The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 9

A.J. WAS SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE EATING fried Spam when his family arrived home from Eudora’s wedding. Spam was a treat reserved for when Maggie was elsewhere, because she could not tolerate the smell of the sautéed delicacy. A.J. had never understood this point of view and finally came to the conclusion it was a gender phenomenon, something to do with the Y chromosome. So he ate faster when he heard the van door slam in the driveway. His one thought was to remove the evidence. The can was already in the garbage, and he had rinsed the pan right after sliding the greasy brown rectangles onto his plate. Long years of illicit Spam eating had taught him to eradicate the trail. He swallowed the last bite just as J.J. burst through the door, followed by his two older sisters. Maggie brought up the rear looking somewhat the worse for wear.

“Daddy, Daddy!” J.J. shouted as he jumped in A.J.’s lap. “I won the license plate game!” This was one of the cherished car games of the Longstreet children. On long drives they would compete to see who could spot license plates from different states. A.J. found it odd that his son had won. The boy was vague on the rules and had once claimed a Get Your Heart in Dixie or Get Your Ass Out plate on the front of a Dodge pickup.

“He did not win,” stated Harper Lee. “He counted Georgia licenses forty-two times. He cheats.” There was disgust in her voice, as if her sibling were something she had discovered on the bottom of her shoe.

“I don’t cheat!” J.J. hollered.

“How many states did you count?” Emily Charlotte asked, her voice reasonable and calm. A.J. wanted to warn J.J. that anything he said would be used against him.

“Seventy-seven,” he replied. A.J. cringed. He was on his own.

“There are only fifty!” Emily slammed her point home. She brushed past on the way to her room.

“Are not!” came J.J.’s rebuttal. He jumped from his father’s lap and followed his nemesis from the room.

“He is such a creep,” said Harper Lee. “We should give him away.” She took car games very seriously and was hard pressed to accept dishonesty in the ranks. They could hear the debate raging upstairs. She shook her head as she left the kitchen. A.J. arose and went to Maggie.

“Good trip?” he asked as he gave her a hug.

“Does it sound like it was a good trip?”

“They were just exploring their limits.”

“I smell fried Spam,” was her reply. She wrinkled her nose.

“Nope. No fried Spam here.”

“There are two things a woman can smell on her husband,” said Maggie. “One is a truck stop waitress. The other is fried Spam.”

“I’m caught,” he said, abashed. “Her name is Rochelle. She told me that if I left you, I could fry all the Spam I wanted.”

“She’ll tell you that now. Just wait until the first time you try it.” She sat down at the table and began to rub her temples, as if the thought of Rochelle frying Spam was too much to bear. A.J. came up behind her and took over.

“How was the wedding?” he asked. It had been quiet long enough, and he was hungry for some conversation.

“It was fine. Eudora was beautiful, and Carlisle looked very handsome in his tuxedo.” She was silent a moment as A.J. continued to coax the stress away with his fingers. “Your father-in-law had a few too many at the reception and started a little card game. Deuces and one-eyed jacks. Took about a thousand dollars off of Carlisle’s father, who apparently fancies himself a gambler. My sister could have killed them both.” A.J. did not doubt it. Eudora took a dim view of such behavior and was not shy about expressing her opinions. A.J. was surprised she hadn’t confiscated the money and put the offenders to doing the odd job or two out in the yard.

“Did the children do okay?” A.J. asked. All the Longstreet children had taken part in the ceremony. J.J. had been the ring bearer, Harper Lee had been the flower girl, and Emily Charlotte had stood in attendance. They had all been excited about their participation except J.J., who had thrown a screaming fit when he first viewed his miniature grey tuxedo. He’ll never wear that, A.J. had said, wondering why women insisted upon dressing little boys to look adorable. He’ll wear it, had been Maggie’s reply, and she was right. But it had been an act of will on her part, and she was a strong-willed woman.

“My daughters were angelic. Your son was not.” She shook her head. “I swear they gave us the wrong baby.” This was their old gag when J.J. became challenging, which was most of the time. The joke lay in the fact that they had not delivered him in a hospital at all.

