Linda Goodnight - A Season For Grace

The sixth sense that made Collin a good cop kicked in. He made a quick survey of the car’s interior, saw no weapons and relaxed a little.

“What’s the problem, Mr. Slokum?” He sounded way more polite than he felt.

“One of them dogs of yours took down my daughter’s prize ewe last night.”

“Didn’t happen.” All his animals were sick and in pens.

“Just ’cause you’re a big shot cop don’t make you right. I know what I saw.”

“Wasn’t one of mine.”

“Tell it to the judge.” The man shoved a brown envelope out the window.

Collin took it, puzzled. “What is this?”

“See for yourself.” With that, Slokum crammed the car into gear and backed out, disappearing down the gravel road much more quickly than he’d come.

Collin stared down at the envelope.

“Might as well open it,” Doc said.

With a shrug, Collin tore the seal, pulled out a legal-looking sheet of vellum and read. When he finished, he slammed a fist against the offending form.

Just what he needed right now. Someone else besides the annoying social worker on his back.

“Collin?” Doc said.

Jaw rigid, he handed her the paper and said, “Nothing like good neighbors. The jerk is suing me for damages.”

Mia perched on a high kitchen stool, swiveling back and forth, her mind a million miles away from her mother’s noisy kitchen as she sliced boiled zucchini for stuffing.

At the stove, Grandma Maria Celestina stirred her special marinara sauce while Mama prepared the sausages for baked ziti.

The rich scents of tomato and basil and sausages had the whole family prowling in and out of the kitchen.

“Church was good today, huh, Mia?”

“Good, Mama.”

At fifty-six, Rosalie Carano was still a pretty woman. People said Mia favored her and she hoped so. She’d always thought Mama looked like Sophia Loren. Flowered apron around her generous hips, Rosalie sailed around the large family kitchen with the efficient energy that had successfully raised five kids.

The whole clan gathered every Sunday after church for a late-afternoon meal of Mama’s traditional Italian cooking, which always included breads and pastries from the family bakery. In the living room, her dad, Leo, argued basketball with her eldest brother Gabe and Grandpa Salvatore. Gabe’s wife, Abby, had taken their two kids outside to swim in the above-ground pool accompanied by Mia’s pregnant sister, Anna Maria. The other brothers, Adam and Nic, roamed in and out of the kitchen like starving ten-year-olds.

Mia was blessed with a good family. Not perfect by any means, but close and caring. She appreciated that, especially on days like today when she felt inexplicably down in the dumps. Even church service, which usually buoyed her spirits, had left her uncharacteristically quiet.

Collin Grace had not returned one of her phone calls in the past three days, and she’d practically promised Mitchell that he would. She disliked pulling in favors, tried not to use her eldest brother’s influence as a city councilman, but Sergeant Grace was a tough nut to crack.

Nic, her baby brother, snitched a handful of grated mozzarella from the bowl at her elbow. Out of habit, she whacked his hand then listened to the expected howl of protest.

“Go away,” she muttered.

His grin was unrepentant. At twenty, dark and athletic Nic was a chick magnet. He knew his charms, though they had never worked on either of his sisters.

“You’re grumpy.”

Brother Adam hooked an elbow around her neck and yanked back. She tilted her head to look up at him. Adam Carano, dark and tall, was eleven months older than Mia. From childhood, they’d been best friends, and he could read her like the Sunday comics.

“What’s eating you, sis? You’re too quiet. It scares me.” He usually complained that she talked too much.

Gabe stuck his head around the edge of the door. “Last time she was quiet, Nic and Adam ended up with strange new haircuts.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “I was eight.”

“And we’ve not had a moment of peace and quiet from you since,” Adam joked.

“And I,” Nic put in, “was scarred for life at the ripe old age of one.”

“I should have cut off your tongue.”

“Mom,” Nic called in a whiney little-boy voice. “Mia’s picking on me.”

Mia ignored him and set to work stuffing the zucchini boats.

“What is it, Mia?” Mama asked. “Adam’s right. You are not yourself.”

“It’s a kid,” Adam replied before she could. “It’s always one of her kids.”

Mia pulled a face. He knew her so well. “Smarty.”

Mama shushed him. “Let her tell us. Maybe we can help.”

It was Mama’s way. If one of her chicks had a problem, the mother hen rushed in to fix it—bringing with her lasagna or cookies. So Mia told them about Mitch.

“He’s salvageable, Mama. There is a lot of good in him, but he needs a man’s influence and guidance. I tried getting him into the Big Brothers program but he refuses.”

“One of the boys will talk to him. Won’t you, boys?” Rosalie eyed her three sons with a look that brooked no argument.

“Sure. Of course we would.” All three men nodded in unison like bobble toys in the back window of a car.

Heart filling with love for these overgrown macho teddy bears she called brothers, Mia shook her head. “Thanks, guys. You’re the best. But Mitch is distrustful of most people. He’d never agree. For some reason, he zeroed in on one of the street patrolmen and will only talk to him. The cop is perfect, but—”

“Whoo-oo, Mia found her a perfect man. Go, sis.” The brothers started in with the catcalls and bad jokes.

When the noise subsided, she said, “Not that kind of perfect, unfortunately. I don’t even like the guy.”

But she couldn’t get him out of her mind either.

“Mia!”

“Oh, Mama.” Mia plopped the last zucchini boat on a pan and sprinkled parmesan on top. “Our first meeting was disastrous. I bought the man a hamburger to soften him up a little, and he didn’t even stick around long enough to eat it. And now he doesn’t bother to return my phone calls.”

“You’ve lost your charm, sis. Need some lessons?” Nic flexed both arms and preened around the kitchen, bumping into Grandma who, in turn, shook a gnarled finger in his laughing face.

Rosalie whirled and flapped her apron at the men. “Out. Shoo. We’ll never get dinner on.”

Gabe and Nic disappeared, still laughing. Adam stayed behind, pulled a stool around the bar with one foot, and perched beside Mia.

The most Italian-looking of the Carano brothers, Adam was swarthy and handsome and a tad more serious than his siblings.

“Want me to beat him up?”

“Who? Mitch or the cop?”

He lifted a wide shoulder. “Either. Say the word.”

“Maybe later.”

They both grinned at the familiar joke. All through high school Adam had threatened to beat up any guy who made her unhappy. Though he’d never done it, the boys in her class had thought he would.

“If I could only convince Sergeant Grace to spend one day with Mitch, I think he’d be hooked. He comes off as cold and uncaring, but I don’t think he is.”

“Some people aren’t kid-crazy like you are. Especially us men types.”

“All I want is a few hours a week of his time to save a kid from an almost certain future of crime and drugs.” Mama swished by and took the pan of zucchini boats. “The couple of times I managed to get him on the phone, he barely said three words.”

Adam swiveled her stool so that her back was to him. Strong hands massaged her shoulders.

“The guy was short and to the point. No. The least he could do is explain why he refuses, but he clams up like Uncle Vitorio.”