a hug. Although a red apron with green trim covered a light blue sweater and long black skirt, she still wore her slippers, probably more as an oversight than a fashion statement. Heat from the stovetop gave her cheeks a pink glow, and light from the bright ceiling fixture brought out the gold flecks in her toffee-colored eyes. After you get out of your coat, would you set out the silver for me?

Sure.

Eight place settings, please. Susan turned her back and stirred the simmering contents of one of the pans on the stovetop.

If you’d told me you were having more guests, I would have brought a better selection of beverages. Who’s coming? He’d play along, but the unnamed guests had better be a couple and their child. Susan wouldn’t set him up today—not Christmas. Brian unbuttoned his coat and tugged at his wool scarf.

Dean answered, Kevin and Cindy Banks.

From next door?

Yeah, you remember them, Susan said. While the hand holding the spoon stirred faster, she planted her idle hand on her hip.

Of course. That brings the count to seven. Who else? Brian pulled one arm out of his coat sleeve and paused. He didn’t recall Kevin and Cindy having a kid. The couple was older than Dean and Susan. Maybe they had one old enough to be at college? Brian pulled his other arm out and drummed his fingers on the countertop while he waited for someone to answer. When Dean and Susan exchanged one of those we’ve been married long enough to send each other telepathic messages looks, he grimaced. Who?

Cindy’s sister, Susan murmured. She’s just taken a job in town and hasn’t met anyone yet. Cindy and Kevin wouldn’t have come if we hadn’t asked all three to join us. You don’t mind, do you?

Should I? Brian tucked his scarf under the collar of his coat and walked to the hall closet. He spied another silent transmission pass between his host and hostess. History warned of his sister’s perseverance. Christmas or not. He decided not to remind Susan about her slippers.

Brian washed his hands, grabbed a fistful of Susan’s best silver from their mother’s old wooden storage box, and bah-humbugged as he circled the dining room table.

What are you singing, Uncle Brian? Lindsey twirled a pigtail in each hand. A band of freckles adorned the seven-year-old’s cheekbones. Although both girls inherited their mother’s brown eyes and tresses, Lindsey was tall for her age, and gangly like her father. At least she’d keep her hair as she aged, unlike Dean. Brian might have snickered had he not been staring his brother-in-law’s predicament square in the face.

Just humming while I work.

Like the seven dwarves?

No, those dudes whistled. Brian demonstrated with the intro to a Disney tune.

Oh. Lindsey held both hands up for inspection. Mommy let me paint my fingernails for Christmas.

Wow, they look pretty. Bright red, just like Santa’s suit.

We did a mani-pedi. Lindsay plopped down on the floor, pulled off a red, white, and green-striped velour sock, and wiggled her red-tipped toes at him. See?

Hmm. Are your toes Santa red or Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer red?

It’s holly berry red. Lindsey tugged her sock back onto her foot and stood up. Mommy says I have to take the polish off before church. She started twirling her hair again.

Well, Christmas will be over by then. Maybe she’ll let you wear silver nail polish for New Year’s.

Lindsey’s eyes widened. She glanced over her shoulder before skipping into the kitchen. Mommy, do you have silver nail polish ... with glitter?

Brian chuckled. Served Susan right. He’d undermine his sister’s nail polish decrees in protest of her overstepping sibling boundaries, although it would do little to get her to quit interfering.

Thanks, big man. Susan tucked the ivory china platter under the turkey while Dean stood ready to catch any wayward slices.

What? You don’t have silver nail polish? Brian asked.

Her cheeks reddened. That’s not the point. As she slid the turkey out of the wrapping, it hit the platter with a thud.

Ah, so you do have silver nail polish with glitter.

She does, Dean interrupted. She just doesn’t want to share it with the girls.

Don’t encourage him. Susan turned her back to both men and rinsed her hands in the sink. When she reached for a towel, the doorbell rang.

I’ll get it. Mia’s footsteps pounded the hardwood floor as she raced from the family room and through the kitchen. Blinking red, blue, green, and yellow lights on her antler headband accompanied her to the door.

Susan slid out of her slippers and into the pair of black flats tucked just inside the pantry door. Could you please go save our guests from an exuberant reindeer child?