He had been born during the worst blizzard in Sequoyah history, which surprised neither A.J. nor Maggie once they came to know him. Georgia is not snow country, and even the mountainous areas get only a light dusting two or three times each winter. But J.J. was born on the night of the Hundred Year Storm, when nearly thirty inches of powder were unceremoniously dumped on the mountain valley during a twelve-hour period. Temperatures hovered around zero, and howling winds from the west chased the wind chill to minus thirty. Trees began to snap and fall before nightfall, taking with them the electricity that warmed the valley and kept the darkness at bay. A.J. lit the lanterns and built a large fire before wading out into the storm to retrieve his neighbor, Estelle Chastain.

“I don’t want to be snowed in with Estelle,” he grumbled as Maggie directed him into his boots and coat. She handed him his scarf.

“Go get her, anyway,” was the firm reply. No elderly neighbors were freezing to death on her watch. They settled Estelle into the Folly, and she and the children curled up in front of the fire. It was a scene straight out of the eighteenth century. Outside, the arctic winds lashed the Longstreet sanctuary. Inside, the children and Estelle drowsed by the hearth. A.J. was discovering that it was difficult to read by lantern light regardless of Honest Abe’s luck with the practice. Maggie and John Robert were rocking quietly, staring at the fiery phantoms on the grate.

“This is kind of cozy,” said John Robert. “Reminds me of the days before the TVA.”

“Yeah, it could be a lot worse,” agreed A.J., feeling at peace.

“My water just broke,” said Maggie. She was eight months pregnant. At her regular visit two days earlier, the doctor had pronounced her fit as a fiddle and right on schedule. But be all that as it may, the snow had just hit the fan.

“You’re not due yet!” said A.J., stating the obvious. Impending childbirth always pumped him right up.

“I can’t help that,” she said. “I’ve been having pains for about two hours. I thought that maybe it was back strain, but we’re about to have a baby.” A.J. thought she was awfully calm, given the circumstances.

“But you’re not due yet!” he said.

“If you say that again, I will hurt you,” Maggie said. She was up and pacing while holding her back. She always walked during early labor, and her communications tended to be unambiguous. John Robert jumped from his chair. It was no time for sitting. First he tried the phone, which was dead. Then he shoved past A.J. on his way to the door.

“I’ll go warm up the truck,” he said as he put on his coat and his old hat with the fur earflaps. A.J. stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.

“There is no way we can make it to the hospital in this storm,” he said to his father. The wind howled loudly, as if agreeing with him. A.J.’s mind raced to come up with a plan. Estelle startled awake. When advised of the situation, she sprang to her feet and went to boil water on the gas stove. A.J. thought for another moment, and then he spoke.

“We need to try to get her to Doc Miller’s place. It’s not too far.” He looked at Maggie, who had paused from her stroll around the living room to breathe through a pain. She was notorious for short, dramatic labors and showed every indication of moving right along with this one. “Maggie, I think we should try to take you over to Doc’s. What do you think?”

“I think I would rather have this baby naked in a snowdrift than to have Estelle help deliver him. Let’s go before she comes out with a knife to cut the pain.” So A.J. went out to warm up the truck while John Robert helped her into her coat. Then they bundled her into her makeshift ambulance, and A.J. and Maggie set off into the storm. The truck bed was filled with a load of firewood cut the previous day, and A.J. was glad for the extra weight. Even so, he had to let most of the air out of the back tires before the vehicle would gain traction. As they pulled away, he saw in his mirror the forlorn sight of John Robert waving. Standing by him was a disappointed Estelle, steaming teakettle in one hand and butcher knife in the other.

The trip to Doc’s was surreal. The landscape was chiseled in snow and ice. Green lightning flashed, but there was no thunder. Trees were glazed and bent to the ground. A.J. heard the crack of a power pole as the ice brought it low. The Longstreets lived only three miles from town, but it took thirty minutes to cover this distance. They were off the road as much as on, and the truck added several dents and scrapes to its already impressive display. They were traveling backward when they entered the outskirts of town, with A.J. cursing softly as he tried to gain control. Luckily, the post office stopped their momentum. Maggie groaned involuntarily before pointing out in unkind terms he could expect to be short lived if he bounced her like that again.

“How are you doing?” A.J. asked as he attempted to get the truck off of Federal property. The tires spun and caught. His headache felt as if someone had driven a splitting wedge between his eyes.

“Better than you, looks like,” she panted as another pain hit. She dealt with the contraction, braced and rigid, and then continued. “We seem to have hit the post office just now.”

“We’re taxpayers. In reality, it is our post office. We can hit it if we want to.”

“We need to be hitting Doc’s house soon,” she replied.

