Back inside the house they went. "I'm thirsty," Damaris decided. "Do you have chocolate milk?"

"We can make some," said Sarah, resigned to her fate.

Damaris fingered the wine bottle while Sarah poured her milk. "My dad drinks beer."

"A lot of people do," Sarah said.

"I had beer once," said Damaris, dumping in enough spoons of chocolate to turn her into fudge.

Somehow, Sarah wasn't surprised to hear it.

"My dad let me have a drink of his." Damaris wrinkled her nose. "It was nasty."

"It is," Sarah agreed.

"What does wine taste like?"

Nice try, kid. "Just as nasty," Sarah told her. "Chocolate milk is better."

"I like chocolate. Can we learn to make candy like what they sell in that chocolate shop?"

"Maybe."

Damaris made a face. "That means no. My mom always says maybe."

The doorbell rang and Sarah heaved an inward sigh of relief as she went to answer it.

Damaris's dad looked to be somewhere in his thirties. He was dressed in jeans and a Huskies sweatshirt, which proclaimed him a fan of the University of Washington's football team. His stocky frame betrayed him for an ex-football player, probably high school, Sarah guessed.

He gave her a polite nod. "I'm here to get Damaris."

"Damaris, your dad's here," Sarah called.

"I'm finishing my drink," Damaris called back.

"Dam, quit s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around. We gotta go," her dad yelled. "We have to pick up her brother from soccer practice," he explained. A moment later Damaris sauntered down the hall. "Come on, Dam," he cajoled, "we're late."

She shrugged and skipped out the door past Sarah. "Bye."

"Bye." . . . Dam. If ever there was a fitting nickname for a child-this kid was Dennis the Menace in drag.

"Thanks for having her," said the man. Then he turned and followed Damaris down the walk.

Sarah shut the door and went to the kitchen and opened the wine. Sam could have the cookies she'd saved for him tomorrow. By the time she was recovered from her first baking cla.s.s she'd be in no condition to drive.

"There's someone in here. This time I'm sure," hissed Mrs. Kravitz.

"I'll check it out," Josh promised, and entered her house to look for burglars. For the third time in one week.

Martinez had taken to teasing Josh that Mrs. Kravitz had the hots for him. "Pretty soon she'll be wanting you to stop by for a c.o.c.ktail."

"Yeah, well, you should talk," Josh had retorted. "At least she's not requesting a ride along every week like your romance babe does with you."

"That woman's a writer. She's doing research."

"Yeah? What's she researching? She want to know how big your gun is?"

"Maybe. At least the romance writer is under fifty. And she is a babe."

That was more than Josh could say for Mrs. Kravitz. She was a sixty-something widow with gray hair. And she was paranoid.

Who did Mrs. Kravitz think was going to burgle her house at eight in the evening? And why would anyone pick this place? It was a funky, old, two-story farmhouse with battered shingle siding, and it screamed no money. The floorboards creaked under Josh's feet as he walked through the living room on his way to the back bedroom.

"He's upstairs," Mrs. Kravitz whispered, right on Josh's tail. If Josh stopped suddenly she'd b.u.mp into him.

A door off the bedroom led to a staircase the width of a pencil. Josh motioned for her to stay put, then started up the stairs.

"There he is. I hear him," she whimpered.

Mrs. Kravitz needed to get her hearing checked. Or her head.

Josh stopped on the stairway and listened. And then he heard it, too. His adrenaline came on duty and his heart rate picked up. He pulled his gun and started up the stairs, ready for an attack. A small hallway and landing was flanked by two large rooms. He chose the one to the left and entered gun first. No one in the room itself.

He took a deep breath and approached the little door in the corner that probably led to some sort of crawl s.p.a.ce alongside the room. Now he had his flashlight and his gun. He opened the door cautiously, gun ready, and shined the light into the cobwebby dark. He heard the noise again and leaned in further.

Then he saw it and about dropped his flashlight. It was a rat the size of King Kong.

s.h.i.t! He backed up so fast he knocked his head on the rafters. Once out, he slammed the door shut and rubbed his head, swearing under his breath.