Sure. Brian wandered into the hallway and stopped in front of the antique mirror. After he hesitated long enough to straighten his collar and run his hand through his hair, he glared at the reflection. What was he doing? Falling feet first into Susan’s good intentions? Reaching behind his belt, he yanked some fabric from one side of his neat, tucked shirt and mussed the top of his hair until he pushed a few of the short strands into unruly spikes. Better? No. Safer.

Barefooted Mia leaned out of the door at an angle of about forty-five degrees. Her body swayed precariously over the space between the small rug where she stood on tiptoe, and the doorknob, which she gripped with her green-tipped fingers.

Whoa, hold on there, girl. Brian reached under Mia’s tiny form and wrapped his arm around her waist. He dangled the elfin tomboy until she righted herself, and then let her feet find the floor. Nice nails, Mia. Are you the Jolly Green Giant?

Mia put her hands on her hips and harrumphed. I am an elf, Uncle Brian. She turned toward the three people standing on the porch. "That’s why I’m opening the door. It’s my job."

Brian shook hands with Kevin. Merry Christmas. Please, come in.

Merry Christmas to you, too. Kevin stepped out of his unlaced boots and held his wife’s hand as the weighty woman, further constrained by her thick down jacket, tugged her feet out of her black leather ankle boots.

Once relieved of her boots, Cindy acknowledged Brian. Nice to see you again. She pulled off a pair of earmuffs and lifted the short hair on the crown of her head with her fingers.

You too, Brian answered. Between the abbreviated head covering and the plump figure, Cindy reminded him of one of his childhood toys, those rotund little figures that bobbed and swayed, and never tipped over.

Cindy unzipped her coat. She wheezed when she said, Um, Brian, this is my sister, Joy.

Joy? Brian asked.

Right. Joy, the sister repeated. Joy Jacobs. The pale blue eyes of the short, slender, woman did little to mask her arrogance. Her, Nice to meet you, was about as warm as the wind that shoved the door closed behind her.

After she removed her leather jacket, she draped it over the arm Brian had intended to introduce his handshake. The buttery leather was soft to the touch, and if he bothered to look, the label sewn below the collar would honor some Italian design house whose name he could not pronounce.

Unlike her sister, Joy made no attempt to remove her knee-high boots, which, as her black tights and tan tunic revealed, were as much a part of her outfit as her smug inspection of the entryway was to her charming personality. Brian stifled an impolite huff. No doubt, Joy was pretty, with a head of thick dark hair, high cheekbones, straight, dainty nose, and narrow, chiseled chin. Nevertheless, Sister Susan should have investigated the charismatic appeal of the unattached woman before she invited her to the holiday dinner table.

After Brian hung three coats in the hall closet, Mia latched onto his hand. She peeked around him and said, Hi, Mr. Kevin. Hi, Mrs. Cindy.

Cindy waved her fingers at Mia while her husband waved his hat. Brian said, Um, Miss Jacobs, this is my niece, Mia Nelville.

Joy moved her stare from Brian’s ruffled hair and rumpled shirttail to Mia’s blinking antlers. Without so much as a fake smile, she answered with a flat, Hello.

Everyone’s in the kitchen. Brian squeezed his niece’s hand. Mia, lead the way.

~

Mia, please quit wiggling. And, please turn off your antler lights.

Daddy gave her one of his we got company looks, so she didn’t argue; but, Christmas was about Jesus and shepherds, and Christmas trees, and twinkling lights. If they had electricity and batteries way back when Jesus was born, the three wise men would have put blinking lights on those camels of theirs, for sure.

Daddy jingled his narrow crystal glass with his fork and cleared his throat, although Mia knew he didn’t have anything in there to clear.

Wait, wait. Uncle Brian jumped up from the table and jumbled around in the kitchen, making all sorts of noise while everyone else waited in the dining room. When he came back, he was holding two more glasses of champagne, and his dark brown eyes twinkled mischief. He put one glass on the table, beside Lindsey’s plate.

When he put the other glass in Mia’s hand, her eyes popped open faster than the top of a wound up jack-in-the-box. Her fingers trembled when she grasped the slender stem, so she wrapped her left hand around her right hand. The champagne fizzled more than any soda she’d ever seen. It was as pretty as the billion lights that outlined the rooftop on the house across the street.

Brian? Mommy said. I thought you brought wine.

