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By D.Outhouse

Citizens of small-town Folbee, Nebraska find themselves under the thumb of mega-entrepreneur Richard Kilroy; a man of money who appeared one day and seemed to have Folbee in his pocket the next. Among the unhappy residents are single mother Chelsie Davenport and her six year old daughter Rosie, The remnants of the McCormick family, and Dirk Korner’s fresh widow. Then one day, miracle of miracles: The McKormick’s eldest and sole remaining son makes an unexpected return from his 15 year Army tenure. The McCormick’s house is slowly falling apart while Chelsie fights off the unwanted attentions of Sherriff Brock Carter and Widow Korner becomes more and more suspicious that her husband was not attacked by wild wolves. Chris McCormick, the once-town-hero, is aghast to find his home in such a state of decay, intrigued by the beautiful if not off-putting Chelsie Davenport, and determined to restore Folbee to its former glory. But will the fight be worth the cost, and who will pay the gravedigger?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665557146

D.Outhouse

Born Danielle Reneigh Outhouse. Eldest of six raised by Dr. Alan and Sarah Outhouse Mother to the beautiful artist Mercy, my pride, joy, and inspiration. Favorite hobby is - obviously- writing.

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© 2022 D.Outhouse. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/18/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5715-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5716-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-5714-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022907272

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

R osie stared hard into the licking flames. Juvenile golden eyes searched for any sign of the illusive Wishing Angel. Jake was probably just messing with her; he was ALWAYS messing with her. Fergus poked his massive head into the living room for the third time in as many minutes; now the English Mastiff lumbered in as far in as the aged knit-covered sofa. He sat heavily, his watchful gaze glued to the six year old.

Fergus. Rosie spoke in a hushed whine, You can’t be here. You’ll mess up the wish.

Fergus gave a curt ‘woof’.

Shhh! Rosie glanced warily toward the kitchen where Terra and Nani were still chatting about- something. Grownups could be so boring. Except Rosie’s mom; Rosie’s mom was AWSOME. And she deserved this. A lot. In fact Rosie believed with her whole heart that they both did. The young girl looked back to the fireplace; pale little fingers anxiously worried the perfectly folded paper in her hands. A minute ticked by. Nothing. Rosie sighed dramatically and turned to glare at the dog. Fergus. This is important. She won’t come if you’re here. I have to be alone when the wish burns.

Fergus clapped his jaw smacking enormous black lips.

Please? Rosie begged.

The dog didn’t budge.

She sweetened the plea: "I’ll drop a little extra at suppertime. And not veggies either- I’ll slip you some meat. After a moment’s hesitation Rosie added in a sing-song whisper: With graaavy…"

That got Fergus’ attention. He labored to his feet and stalked toward the kitchen. He slid one last ‘better behave’ glance toward Rosie before rounding the divider.

Rosie sighed relief and turned back to the fireplace. She watched intently. A few seconds passed- she gasped. She thought she might have seen a flickering wing… And there! Was that a tiny head peeking under that log? Rosie was getting excited now. She was sure she’d seen a little face with glowing orange hair and deep, black eyes. The Wishing Angel!

She timidly flicked the paper into the heath and settled on her knees to watch it burn. She could feel the intense heat on the tip of her pink little nose. The paper ignited. The flaps slowly curled away as if the letter were being unfolded. Rosie caught glimpses of her own carefully scripted words:

tall…strong...beard...laugh…

…and then the paper didn’t exist anymore. It was gone.

Hey you!

Rosie jerked startled. She twisted to see Terra in the kitchen doorway with hands on lean hips. A pouty lipped smile played on her dark face. Terra kept her tight black curls buzzed short and flour specked her cheeks like pale freckles. Fergus was right behind her; the tattle-tell...

What are you doing so close to that fire girlie? Terra approached and knelt beside Rosie. Not destroying anything important I hope.

No. Yes. It was very important - but nothing that would be missed.

Terra nodded; her grin widened. A little early to be burning Christmas lists isn’t it?

Rosie blinked. Terra’s laughter rang like the chimes that hung outside Rosie’s bedroom window back home. "How’d you know?"