They came to Doc’s long downhill drive almost as soon as she spoke. A.J. nosed it in and hoped for the best. They gained speed as they approached the carport and drifted counterclockwise with all four wheels locked. He wondered how he was going to stop but needn’t have worried. The good Lord was keeping an eye on the Longstreets that woolly night and sent a sign in the form of a beautifully restored Sedan Deville. The truck was perpendicular to the fins on the back of Doc’s old Cadillac when the two objects collided. A.J.’s door collapsed inward and knocked him over into Maggie’s lap. His new position seemed to add to her duress, so he quickly clambered out her door, where he promptly slipped and fell on the ice. When Doc emerged, he was greeted by the sight of A.J.’s truck impaled on the substantial fins of his Cadillac. Maggie was in the truck, trying not to push, and A.J. was on the ground, nursing a cracked rib from the truck door and a broken wrist from the hard concrete.

“What the hell…?” Doc began.

“Maggie’s having her baby,” A.J. informed him. Doc stepped back inside. He returned with a flashlight and a box of ice-cream salt. Doc scattered the salt, stepped gingerly to the truck, and made a brief examination of Maggie.

“The baby’s coming breech. Help me get her inside.” To Maggie he said, “Don’t push.”

“Easy for you to say,” she growled between gritted teeth. A.J. and Doc trundled her into the house and onto the spare bed, and thirty minutes later after much deft maneuvering by Doc and a great deal of waterfront cussing by Maggie, the Longstreets were parents again. A.J. and Minnie had assisted, with Minnie doing the skilled work while A.J. filled the position of tote-and-fetch boy. Maggie’s eyes shone in the lamplight as her fine baby boy was laid at her breast. A.J. and Doc shook hands, and it was difficult to tell who was prouder, the new father or the old physician, hopelessly out of date but still able to deliver a baby breech during a snowstorm in the dark.

“All these new boys would have been doing C-sections, getting excited and hollering stat. Whatever the hell that means,” Doc growled as he sipped the coffee Minnie had brewed on the gas grill. It had a slightly smoky taste.

“You did good, Doc,” A.J. said.

Maggie had worked hard, and it was late. Eventually, she drowsed. While she slept, Doc splinted A.J.’s wrist and taped his ribs. Then A.J. sat in a chair by the bed. After a time, Maggie stirred and awakened. She saw him and smiled.

“I dreamed you were gone,” she said sleepily.

“I was here the whole time,” he responded, taking her hand. Thus, the youngest member of the Longstreet clan came into the world on a blizzard’s coattails, and his difficult entrance set the tone for the life that was to follow.

“I swear he planned it,” Maggie said, back in the kitchen recounting the high points of Eudora’s wedding. “The minister had just finished saying that any objectors should speak now or forever hold their peace. The church was quiet. Then J.J. tugged on my dress and announced he had to pee. ‘Right now, Mama,’ was the way he put it. I thought Emily Charlotte was going to die on the spot.”

“Well, we told him to always let us know,” A.J. offered. J.J. had been tough to train. “I bet Carlisle loved the bathroom break.”

“He raised an eyebrow, but everyone was laughing by that time.”

“Well, the main thing is that Eudora has finally reeled Carlisle in,” A.J. said. “Now she can be truly fulfilled as a woman.” He grunted when Maggie kicked him under the table.

“Watch it,” she said. “I’m still in the mood to hit something.”

“Apparently,” he responded, rubbing his shin. “Husband beating is a serious deal. With the right lawyer, I could clean you out.”

“Save your money. I don’t have anything but the children, and you can have them.”

“Just forget it.” A.J. got up and poured them both coffee. “Let’s go to the porch.”

They sat in silence in the big rockers on the porch and enjoyed the twilight. The evening was serene. The slightest of breezes was blowing, bearing the hint of meat cooking on a grill. Estelle was burning yet another steak on her high-botch-ee.

“I missed you,” said Maggie. “Did you have fun being a bachelor while we were gone?”

“It was one party after another. I vacuumed about two truck-loads of blond stewardess-hair out of the carpet right before you got here. By the way, if you happen to find a pair of red panties somewhere in the house, they’re mine.”

“Red has always been your color,” she replied. “But I think you’re lying. I think you worked, went and saw Eugene, ate some fried Spam, and missed me.” She reached and took his hand. “But if you are messing around with a blond stewardess, you had better get in the habit of calling her a flight attendant, Plow Boy.”

