Free Mistletoe Bay by Marcia Evanick Page A

seeing who could knock off the most ants from a tree’s bark.
    â€œI slipped one of the moving guys a twenty just to get the washer and dryer up and running.”
    â€œHe should have told you.”
    â€œHe was eighteen, at the most. He probably didn’t know.” She remembered coming home from the hospital with a two-day-old baby and being scared to death. Although the nurses had loaded her down with free formula, diapers, and more samples and coupons than she could use in three lifetimes, no one had handed her an instruction booklet on how to raise and take care of Chase. At least she’d had Ken to struggle along with her, and Dorothy had been a phone call away.
    When Ken passed away she’d gotten plenty of condolences and cards, but still no instruction booklet on how to be the “man” of the house.
    When she started her own business, tons of brochures, pamphlets, and Web sites were dedicated to helping her get her business up and running. The other night she had spent a sleepless night worrying about the stupidest thing: her sons’ private parts. If she had daughters, she would know what to tell them and would know the answers to all their questions. With boys she was clueless. She was an only child, and Ken had been her first and only lover. Was there something she was supposed to explain to the boys when they reached puberty? Before puberty?
    She couldn’t very well search for the information on the Internet. With her luck she would be caught in some child pornography ring and arrested. She’d spent a good hour of her time ordering a couple books from Amazon.com on raising boys, praying they would have a chapter or two on that particular area. If they didn’t, she would have to muster up enough courage to ask their new family doctor, Dr. Sydney.
    Books were a godsend. When her old college roommate had learned she was moving to the wilds of Maine and into a rundown old house, she had sent her a box containing six rolls of duct tape and a book about a thousand uses for the sticky silver tape. Although the book was meant to be humorous, the duct tape had proved invaluable. It had been the most useful gift she had ever received. Half of her house was being held together by the wonder tape.
    â€œHey, you two,” yelled Dorothy from the top of the steps, “dinner’s ready, and, Coop, you’re staying.” Dorothy’s tone didn’t leave room for any argument.
    â€œI am?” Coop looked amused.
    Dorothy came down a couple of steps and looked at the man who probably had saved her from drowning earlier in the afternoon. “Yes, you are. We’re having spaghetti and meatballs.”
    Jenni softly chuckled and whispered, “They actually taste even better than they smell.” Since the house was filled with the heavenly aroma of simmering sauce, that was saying something.
    â€œI’d be delighted to join you and your family, Dorothy. It smells too good to resist.”
    â€œThen get your buns up here. You too, Jenni.” Dorothy turned around to march back up the steps. “Don’t forget to wash up.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” Coop and his shiny red toolbox followed Dorothy up the stairs.
    So much for her scrubwoman’s sex appeal. Coop was following his stomach straight to Dorothy’s meatballs and hadn’t so much as given her a second glance. Considering what Jenni looked like, she didn’t blame him one bit.
    What really fried her keister was why she even cared what Coop felt toward her. She wasn’t interested in a personal relationship with the Good Samaritan or any other man. As far as she was concerned, Christmas had come early this year, and Santa had a new name: Cooper Armstrong.
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    Coop enthusiastically helped himself to a second serving. “Dorothy, I must admit these are the best meatballs I have ever tasted.” He wasn’t paying a false compliment; they were. “You have