Who do you think taught Jake about the Wishing Angel? Terra asked coyly. Fergus wandered over and plopped down almost on top of Terra. He nudged her arm with his ginormous head then dropped it into her lap and rolled onto his side. Don’t worry sweetness; Terra said to Rosie giving the animal a full-body rubdown, once the first flame touches the wish the Wishing Angel knows exactly what’s written. Terra taught third grade at Rosie’s school so Rosie reckoned she must know her stuff.

Oh good Lord; why do you fill those children’s’ heads with that mess?! Janice McCormick was in the kitchen entry now looking down her nose at her daughter-in-law. To Rosie, Janice was ‘Nani’. She was light skinned like Rosie and had always struck Rosie as the perfect Mrs. Claus.

"It’s not mess. Stated Terra matter-of-factly. Then she added with a wink at the six year old: The Wishing Angel is God’s personal assistant; assigned to collect all the heart-felt wishes of innocent, deserving peoples. She’s just as real as Gabriel and Michael."

Mrs. McCormick humphed as she dried her hands on her apron, Hardly. More like the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny.

Rosie snapped her head around to gaze horrified at Nani. You don’t believe in the Tooth Fairy Nani?!

Janice froze mid-wipe looking like a deer caught in high beams.

Terra grinned, Yeah Nani, what’s that about the Tooth Fairy?

I just, meant that… Janice was evidently having a hard time coming up with what she meant- "The Tooth Fairy is much, MUCH more popular than the Wishing Angel. And for good reason." And she turned on her heels and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Terra stood and gave Rosie a gentle punch on the shoulder. Come help me peel potatoes.

Rosie stood too and brushed down her overall leggings. Terra. Do you think my wish will come before Christmas?

"Before Christmas? Terra raised a brow, Is that why we’re burning your list so early? she seemed to consider the question then shrugged. I suppose anything’s possible."

On the other side of the world a soldier opened his eyes in the early hours of the morn and for the first time in fourteen years he missed home.

CHAPTER ONE

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C helsie pulled off the filthy gloves and dropped them between her legs. She dragged a tar-splotched arm across her forehead wiping sweat beads from her brow. In the process she added another smudge of grit to her suntanned cheek. It hadn’t been a particularly hot day, just an afternoon of hard labor. And a productive one at that she thought eyeing the patched slant of rooftop. She plucked her earbuds from her ears and rolled from knees to haunches landing squarely on her butt. She brushed a curly strand of auburn hair from her face. Her knees were stiff from the afternoon’s toil reminding her yet again that time was slowly creeping up on her. This, she thought with a grimace. A couple years ago a few hours on her knees was nothing. Now though... She massaged the length of her thighs as golden eyes stared into the past.

The colors of the fading sunset blossomed and flowed across the distant still-pink sky. Deep shades of maroon and violet and brilliant orange silhouetted endless rolling hills. Acre upon acre of tall grasses looked like wheat in the fading light as the stalks waved in faraway gentle breezes. Unseen prairie dogs moved through the fields; their scuffling and chitterings giving them away. Cicadas sang in earnest chorus calling for friends to spend the night.

Chelsie reckoned had something around two weeks until autumn really set in. Fall would bring early morning frosts and chilly evenings. Her bad hip would start to act up in the cold weather and that would put a major hamper on her progress. Two weeks. To re-shingle the other half of the roof, plug that chimney leak, and she had to get to the porch- at least the first three boards. So much to do and so little time…

An unseen vehicle rolled down the gravel drive on the opposite side of the two-story farm house. Chelsie knew that engine as well as she knew the man who drove it. Mr. McCormick was home. The screen door creaked and slapped right on cue; that would be Mrs. McCormick come to greet her husband on the front steps. Janice wasn’t the type of house wife to sit around idly. She was always on her feet, always doing something: sewing, gardening, cooking, cleaning. And for forty plus years she was on that porch without fail when John came home from work. Chelsie allowed a small grin- then shoulders sagged as did the smile as she recalled she had to get to that porch soon or one of these days Mrs. McCormick was going to step out to greet her long-time lover and go right through the planks.

The truck parked and the engine fell to silence. A rusty cab door screeched open and slammed shut. Muted conversation; then Janice’s sing-song voice drifted up and over the shingled peak: Chelsie; dinner hon!