“There are too many rules these days,” he responded forlornly. “Actually, you hit it pretty close, but you left out the part where I got fired.” She momentarily assimilated this data.

“Well, it’s not like we didn’t know it was coming,” she said finally. “Did you get the severance pay?”

“I got part of it. I still need to look up John McCord.”

“That’s it, then. I’m glad you’re out of there. I’ve never liked that place, and I’ve always believed you could do better. You rest for a few weeks. Then we’ll get busy finding you something else.” She sounded upbeat as she squeezed his hand.

“You know, I might not find something right off,” he cautioned. He did not want to dampen her optimism, but facts were facts.

“You have nearly a year’s pay in your pocket, counting what John McCord owes you,” she said. “You’ll find something before it runs out. I think you should start that remodeling business you’ve been talking about. There are enough old houses in bad shape in these mountains to keep you busy until you’re ninety.”

It was true. History was ignorant and had a mean streak, so it tended to repeat. Sequoyah and the surrounding areas had been rediscovered by the great-grandchildren of the elite who had once had their summer homes in the mountains. Young professionals had been snatching up property left and right, and the right local boy who could fix up an old house could certainly capitalize on the situation. He and Maggie had already turned down two fairly substantial offers on the Folly, tendered by individuals who wanted to live in a restored home without actually having to restore it. A.J. was fairly tolerant of this new breed of Sequoyites, all things considered, even though he had almost been hit once by a rogue Volvo, and in spite of the fact he no longer knew the names of everyone having Saturday morning coffee down at The Lord Is My Shepherd; I Shall Not Want Thick and Frosty Milkshakes Drive-In.

“Maybe,” he said, in response to the remodeling proposal. “We’ll see.” They finished their coffee in comfortable silence. As the night descended, a mist stole across the high valley and crept onto the porch. Maggie shuddered.

“Goose walk over your grave?” A.J. asked.

“It’s going to get cold early this year,” she responded.

“I think it might,” A.J. said. “It’s about time for it anyway. Halloween’s next week.” This was one of his favorite holidays, and he enjoyed immensely the ritual of dressing up to take the children out. Some of his more notable disguises were Richard Nixon, George Armstrong Custer the Day After, and a Rambler American, which was a great costume although a bit on the heavy side. This year he was planning to go as Nikita Khrushchev and was already beating podium-shaped objects with his shoe.

“Don’t remind me,” Maggie said. “I’ve got costumes to arrange.”

“What are we going to be this year?” he asked.

“I’ve got you to thank for this,” she said. “Most kids want to be ghosts or witches. Maybe a mime. But not my children. Nothing normal for them. Emily wants to go as Topo Gigio, Harper Lee wants to go as a fish, and J.J. wants to go black-and-white.”

“I don’t get that one.”

“You ought to get it,” she replied. “You started it when you told him the world used to be black and white. He said you even proved it.”

A.J. remembered. He and the children had been watching an old Basil Rathbone movie when J.J. asked why there was no color.

“The world used to be black and white,” he said to the children. “But aliens landed and zapped us with a color ray.”

“Uh-uh!” Harper Lee said.

“No way!” J.J. chimed.

“Daddy!” Emily added.

“I can prove it,” A.J. replied. He retrieved his videotape of The Wizard of Oz and plugged it in. The children watched open-mouthed as the film turned to Technicolor upon Dorothy’s arrival in Oz. “They were making this movie when the aliens landed,” he explained. “You can see right when we got zapped.” The young Longstreets were used to their father’s leg-pulling, and over the years he had made many an unfounded claim. But this time, it was different. They had seen the bona fides for themselves. There could be no doubt of the veracity of the claim. They believed.

“How hard can it be?” A.J. asked Maggie, referring to J.J.’s request. “Put him in black pants and a white shirt. A fish is going to be much harder.”

“Big talk, Nikita,” she responded. “He wants to look like he’s in a black-and-white movie. You know, that shades-of-grey, grainy look.”

“I have confidence in your ability,” A.J. smiled. “Maybe you can find him some size-four spats down at the Pic-N-Save.”

“Maybe you can quit filling their heads with garbage and make my life easier.”

“What do you want? An easy life or children who can think creatively?”

“Keep it up, and I’ll beat on you with my shoe,” Maggie said.

“Now, that’s more like it. Hold up while I go splash on a little Hai Karate.” He possessed what he believed to be the last bottle of the exotic fragrance extant.