Okay, it was just a rat. A giant, killer rat with fangs the size of daggers. Nonetheless, he was glad none of the guys had been present to witness this little scene.

He took a deep, restoring breath while he holstered his gun and flashlight. Then he went downstairs to tell Mrs. Kravitz that she was safe. As long as she didn't open that door.

"Rats!" she cried. She looked in disgust at the fat, white cat sleeping on her bed. "Really, Princess. What good are you?"

"At least it's not a burglar," Josh told her.

"I'm calling an exterminator first thing tomorrow," she said as she walked him to the door. "Thank you for coming out, and thank you for believing me. I'm sure I sounded crazy."

He hadn't, and she had, but he sure wasn't going to tell her. "We're here to serve, ma'am," he a.s.sured her. And sometimes the best way to serve was to be willing to listen.

He couldn't help wondering if this widow had anyone to listen to her these days. On his way out he noticed that the shutters on the living room windows were hanging loose. Did Mrs. Kravitz have kids? And if she did, where the h.e.l.l were they?

He got back in his car and drove downtown for a quick patrol before going to run radar over by the high school. Driving by the Chocolate Bar gave him a hankering for some candy. Too bad it was closed for the night. Maybe he'd pop into Safeway and get a Snickers.

As if what he really wanted could be found in Safeway. You're a fool, he told himself. No guy in his right mind would stoke the hots for a woman who continually sent buzz-off vibes. Well, he hadn't been in his right mind since Crystal died, so no surprise. Maybe he never would be again.

Life had been perfect before a drunk driver plowed into his wife's car as she was coming home from a Tupperware party. A d.a.m.ned Tupperware party. She'd wanted extra containers to store her Christmas cookies in and some a.s.shole with fresh divorce papers wanted an escape. He'd escaped all right, staggered out of the wreckage with nothing more than a broken arm.

Josh stopped the patrol car with a sigh. He knew that life wasn't fair, that bad things happened to good people, but what happened to his family was beyond unfair. It was wrong. His girls shouldn't have to grow up without a mother.

There was only one way to fix that problem.

Except finding the right woman to help him fix it was a daunting task. Don't be in a hurry, he counseled himself. The girls don't need any more grief and neither do you.

And he sure didn't need to eat Thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of strangers. "Why the h.e.l.l didn't you ask me?" he demanded when his dad told him the next morning about their dinner engagement.

Dad scowled at him, the same scowl that used to scare the s.h.i.t out of Josh when he was ten. "What are you getting so d.a.m.ned p.i.s.sed about? We've got to eat."

"Yeah, with our own family. That's what Thanksgiving is for."

"So? There'll be families there."

"I don't want to go out," Josh said. He knew he sounded like a sullen fifteen-year-old, but h.e.l.l, he had a right. "You know, it's great you came to live with us, but I'm the dad in this house. I get to make the big decisions."

The scowl deepened. "You may be the dad in this house, but I'm still your father. And I want to go to the Goodwins' for Thanksgiving."

"So go. No one's stopping you," Josh snapped. He turned his back on his father and poured himself another cup of coffee.

A moment later he felt a big hand on his shoulder. That hand on the shoulder had been a comfort when his team lost the championship game, when his first girlfriend dumped him, when he stood bewildered in the church foyer, trying to think of what to say to people after Crystal's memorial service. Now it called up a lifetime of memories: his dad swearing over a leaky inflatable boat that ended their fishing adventure on an ill-fated camping trip, his dad holding him on his lap while they watched a scary movie, his dad in trouble when Mom came home and discovered Dad letting him watch a scary movie.

"Oh, h.e.l.l. If you want to go, we'll go," he said.

The old man was smart enough not to gloat. "Sarah said bring whatever you want as long as it's not dessert."

Fine. He'd bring something. But not his enthusiasm.

By four o'clock in the afternoon exactly three customers had come through Emma's shop door. The first was Shirley, who had managed to skip off with two yards of fabric she'd never pay for. Emma had chalked it up as her good deed for the day.

But these last two-well, one, really-were enough to drive her to close up early. She'd been trying not to eavesdrop as the women talked in a corner over by the hundred-count fabric, but the shop wasn't exactly buzzing with activity.