Chelsie took one last look at the magnificent show playing out over the fields. She stood with a grunt and rubbed her numb backside. She grabbed the half empty can of roofing tar and collected the armful of sundry tools scattered between work sites. All four of the upstairs rooms had perch windows; the one Chelsie used to get herself and her materials on and off the roof was part of Chris McCormick’s room – The McCormick’s’ eldest son. He’d gone off and joined the army some ten plus years ago so he wasn’t complaining about the constant intrusions. Or the mess.

Chelsie ducked through the window. She stepped down onto the littered tarp that covered an outdated shag carpet. She dropped her load onto the dresser, protected by another canvas. The steep climbing ceiling was a sunny yellow; adjacent walls painted soft tan and chalky turquoise. Janice had preserved Chris’s room exactly as he’d left it right down to the ‘80s high school dream team comforter. A wide shelf stretched from wall to wall lined with football trophies, framed certificates, and a few team photos. Posters hung everywhere; movies, rock bands- Chelsie’s particular favorite was a Bad Company classic duct taped over the extra-long full. Chelsie felt a little guilty eyeballing the guy’s stuff. According to Terra, he’d come back eventually.

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I’m not a greedy man. Stated Kilroy, manicured hands tucked into the pockets of starched slacks. He turned slightly to address his muscle, Am I a greedy man boys?

Head shakes from all three confirmed Kilroy’s claim.

He looked back to Dirk Korner, see? All I’m asking for are my dues.

Dirk sat in a cheap metal chair with hands zip-tied behind his back. The knees of his jeans had been ripped when Kilroy’s thugs dragged him down his own porch steps and shoved him into a trunk.

Thank God Maggie hadn’t been home.

A stream of blood from a gash just above Dirk’s brow steadily dripped from his chin onto his light colored T. He tasted copper; he’d cut his inner cheek on a tooth taking one of the blows. I owe you nothing and I’m givin’ you just as much. Not a penny more.

The gathering was being held in Redwood’s cement cellar. It was chilly and dank and smelled of dirt and mold. There was an aluminum table behind Dirk, no chairs tucked under it and no clutter on top. A single 100 watt bulb hung from the low ceiling in the center of the gray room. Somehow that solitary bulb made everything look colder. A large tarp was spread beneath Dirk’s chair catching the messy splatter from his beating.

Now, see Dirk – this is where our opinions differ. Kilroy calmly explained. "You DO owe me. You owe me for every head that walks through your doors because those are heads your establishment took from mine."

Dirk glared at the blonde haired, slender figured kingpin through his one good eye; the other was swollen shut.

I’m not being unreasonable here. Kilroy continued. I’m not closing the Pocket. I’m not having you sited for the dozens of misdemeanors my sheriff has collected. I’m not ordering your house, and your wife, and everything you hold dear to be burnt to the ground. All I’m asking Dirk is for a modest, monthly sum. Call it a gesture of courtesy.

Dirk gathered some spit and shot it at Kilroy’s shiny black loafer. The bloody stream landed two inches off target. Not soiling Kilroy’s shoes was all the courtesy he was gonna get from Dirk.

Kilroy hung his head in disappointment. I can tell we’re not going to see eye to eye on this one. He sighed and shrugged. Have it your way. He turned toward the cement stairs. Enoch I’d appreciate it if Mr. Korner truly understood what an inconvenience he’s caused before you dispose of him. Kilroy took the steps at his leisure. Make the body disappear - but we will need a memento as proof of death. For the legalities. Something small, a hand maybe. Or a foot.

Enoch moved forward with a vicious smile. Sure thing Boss.

Dirk glared at the man – Enoch- who once-upon-a-time had been a regular at the Korner Pocket.

Enoch grabbed a tuff of Dirk’s peppered bangs and tipped his head back. Just so’s yous know, He said in his thick New Yorker accent, when we’re all done here and you’re feedin’ fishies at the bottom of the pond: I’m gonna head over to the Pocket and order a beer – and I’m gonna pay for it with your money comin’ outta that fancy leather wallet of yours… Or should I say ‘mine’.

Kilroy listened to this exchange without reaction. Then he exited the basement closing the thick metal door against the sounds of heavy pummeling.

Brock Carter was stepping through a similar door six entries down the dark-walled hallway. He zipped his uniform trousers saying something to his company, who was hidden away in the room from which he’d emerged. Spotting Kilroy, Brock pulled the door shut and combed a hand through his tussled sandy locks. Hey Rich. Was just about to come looking for you. The sheriff was tall and almost-taunt; a has-been high school footballer.