“No, that’s all right. The fried Spam was bad enough.”

“I never admitted that,” he reminded her.

“You didn’t have to,” she reminded him back.

They lapsed into a contented repose and watched as the stars roused themselves for another night’s work. A.J. was glad to have Maggie back. Without her he was adrift in a world full of reefs. He no longer really understood where he left off and she began. She was the best person he had ever known, and he preferred her company above all others.

“How is Eugene?” she asked.

“He’s slipping fast,” came A.J.’s reply. He described the visit. She listened without comment, although her eyes mirrored sadness when he recounted the tale of Eugene’s reunion with Diane.

“I’m glad you made him come to town. I hope he and Diane made their peace.”

“They did,” he said. “He was low when I left him, but he asked me to go. He said he wanted to be alone.”

“Poor man,” she said simply. There was nothing else to say. Eugene had been a lucky man all of his life. Now his luck flowed away like water pouring from a hole in a bucket onto the sand in July. “You said Diane had company when you first arrived,” Maggie continued. “Who’s her new boyfriend?”

“I didn’t say a word about a boyfriend,” A.J. responded.

“But you said-”

“I said she had a friend. I did not use the word boy,” he replied.

“I’m missing you on this,” Maggie said, confused.

“I discovered Diane in a post-coital glow after having spent the evening with Truth Hannassey.” Truth had been among the first wave of new-and-improved Sequoyites. She had stumbled upon the little town a few years back and had fallen in love with its charm, beauty, and potential for financial gain. She had bought and restored a fine old home and from that base had proceeded to have her way with Cherokee County.

A.J.’s first meeting with Truth had been under unusual circumstances, and he would be the first to admit they had gotten off on the wrong foot. He felt the misstep was her fault, but the fact of the matter was that they had taken an instant dislike for each other, as if they had hated one another for many lifetimes.

A.J. had a habit of sleeping on the screened side porch during the warmer months and was doing just that one morning after a hard night at the sawmill when he was awakened by a loud pounding. Maggie was at work, the two girls were at school, and J.J. was fishing with John Robert. Still half-asleep, he arose, unhooked the screen, and stood eye to eye with Truth Hannassey. She was dressed in a nicely tailored business suit, and he was in his boxer shorts.

“Good morning,” she said, offering her hand. “I hope I didn’t wake you up. My name is Truth Hannassey.” He took her hand.

“A.J. Longstreet,” he mumbled, fighting to alertness. He figured she must be lost, broken down, or beset by other emergencies compelling enough to cause her to awaken sleeping strangers.

“I would like to talk to you about buying this house,” she continued briskly. He felt at a slight disadvantage in his drawers, confused and a little unnerved, but he was raised to be polite to strangers and to women, and his visitor was both.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stifling a yawn. “It’s not for sale.” He smiled, nodded, and began to turn away.

“Maybe you should hear my offer,” came her reply. A.J. stopped in mid-turn, rotated back, and took her gaze. Her tone wasn’t unfriendly. More like pushy. A.J. hated pushy.

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to offend, but it doesn’t matter what your offer is,” he said, taking one more cut at the ball. Some people just couldn’t take no for an answer. “I don’t want to sell my house. I do, however, want to go back to sleep. Please excuse me if I don’t show you out, but as you can see, I’m not wearing any pants.” He turned once more, intending to go find some peace.

“I notice that you’re wearing a wedding ring. Maybe you should talk over my offer with your wife.” A.J. again about-faced and stood boxer shorts to business suit with Truth Hannassey.

“Lady, go away. If you want to talk to my wife, come back at one a.m. and drag her out in her panties. Wear a raincoat, because I guarantee she’ll turn the garden hose on you. But for now, go away and let me sleep.” He pointed in the direction of the highway. There was a strange dynamic at play. Truth’s hardball stare had never left him. Finally, she flashed a smile.

“Your fly is open,” she said as she turned to leave.

“That’s not for sale, either,” came his reply.

“Not interested,” she hollered over her shoulder as she sauntered across the yard. He stood there, hairy-legged and bare-chested, and wondered what in hell that had been all about.