You thought wrong. Sparkling white grape juice. When Uncle Brian answered, he looked like he’d done one over on Mommy. Mia knew that look. It’s the one Mia would shoot to Lindsey on those not-too-often occasions when she did one over on her big sister. If Mia didn’t need to hold her glass so tight, she’d give Uncle Brian a fist bump.

Daddy cleared his throat again. Ahem. Before a toast, how about a prayer?

When she thought no one was looking, Mommy gestured to Uncle Brian to pat down his messed up hair. Mia stole one more glance around the table. Everyone bowed their head and closed their eyes, except for Miss Joy. Only when she saw Mia watching her did Miss Joy take the prayer position.

Daddy started, We give thanks to God in heaven, for we would be nothing, have nothing, and have no hope were it not for the birth of our Savior. For this gift, and the bounty on our table, we give thanks and ask His blessings on all who join us this evening. Amen. When everyone looked up he added, Well, now we have no need for a toast. That kind of says it all. He lifted his glass and took a drink.

When Mia took a sip, she wrinkled her nose at the bubbles and the taste. She’d stick to ice water for the rest of the meal.

Mia covered her mandatory serving of peas with a thin layer of what Mommy called Company Potatoes. Mia didn’t like the cheesy potato sacrifice, but it sure beat eating those little green stink pellets. Mommy didn’t notice because she decided to interrogate Miss Joy. Mommy would make a good detective.

So, Joy, have you settled in yet? Mommy pushed her hair out of her face and stared at Miss Joy.

I signed a lease on an apartment, but the moving van doesn’t arrive until next Tuesday. I’ll have to impose on Cindy and Kevin a while longer. Miss Joy’s smile didn’t look very genuine and she seemed way picky with her food. She didn’t take any turkey when Daddy passed the platter around the table, and she spent a lot of time moving things around on her plate. She ate some peas and some sweet potatoes, and helped herself to seconds on the tossed salad, but kind of turned up her nose at the rest of the food.

Daddy finished chewing on a big piece of turkey and waved his fork at Miss Joy. Kevin told me you’re an attorney. Do you have a specialty?

I’m a patent attorney, Miss Joy said. When she dabbed her napkin to her lips, the chandelier’s light glanced off the facets of the biggest diamond ring Mia had seen in her whole life.

Are you rich? Mia asked.

Mia, her mommy scolded. We don’t ask guests personal questions. Mommy turned to Miss Joy and said, I’m sorry.

If Mommy could ask about her apartment, and Daddy could ask about her being an attorney, why couldn’t Mia ask about the diamond? Or the leather boots and the leather coat? Miss Joy was rich. Mia could tell.

What I need, Miss Joy said, even before the moving van comes, is a car.

You don’t have a car? Lindsey asked. Lindsey looked at Mia as if her little sister were a moron, with her ugly face implying, See, she’s not rich. She doesn’t even own a car.

Tiny dimples formed in Mrs. Cindy’s cheeks. Joy doesn’t have a car because she just moved here from New York City. People who live in New York don’t need to drive cars.

They don’t? Lindsey looked as if she didn’t believe Mrs. Cindy.

No. They live close enough to walk to work or to the grocery. Or, they can take taxicabs or the subway. Mrs. Cindy looked at Uncle Brian. Don’t you have a friend who works at the car dealership?

Yeah. Uncle Brian drew his eyes close together and threw a look to Mommy.

Do you think you might introduce Joy to him? I suspect he’d like to make one last sale before the end of the year, don’t you? Mrs. Cindy gave Uncle Brian a big smile. Mia wished she’d close her mouth some, though. Mrs. Cindy had something stuck between her two front teeth.

Uncle Brian wet his lips and put his fork down before he gulped some of his champagne. He glowered at Mommy, real quick like. I don’t know if he’s working between now and New Year’s, but I can give him a call.

Great, Mr. Kevin said. If you could give Joy a hand in that department, I’d be grateful. I have a deadline to meet and can’t break away from work long enough to help. Thanks a lot.

Uncle Brian didn’t look as if he wanted to be helpful when he mumbled, Sure.

You very busy this next week? Daddy looked at Uncle Brian.

Most of my employees are scheduled to work on Friday. Most don’t want to take time off without pay, you know. I can give them Christmas; I can’t afford to give a second day off. Have an applicant coming in for an interview, too.