Why’s that? Kilroy’s tone was flat and disinterested.

Brock was used to Kilroy’s manner. Richard Kilroy had been this way from the start – he was simply impossible to read. It was what made Kilroy so dangerous. Carter spoke as he fell into step behind the club owner, Got some concerns I want to bring to your attention.

Uh-huh. Have you enlisted the girl I asked for?

Working on it. I gave her your offer but she hasn’t made a decision.

Then sweeten it. I want her onstage on the pole by tomorrow; Saturday is the most important night of the week.

Brock always thought Friday was the big money night but he didn’t open his mouth to argue.

Kilroy halted at the end of the corridor and eyed the sheriff’s doubtful mien. You disagree. He observed. Seemed like lately a lot of people were disagreeing with Kilroy. He expanded, "Every Tom, Dick and Stan come running in here with their paychecks soon as they come off the clock every Friday its true. But the real business happens on Saturdays Brock. That’s when the important clientele visit- the real money. And power. So you understand why I want my best on display come Saturday evening."

Brock gave a hesitant nod. Yeah… Thing is Rich: Mindy’s not really the ‘pole-dancer’ type and she-

Exactly. She’s young and innocent and cute. She is what our patrons like to fantasize about. Work the stardom angle: ‘This is her big shot at fame’.

Brock shrugged, alright.

And the minute you sign her up throw Lynn out the door and make it very clear she is not to come back.

Brock’s face fell, Lynn? She’s your best dancer-

She’s become more a liability than an asset. Her appreciation for little white pills is beginning to show. I want her out of here before people start thinking they can find better hookers on the street.

Whatever you say. Brock mumbled, his gaze cutting to the room he’d just vacated.

What did you want me to look at? And make it short I’ve an appointment with my lawyer. Kilroy pushed through the solid double doors and into the Redwood’s main entertainment area. The chrome runway was being waxed in prep for opening. The carpet was a deep gray. Tables were onyx-topped and chrome-rimmed. A row of curved booths outlined the high platform all upholstered in black leather. Ceiling spotlights, currently off, were poised to ignite the stage and its glistening poles.

Oh, right. Brock followed pulling several folded pages from his back pocket. Had a couple more petitions for you to sign off on. Little stuff. Official access to private surveillance feeds; want to shorten the deadline on outstanding tickets; raise the fines on a couple of the more popular crimes… Here’s one to expand the holding facility- nothing big, just add a few cells-

Brock let me try to help you understand how this works. Said Kilroy stopping at the bar to handle business with the tender. I pay off you, your boys, the judge, and the town council. As he spoke Kilroy took the proffered receiving’s invoice from the silent man and scanned the items listed. Doing this ultimately ensures my continued influence. However I want you to take a minute and think about all the money that I have to put out to do that. Kilroy nodded at the bartender and the man went about his duties. Now Brock Carter had Kilroy’s full attention. And those dull grey eyes were unnerving. Now, resumed Kilroy, Consider all these tickets you’ve been writing.

More tickets mean more money. Brock interrupted defensively. For us. He indicated Kilroy and himself.

More tickets mean more work for my judge. Kilroy amended. At this rate it won’t be long before my judge can’t handle the load. He’s going to have to bring in some help – clergy, maybe even another judge. And that will mean MORE payoffs. The bartender returned, this time with a pad-locked sachet. Kilroy took the bag and slid it under his arm. Don’t become a liability Brock.

And the coldness in those grey eyes made Brock’s spine crawl.

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Chris’s gait was unhurried. His stride was long, his steps steady- each bringing him closer and closer to a home he hadn’t seen in fourteen years. He wore construction boots, three-day old jeans, a plaid flannel button-up, and a week’s worth of stubble. When he’d left Folbee, Nebraska he’d been an angry seventeen year old who wanted to burn the world down. He’d hated that little town. Hated the mill. Hated his father. The man returning was a totally different person. He’d had a growth spurt at eighteen that put him just shy of the 7’ marker. He’d gone from a scrawny quarterback to an easy 260lbs, all lean muscle. Army had taught him a thing or two about respect; the multiple tours had taught him about life. And death. He’d learned a lot about death. A week ago he woke up with his last words to pop ringing in his ears. Now here he was walking cross country to deliver a face-to-face apology almost fifteen years overdue.

