Jane Perrine - The Path To Love

“Oh, how wonderful.” She looked as if he’d given her a wonderful gift. “Even a little bit would make so much difference. I wouldn’t have to feel like I’m always broke.” She rubbed her hand across her jeans. “I could buy some new shoes and maybe a dress to wear to church.” They were such small things, but she glowed with pleasure at the idea.

“I hope it works out.”

“And thank you.” She scooted forward in the chair. “Thank you for doing this. I wish you’d been my parole officer from the beginning.”

Then she directed her smile toward him. He felt warm inside, a sensation a truly professional parole officer should not feel—and he never had before—when one of his clients smiled.

Today he’d made an effort to be warmer, in a professional way. When he’d erected the front of cold indifference previously he’d felt as if he’d hurt her deeply. His inability to be objective, his tendency to see her as an attractive woman, not a parolee, were his fault, not hers. No, he couldn’t be her good buddy.

How much longer he could continue to work with Miss Calhoun?

What an odd thought. He pushed it away. Structure and firmness were the best way to keep a relationship with a parolee proper and professional, he reminded himself.

“Thank you, Miss Calhoun. If there isn’t anything more?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” She stood.

“I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Yes, thank you. Tuesday.” She smiled at him, that smile that warmed him, before she left the cubicle.

Then Mitzi Matthews—a seasoned criminal of fifty with the hard expression of a woman who’d been in trouble all her life—took Miss Calhoun’s place.

If he had anything to do with it, Miss Calhoun would never end up like Mitzi Matthews.

The entire weekend—except for the time Francie went to church or studied or the few hours on Sunday afternoon when she went to Mike’s girl friend’s barbecue—she cleaned. She swept and mopped and then swept and mopped again.

Finally, she spent almost an entire afternoon on her hands and knees with a scrub brush and bucket of sudsy water, scouring off the dirt of decades. There was residue built up in the corners she was sure no one had ever touched. She had to dig it out with a toothbrush and a nail file.

Using vinegar and a newspaper, she polished the window until it shown, but, since the view was so dismal, she pulled down the shade. The poor thing was covered with spots of dirt and scrapes, but she discovered correction fluid covered them up pretty well.

Tuesday morning she rushed back from work to do another quick cleaning. She stood in the middle of the small room and turned in a slow circle to make sure she had scrubbed or swept or polished every square inch.

Not that the little place took all that much time, but she did want it sparkling and immaculate because it would never be spacious and beautiful or even attractive.

After straightening one of the glorious paintings that covered the dingy wallpaper, she moved back to survey the room. It was the best she could do, she thought as she squared the yellow tablecloth and tugged the quilt that covered the worn back of the sofa bed.

She wished she could hide the burned place on the linoleum, but short of putting a piece of furniture in the middle of the floor, there was nothing she could do.

She took a deep sniff and could still smell the roach killer she’d used to get rid of the horrible crawly creatures. She knew from experience they wouldn’t stay away long. The next time one of her neighbors fumigated, they’d be back and she’d have to fumigate again.

To get rid of as much of the odor as possible, she threw the window open, then checked the weather. It was always dark in the alley but she could see clear sky if she leaned out way too far and looked up.

She switched on the floor fan in the corner which began to move the air around. That should be okay for now. It was morning and not all that hot yet although the forecast for that afternoon was ninety degrees.

Forcing herself to admit she’d done everything she could to brighten the apartment, Francie washed her hands, changed her T-shirt and combed her hair. That completed, Francie took three steps to the center of the apartment and began to pace.

Francie was not a patient person. That was something she had to work on. After all, it was the fourth fruit of the spirit. She would work on patience soon, but not now, not yet. She was way too nervous for that.

She made herself sit and relax on the sofa as she thought about church and how friendly and welcoming the members were.

The barbecue on Sunday afternoon had been wonderful. Cynthia was lovely—pretty and pleasant. Her family had welcomed Francie, fed her a delicious meal with ribs and potato salad. They’d even driven her back to her apartment in the late afternoon and hadn’t commented on the terrible area of town Francie lived in. Once there, they’d waited until she got inside the building before driving off.

Francie could tell how Mike felt about Cynthia, hovering around her, gently touching her hand or her back, bringing her a soft drink when she needed one. Cynthia had gazed at Mike as if he was the most wonderful man in the world, as, of course, he was.

Wasn’t love great? Well, she didn’t really know. She’d never been in love. Oh, she’d dated, although not much and not recently. She’d never been in love before. Was that because of her problems or because the few times she’d dated she always picked losers? Must be another hereditary characteristic. She hoped her cousins had missed this one.

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