On Friday? Mommy asked.

Sheila called.

Mommy put her fork on her plate. Do you need more help? I thought you were fully staffed.

I was until yesterday morning. Uncle Brian rubbed the back of his neck.

Someone quit on Christmas Eve? Daddy asked.

No, I fired someone on Christmas Eve. Uncle Brian stabbed a piece of turkey, slopped some potatoes on top, and stuffed the forkful into his mouth.

Miss Joy sat up straight in her seat. You fired someone on Christmas Eve? That’s rather uncivilized. What kind of work do you do?

Uncle Brian sat back in his chair and said, I own a company that manufactures uniforms and other safety equipment for race car drivers.

What happened? Mommy asked.

She didn’t care enough about our customers. I had to let her go.

Miss Joy’s forehead scrunched until it formed three parallel rows. Her eyes narrowed too. You can’t just fire someone because they’re not passionate about the product they manufacture.

When she stared at Uncle Brian, like he’d done something bad, he pushed his shoulders up and gripped the edge of the table. His knuckles went as white as the frost smothering the air in the dining room. Mia shivered.

When I spoke, I didn’t see your lawyer hat, Joy Jacobs, Esquire. Uncle Brian’s mouth didn’t move very much.

I always wear my lawyer hat, Miss Joy said. Her words sounded as bitter as those cold peas hiding under Mia’s Company Potatoes.

Even though the muscle on the edge of his mouth twitched, Uncle Brian managed to wet his lips. My employee didn’t care enough about our customers to do her job correctly. She willfully excluded a layer of fireproof fabric from the uniform she sewed.

Aren’t you required to give her notice, a second chance?

Miss Jacobs, if you are a race car driver involved in a high speed collision, wouldn’t you want your fireproof uniform to be ... fireproof?

Mia’s eyes widened when Miss Joy snorted. It wasn’t a loud snort, not like the snorts given off by smarty-pants Gillian who sat next to Mia in school, but it was a snort. Uncle Brian’s knuckles were still white.

Miss Joy pinched her lips before she answered. Anyone who is so foolish as to put themselves in harm’s way like that, should have to accept the risks involved, as well as the consequences.

When Mommy pushed her chair away from the table, Daddy stood up and started gathering dinner plates. Daddy never gathered dinner plates. He looked madder than when Mia and Lindsey spilled nail polish remover on the top of the lamp table.

Lindsey picked up Uncle Brian’s champagne glass, which was still full, and headed toward the kitchen. Just as she put the glass to her lips, Daddy screamed, Lindsey. When Lindsey jumped sky high, Mia tried not to giggle. The sparkling liquid sloshed against the glass and spilled over Lindsey’s chin and down the front of her dress. Maybe the dining room was safer than the kitchen right now.

Mrs. Cindy leaned over and whispered to her sister, What are you doing? You are ruining this dinner. Look, I know you hate your world right now, but you need to stop this. Right now. I will not have you ruin this Christmas. Do you understand? Although Mrs. Cindy whispered, every time her teeth came together to form an s, the word sounded like a snake hissing.

Mia slid down in her seat and scratched her head. When her fingers fumbled on the headband, she turned the blinking lights on again. Maybe Mrs. Cindy wouldn’t know Mia had heard her if she pretended to be preoccupied with Christmas. Mia started singing to herself, Ho, ho, ho, who wouldn’t go-o.

She stared at the Christmas lights glowing across the street. The inflatable Santa held his hand way up high, waving to all the good boys and girls. Mia shifted her gaze to Miss Joy.

Do you believe in Jesus? Mia asked.

Miss Joy smacked her shoulders against the chair when she jerked backwards. She looked at Miss Cindy and said, Can you please help me with this?

Miss Cindy’s face went from mad at her sister to just plain sad. Joy hasn’t met him yet.

Oh. No wonder Miss Cindy was sad. Do you believe in Santa Claus?

Miss Joy’s eye twitched. What? Santa? Of course I believe in Santa.

Mia cocked her head and stared at Miss Joy’s frown. Maybe she was in such a bad mood because she didn’t get any presents, and she blamed Santa for putting her on his Naughty List. Mia wondered what Miss Joy had done to get stuck in that category. It must have been something disunspeakable. Yeppers.

Chapter 2

Skirmishes

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Brian fumbled with his key