"This is nice," said the short, middle-aged woman with the dark hair.

Her friend, a tall, frosted blonde with perfect makeup and expensive clothes, took the cloth between well-manicured fingers and inspected it. "It is. Overpriced, though. You know, you can get the same thing at the Savemart for fifty cents a yard less."

"Really?" said the short woman.

"All my quilting friends shop there."

So that was where all Emma's potential customers were. Panic and defeat began to play ring-around-the-rosy in her stomach.

"Still, it's nice to support local shops," said the short woman.

"I suppose," said her friend, who could obviously afford to do the same.

"I think I'll buy this," the short woman decided. "And this."

Bless you, thought Emma. She set aside the work she was pretending to do and donned her cheeriest smile as the two women approached the counter. "How are you ladies doing today?" she asked, trying to sound cheerful.

"Fine," said the short woman.

Her friend just stood next to her and said nothing. Emma was willing to bet she hadn't gotten that fancy suede jacket at Savemart.

The short woman laid two bolts of cloth on the cutting counter. "Can I have two yards of each of these?"

"Of course," Emma said, and cut the cloth. She wished she could think of something else to say, something friendly and inspiring that would prove to these women that shopping with her was worth an extra fifty cents a yard. But all she could think of was how she wasn't going to be able to make her rent either here or at home this month unless her fairy G.o.dmother or the patron saint of quilters showed up. And then there was the small matter of the eighty-thousand-dollar bank loan she'd taken out to buy her inventory. Her parents had matched her savings with another ten thousand and cosigned for the loan. With all of forty-six dollars left in her savings account, she was in very deep doo-doo.

Didn't these people understand about community loyalty? Hadn't they ever watched It's a Wonderful Life? "Are you ladies new to Heart Lake?" she asked. They couldn't be from around here. Otherwise they'd understand the importance of supporting their local merchants.

"I've been here for ten years," said the woman in the suede coat.

Even though by Heart Lake standards that made her a newcomer, ten years was still long enough to figure a few things out. But judging from what Emma had overheard, a lot of people in town were just as clueless.

"I'm new here," said the short woman, "and I love it. Everyone is so nice and friendly. And I love the idea of doing good deeds. I saw the article in the paper," she added, beaming at Emma.

"Well, you've just supported a local business and done your good deed for the day," Emma said as she rang up the purchase.

"You do know you're overpriced," said the other woman. Did she consider sharing that information to be her good deed for the day?

Her friend blushed, and Emma felt a sizzle on her own cheeks. "I try hard to keep my prices compet.i.tive. Unfortunately, I can't always offer the same discounts as the big chains. But I make up for it in service." She slipped a flyer announcing her upcoming quilting cla.s.s in the bag along with the fabric and handed it to the short woman. "Cla.s.ses are free when you buy your fabric here."

"Now, that's a good deal," said the woman.

"And there's something to be said for shopping right here in town," Emma continued. "Think of the money you save on gas."

The short woman nodded thoughtfully. "You're right."

But as they walked out the door, Emma heard the tall one say, "Savemart's not that far away, and the amount of money I save on everything there, including my groceries, more than makes up for what I spend on gas."

Emma wanted to scream after them, "But does Savemart care about you? Do they care about the community? DO THEY OFFER FREE QUILTING CLa.s.sES?"

After the depressing encounter she felt too sick to keep the shop open. She closed up and went straight home. Pyewacket was her welcoming committee. He came trotting out from her bedroom and followed her into the kitchen, rubbing against her legs as she dialed her mother. "In a minute," she told him. "And what were you doing in my bedroom?" She could have sworn she'd shut the door.

"Hi, sweetie," said her mom. "Why are you calling me from home?"

"I'm sick. I'm not coming over for dinner tonight."

"Oh, no. What have you got?"

A bad case of discouragement. "Nothing really, I'm just . . . my stomach's upset. I'm going to have some tea and then go to bed." And consider smothering myself with a pillow.

"Do you want me to bring you some chicken soup?" offered her mom.

"No, thanks. I'll be okay."