Marshal’s Law #3: Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.
Marshal stared into his soup, forlorn. It’d been three weeks. Three weeks of canned soup and tuna and fast food. It’d all lost its appeal weeks ago . . . but the cook was still on strike and she showed no visible signs of weakening.
He sighed. The soup dribbled off the lip of his spoon, splashing back into the bowl.
“Marshal,” a tiny voice called.
He turned. In the door that separated his basement apartment from the rest of the house, Ashley leaned against the frame. Her hand rubbed up and down its opposite arm.
“What’s up, pop star?”
“We’re hungry.”
Luke peered around his sister’s body, looking sheepish.
Marshal sighed. Both of those kiddos knew that their mom would be embarrassed if she knew they were sneaking down here for food. Truth told, they were here more nights than not. He didn’t begrudge the food. Of course not. He owed Monica a good deal more than a couple of sandwiches or a bowl of Hamburger Helper. Oh, but she’d be upset.
“You kids want some chili?” he asked.
Ashley crinkled her nose. “From a can?”
Luke pushed past her. “Hey, it beats carrot sticks.”
Marshal didn’t answer. At the counter, he opened the can and dumped the gelatinous contents into a bowl. It stood like a leaning tower of grease until he mashed it flat. While it warmed in the microwave, he put some crackers and slices of cheese onto the table. Luke added cans of soda.
That was dinner.
Marshal scowled. The healthier Monica tried to be, the worse her kids were eating. Worse, knowing how she felt, he was contributing to childhood delinquency. Dropping into a kitchen chair, he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at the table.
Three weeks and five days: it’d been long enough.
“Can I ride to church with you tomorrow?” Luke asked while trying to shove an entire cracker, piled high with cheese and chili, into his mouth.
“Sure,” Marshal said. “Kody’s meeting us there. Mark and Susan, too.”
“Can we go out to eat after?” Ashley asked, sounding a little timid at the suggestion.
Marshal pursed his lips. His eyes narrowed. “I’ll speak to your ma.”
The kids deflated. They assumed that the answer would be no. But Marshal had the beginnings of a scheme started.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Monica bit her lip as she eased the zipper over her hip. It fit. Finally. Her reflection beamed back at her, tickled. All those carrots and celery and apples; the powerwalks and the exercise video, they were suddenly worth it.
On the bed lay the elusive blue suit. It didn’t fit. Not yet.
But it would. Soon, if she had anything to say about it.
The early September day held a bit of a nip, urging Monica to reach for the sweaters that lay in wait. The phone interrupted.
Dressed in her slip and tweed skirt, she considered the message. Then, she sighed and tossed the phone back onto the bed without answering.
Roxie had promised her that the dating service would be fun. Send messages. Talk to new people. Go out.
Fun wasn’t the word that Monica would have chosen. The more men that answered her petition for companionship, the more she ignored the messages. They felt predatory.
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Marshal's Law
ChickLit“Has that ‘curl up with hot chocolate and read’ feel to it.” ~*~*~ Monica doesn't believe in life after death. Obligations, certainly. But, after her husband's death, there hasn’t been much ‘life’ to speak of. Just her kids, her farm, and the ma...
