Free Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

complain.
    Just because my house
was decorated didn't mean it was clean, however—especially after we 'd
dragged out the boxes of ornaments, tracked popcorn and tinsel across the
carpet, and sprayed messy drifts of artificial snow on the windows. At eight on
Monday morning, Brian went to school and McQuaid disappeared into his study to
work on the book he's writing, a history of the Texas Rangers. At least that's
what he's supposed to be doing with his sabbatical semester, although he's
only produced about thirty pages of it. It's shaping up to be a controversial
book, McQuaid tells me, and a great deal more difficult to write than he had
originally thought. The only other important history of the Rangers is Walter
Prescott Webb's 1935 book, The
Texas Rangers, which J. Frank
Dobie called "The beginning, middle, and end of
the subject." Except that Webb's vision of his subject was colored by his
admiration for these guys in white hats. He was a Ranger fan. He made them
look good even when they were bad, even when their exploits included the
murders of unarmed men and assaults against innocent citizens. If McQuaid
actually finishes this revisionist history, he might be in for some serious
flak from his law enforcement buddies.
    I tackled the vacuuming and dusting and
straightening with enthusiasm. While I was working, I thought briefly about the
bad old days, when I was still at the law firm. On Monday morning, I'd slap on
my makeup, squeeze myself into a dress-for-success uniform, and tackle the
Houston freeway system with all the aggressiveness of the Oilers right
offense. At the office, still juiced from battling I-10, I'd bully the
secretary into typing my brief ahead of anybody else's, then charge off for
the rest of the day's confrontations before the bench or behind the desk. At
the end of twelve hours, I'd still be at max warp. I rarely wound down, even on
weekends. But I don't recall those litigious times with any nostalgia, believe
me. I am physically and psychologically healthier now that I no longer have to
torque myself up for my job as if I were heading into Desert Storm. I'd much
prefer to be running the vacuum in stained yellow sweats and dirty sneakers
than standing up before a jury in a power suit and high heels to defend a
client who was probably guilty as sin. Household dirt is a whole lot cleaner
than the other kind.
    After the downstairs
was as respectable as it was going to get, I took the vacuum and worked my way
up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway. But when I got as far as Brian's
bathroom, I found something that needed doing more than the carpet. There were
at least three loads of laundry heaped on the floor, including (my nose told
me) several moldy towels and maybe a dozen filthy socks. Take it from me—when
you marry a man with a thirteen-year-old boy, the deal had better include a
reliable washer and dryer and an ample supply of detergent and hot water.
    I was starting the
second load when the phone rang. I went into the bedroom, picked up the
cordless, and started back to the laundry room.
    "Mornin',
China," Blackie said. "I've got a problem."
    "Haven't we all?" I asked,
thinking that when I finished Brian's laundry, I'd better go over to Ruby's
house. There was still no answer to my persistent calls, and I was getting a
little worried.
    There was a click on
the line. "Hello," my husband said cheerfully. "McQuaid
here."
    "Ah,
both of you," Blackie said. "That's good."
    "Excuse me,
China," McQuaid said. "I didn't know you'd picked up the phone."
    "That's
okay," I said, cradling the phone with my shoulder as I dredged one of
Brian's muddy towels out of the laundry basket. "I'll get off the line and
let you guys talk. I'm pretty busy just now." I shook out the towel and
discovered one of Brian's large lizards. "Yikes!" I said, startled,
and then, "Damn," because the silly thing had dived into the washing
machine, which was half full of dirty clothes and soapy water. And then
"Damn" again,