He had received weekly letters from his mom without fail. He’d written back once, maybe twice every couple of months just to let her know he was still alive. Terra sent him a few pictures every holiday; mostly of Mark’s son Jake, going on thirteen. Chris had always meant to thank Terra for that and had never gotten around to it. Chris hadn’t heard from pop nor tried to contact him. Their last fight had been the result of Chris’s decision to join up. Pop had absolutely forbidden it which was the deciding factor as far as the Irish-blooded youth was concerned. And so Chris hadn’t called ahead when he’d made the choice to move back home. He told himself it was because he wanted to surprise them all. Really though it was more to do with being ashamed. They had deserved better from him. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the fear that they might not be so enthusiastic to have him around again. Things had been so fucked up when he’d left.

Chris adjusted the strap of the heavy canvas bag that hung over his shoulder. Most of its contents weren’t his; they were presents for mom and Terra and Jake. And a box of grade-A cigars for pop. Chris passed the time by listing things he was looking forward to: Local games played Saturdays in the park. Family gatherings for grilled barbeque on Sundays. Fishing in Haddock’s pond. Pool on Friday nights with the boys. Mom’s home cooked suppers. Working with pop at the mill. Catching up with Gav Finney, if he was still around. Couple of mom’s letters had mentioned a few problems around the house: roof leaks, plumbing, the barn. Chris planned to spend his down time fixing the old homestead up while he looked for a place of his own. And of course the really big one: seeing Jake for the first time with his own eyes. Chris had left before the kid was born. In Terra’s pictures the kid looked a lot like Mark.

Chris’s boots crunched on wayside gravel, the sound seeming loud on the quiet back road. Strangely enough he wasn’t having any regrets about retiring his cams. He missed the brothers, his troop- but that was the extent of it. He smiled to himself thinking Finney would’ve really hated some of them. And then there were one or two that Finney might have loved… Those few hadn’t made it though.

There was a sign ahead; forty minutes later Chris was able to read it:

Folbee 88mi.

Christ broke out in a wide grin. Almost home. Almost.

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Rosie rubbed her hands together giddily. Chelsie placed the plate of French toast in front of her.

Yummy-yummy-yummy! Croaked Rosie. She both looked and sounded like Sesame Street’s cookie monster. She bounced in her seat, watching with anticipation while powdered sugar fell like snow coating the thick Texas slices. The shorter front hairs were already falling loose from her high ponytail.

Chelsie chuckled and gave her daughter a kiss on the top of her head. Good morning baby.

Rosie already had a mouthful of breakfast. Mming mmy; fank u.

Chelsie turned from the sink and gave Rosie a half-hearted scowl.

Rosie knew the rules: No talking with food in your mouth. Far-ee.

Chelsie glanced at the clock and dropped the frying pan into the hot water. We’re running behind. Again. She rushed from the kitchen scooping sundry clothing off the living room floor as she went. Socks, jacket, robe, bath towel… She dumped them all in the hamper by her bedroom door and stripped. Five minutes later she was pulling on her boots. Tell me you’re almost done Monkey.

Almost done mom. Rosie shoveled in the last bite and hopped out of her seat. She dragged the chair over to the sink, grabbed her plate, and climbed up to wash it.

Leave it; Chelsie grabbed her bag, We’re late.

That suited Rosie just fine. She jumped down and ran to the couch to retrieve her Ninja Turtle backpack. It wasn’t quite 6 am but the sunrise had already given way to blue skies. Aren’t you gonna eat momma? Rosie asked as she was ushered out the front door.

No time; I’ll have an extra big lunch to make up for it.

They started on foot down the drive, turned onto the narrow two-lane road, and speed-walked toward the McCormick’s’ home. Thirty minutes later they arrived three seconds behind the bus. Chelsie ran after it waving her arms, yelling, pleading. Just when she thought it was for naught the bus slowed to a stop. Chelsie stood panting beside the opened hatch as if holding the vehicle in place by sheer will as Rosie caught up. Chelsie gave her little girl a last kiss and pushed Rosie up the steps. Mom and driver made eye contact and Chelsie mouthed a ‘Thank you’. Barbara Hinkle nodded but her expression was less than understanding. Barbara was new to the route and she didn’t exactly love her job – not like Ms. Windshire who had been forcefully retired a little over a month back.