When Maggie arrived home, A.J. discussed the encounter with her and discovered that Truth had bought several properties around the county. Maggie had acquired this knowledge while lunching with Ms. Hannassey, who had tracked Maggie down after her chat with A.J. She had apparently been unwilling to take his word on the subject of selling the Folly. This knowledge did little to enhance his regard for her, and according to Maggie, the feeling was mutual. The word on the streets was that Truth was a wealthy real estate genius who had no use for the male of the species, living or dead.

“Well, neither do I,” A.J. said, stating their common ground, amazed that Truth had hunted Maggie up. He was a small town boy and liked it that way, a hayseed by conscious choice and not just dumb luck, and he had encountered very few beings similar to Truth on his travels through the maze. Indeed, he felt he could have gone much longer without the privilege. “At least you got to wear your pants while you were talking,” he noted.

“No wonder you didn’t get along with her,” Maggie said. “She’s very intense. Definitely not your cup of tea.”

“So, did you sell the house?” A.J. asked.

“No, but it was tempting. She offered two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Damn. I would have put on my pants for that.” Maybe he had been hasty.

“She also offered me a job,” Maggie continued. “She said she liked my style, but my taste in men sucked. She wanted me to be a liaison between her and the locals. She felt that I could open a few doors.” Maggie was smiling.

“Please tell me you turned her down,” he said. He just couldn’t envision having the boss, Truth Hannassey, over for dinner. It was too much to bear, trousers or no.

“It was a very good offer,” she said. He grimaced as if he had stepped on something jagged and rusty. “But I turned it down. The money would have been nice, but I don’t think I’m right for the work. I guess I’m pretty satisfied with what I do and what I have.” He quietly exhaled the breath he had been holding. “I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she continued. “I really like her. I think we’re going to be good friends.” He coughed. The whims of fate were as cruel as November wind.

Eugene, too, had made the acquaintance of Truth. She had walked into the beer joint and offered Eugene a very respectable sum of money for his mountain, on top of which she wished to build a subdivision. Eugene liked his mountain and had no need for more money, so he had declined the offer. There was, however, a complication. Eugene had become smitten with her.

“Man, you just know she has some fine pussy on her,” Eugene drooled.

“Eugene, she’s a lesbian,” A.J. told him. “She doesn’t like boys. She likes girls.”

“Give me thirty minutes with her, and I guarantee you I’ll have her straightened out,” he said, lust heavy in his voice. He had a bad case of it.

“I don’t think it works that way,” A.J. replied. “Anyway, you’re married. You don’t get to play with the big-city girls.”

“Well, you just mark this down,” Eugene had vowed. “It’s her destiny to enjoy a little Purdue bliss.” Thus was it written. Thus was it eventually done.

“Diane and Truth Hannassey together?” Maggie asked, incredulous. “I’m having a little trouble swallowing that one.” It was an accepted fact that Truth had a roving eye, but most of her companionship to date had been imported, due to the size of the local gene pool and its basically conservative demographic.

“Me, too,” A.J. agreed. “But there it was. I’m glad Eugene didn’t catch on. It would kill him to know he has driven Diane away from men completely.” He paused before continuing. “I think he was hoping for a reconciliation, and maybe one more for the road.”

“Sounds like that’s not going to happen,” Maggie said, distracted. “I’m sorry, but I’m still getting used to the concept. Are you sure it was Truth?”

“I swear it. I saw her.”

“Relationship-wise, Truth is probably a bigger disaster than Eugene. I hope Diane keeps her eyes open.”

“I think she ought to trip the light fantastic with Eugene one more time,” A.J. said.

“Why should she?” asked Maggie. “All that’s over between them. She doesn’t love him anymore. Why should she sleep with him?”

“Charity. Sympathy. Decency. I don’t know, but she ought to do it,” A.J. said. “You would give me one more tumble, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would. But you haven’t been an absolute shit for the last twenty years. It is through works, not faith, that dispossessed husbands earn one more for the road. Besides, I thought you had a pride problem when it came to charity sex.”

“I do, but I’m not obsessive about it.” He smiled.

“I might find myself in a charitable mood later,” she allowed. “But first we have some children to feed.”

“Great,” he said. “I’ve been kind of steamed up since I saw Diane in her gown.” He earned an elbow in the ribs for the revelation.

They arose, and together they set to the evening chores. A.J. cooked supper while Maggie oversaw the bathing of their offspring. Later, the children were put down, each with a kiss and a story. Later still, in the glow of the moonlight as it filtered through the windowpanes, Maggie and A.J. drifted off in the easy embrace of two people unquestionably in love.