The door closed, the bus left, and Chelsie stood watching the taillights. Two months ago the public school transport came the extra three miles to her home before u-turning. Two months before that she was allowed to hitch a ride on it as a chaperone. Brock Carter was really cracking down; the SonovaWitch.

Chelsie turned and started slowly up the McCormick’s path. Kitchen lights were on and the smell of bacon wafted through the screen door. Chelsie let herself in and shed her jacket.

Janice was standing over the stove manning the skillet. Chelsie offered to help but the woman shook her head. Have a seat; I’m betting you ran out the door without breakfast this morning.

Chelsie tried to muster a smile but couldn’t quite get it up.

He’s a real SonovaWitch. Janice stated flatly.

Chelsie choked back a laugh at that. She nodded, fighting back the tears. Yes he is Mrs. McCormick.

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Kilroy didn’t acknowledge Enoch immediately. He continued to stand with hands clasp behind his back watching the proceedings. Generally he stayed a healthy distance from the chem set-up; it was dirty work and had a particular odor that he didn’t want people associating with himself. But every once in a while it was mandatory that he stop in and show his face. He was the boss and he didn’t want any eager up-and-comers forgetting that.

Unable to stand being ignored any longer Enoch cleared his throat and announced, It’s done.

Good. Kilroy liked Enoch because the man had no qualms about doing the dirty work. He had no ambitions beyond his next assignment, was happy with what he got in return, and never thought too much about anything. What Kilroy didn’t like about Enoch was the man’s unfailing demand for veneration; a boisterous cock always asserting himself to the rest of the barnyard animals. One of these days Enoch was going to meet a fox and his persistent averring would get him eaten. Either that, or if he wasn’t careful (which Kilroy knew the man couldn’t be, he was too proud and too stupid) Enoch was going to outlast his welcome with the farmer.

Enoch I want the wallet destroyed as well. The silence on Enoch’s part prompted Kilroy to look sideways at the man. Do you have a problem with that?

"No – well, yeah but not ‘cause I have a problem with it. He didn’t have the wallet on him."

Kilroy considered this wondering if Enoch was fool enough to lie to him. He said nothing, simply continued to stare at the man. Enoch stared blankly back.

Finally Enoch offered, I can go back to the house and see if I can’t find it if you want-

It’s not about the wallet Enoch. Kilroy cut the man off, It’s about the tie. If the wallet shows up on one of my men suspicions might be aroused that I simply haven’t the time or desire to deal with. Do you understand me?

Yeah… Enoch rubbed the back of his neck, But it don’t change the fact that he din’t have the wallet on him.

Kilroy nodded returning his attention to the production line. Wallet or no wallet he was satisfied that the cock had been successfully reminded of his place on the food chain.

There was a very long, awkward pause as Enoch awaited a new order or maybe debated saying something else. In the end Enoch turned and left the oversized barn without another word and the slightest smile tugged the corners of Kilroy’s thin lips.

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Terra stood with the gaggle of other teachers supervising recess. The day was warm, the sky so clear. Beautiful. She glanced toward her son Jake and saw he was contemplating a flying leap from the fort’s highest level with his jacket tied round his neck like a cape. Terra made eye contact just before he took the dive. Jake’s shoulders drooped but he backed down from the launch pad much to Terra’s relief. Rosie was standing right behind Jake. She was barely half his size but brazenly ready to follow his lead, her own jacket sleeves tied around the crown of her head like a billowing veil. Rosie waved and gave Terra a happy thumbs up. Terra snickered and turned her attention back to the conversation.

Ann was saying Well I heard Brock gave Mandy three tickets.

Three tickets!? For What? Asked Tammy appalled.

Ann counted off fingers, Jaywalking. With a stroller. During rush hour.

Terra scoffed, arms crossed over chest. He’s so full of shit.

Tammy absently toyed with a long dark lock, Poor Jeff. It’s gotta be eating him up knowing the town philanderer is gunning for his girl.

Poor Jeff? Terra blew a raspberry, Poor Mandy.

Ann giggled and her Shirley Temple curls bounced in all directions like Raggedy Ann’s mop.