leave a note.”
Cursing the woman for abandoning her young charges, Briana grabbed her purse and pulled on her navy linen suit jacket. She could try calling Patrick’s mother, or the children’s aunt Shannon, but that would only waste time and she suspected she was geographically closest to the children. She couldn’t stand to think of those kids alone. “I’m going to come over and sit with you until your dad gets back. Would you like that?”
“I guess.”
He tried to sound tough but she heard the relief in his voice.
“I’m leaving the office right now and I should get to your house in about fifteen minutes. Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Make sure the doors are locked. Do you remember what I look like?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What’s Fiona doing right now?”
“She’s in the den watching SpongeBob SquarePants.”
“That’s great. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t open the door until you know it’s me. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Normally, Briana wasn’t one to speed, but today she couldn’t get to Patrick’s children fast enough. Her heart pounded and her stomach was in a knot. Maybe she was overreacting, but a nine-year-old and a five-year-old seemed way too young to be on their own. And the poor kid had sounded as if he felt that way, too.
As she neared Patrick’s house she noted that someof the stoplights were out, so she was forced to slow down and take the intersections with care. Finally, after what seemed like an hour and was in fact twelve minutes, she pulled up in front of Patrick’s house.
She went to the front door, figuring Dylan would be on the watch for her and would already have spied her through a window. She knocked.
“Who is it?”
Smart kid.
“It’s Briana Bliss.”
The door opened. Her first instinct was to hug Dylan, but she squelched it. He wasn’t hers to hug, and she suspected nine-year-old boys weren’t big on hugs.
They locked the door behind them and he took her into the den, where his sister was watching a sitcom rerun that didn’t look very age appropriate.
“Hey, do you guys want to watch your dad on TV?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
P ATRICK WHISTLED as he drove home. He wasn’t normally a big one for whistling, but the occasion seemed to demand it. The phone-in TV program had been a bigger success than he’d dreamed possible. It seemed that almost every citizen of Courage Bay had called. The phone lines had stayed jammed and the station had to end the broadcast without having a chance to hear from everyone with something to say.
Regular citizens had phoned in, guys who pumped gas and packed groceries, teachers from the local schools, a cook from the Courage Bay Bar and Grill, homemakers and office workers, retail clerks and business owners. More than ninety percent had supported him in his plea to get that money released. There were some sad phone calls and some downright tragic ones, including a distraught call from Lee Harper, whose wife, Francine, had been killed in the convenience store collapse.
People who’d lost loved ones phoned to plead for the money so others might be saved in the future. Four firefighters called in, some nurses, a doctor or two, an ambulance driver.
The two councilmen who had supported him inlast night’s meeting both phoned in to make their positions clear.
Councilman Cecil Thomson didn’t call and neither did his two cronies. Patrick didn’t believe for a second that they hadn’t sat glued to their TVs as they faced public humiliation. He was sorry the funding crisis couldn’t have been resolved in a less public way, but damn, he was glad to be finally getting somewhere. The message to the three hold-out councilmen from their constituents had been loud and clear: Release the money or face a citizens’ uproar.
So Patrick whistled. He had the windows open in the car, and he sure hoped no one could hear him, since his whistling was totally off-key—but he had to do something to celebrate.
He pulled
Cursing the woman for abandoning her young charges, Briana grabbed her purse and pulled on her navy linen suit jacket. She could try calling Patrick’s mother, or the children’s aunt Shannon, but that would only waste time and she suspected she was geographically closest to the children. She couldn’t stand to think of those kids alone. “I’m going to come over and sit with you until your dad gets back. Would you like that?”
“I guess.”
He tried to sound tough but she heard the relief in his voice.
“I’m leaving the office right now and I should get to your house in about fifteen minutes. Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Make sure the doors are locked. Do you remember what I look like?”
“Yes.”
“Good. What’s Fiona doing right now?”
“She’s in the den watching SpongeBob SquarePants.”
“That’s great. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t open the door until you know it’s me. Okay?”
“Sure.”
Normally, Briana wasn’t one to speed, but today she couldn’t get to Patrick’s children fast enough. Her heart pounded and her stomach was in a knot. Maybe she was overreacting, but a nine-year-old and a five-year-old seemed way too young to be on their own. And the poor kid had sounded as if he felt that way, too.
As she neared Patrick’s house she noted that someof the stoplights were out, so she was forced to slow down and take the intersections with care. Finally, after what seemed like an hour and was in fact twelve minutes, she pulled up in front of Patrick’s house.
She went to the front door, figuring Dylan would be on the watch for her and would already have spied her through a window. She knocked.
“Who is it?”
Smart kid.
“It’s Briana Bliss.”
The door opened. Her first instinct was to hug Dylan, but she squelched it. He wasn’t hers to hug, and she suspected nine-year-old boys weren’t big on hugs.
They locked the door behind them and he took her into the den, where his sister was watching a sitcom rerun that didn’t look very age appropriate.
“Hey, do you guys want to watch your dad on TV?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
P ATRICK WHISTLED as he drove home. He wasn’t normally a big one for whistling, but the occasion seemed to demand it. The phone-in TV program had been a bigger success than he’d dreamed possible. It seemed that almost every citizen of Courage Bay had called. The phone lines had stayed jammed and the station had to end the broadcast without having a chance to hear from everyone with something to say.
Regular citizens had phoned in, guys who pumped gas and packed groceries, teachers from the local schools, a cook from the Courage Bay Bar and Grill, homemakers and office workers, retail clerks and business owners. More than ninety percent had supported him in his plea to get that money released. There were some sad phone calls and some downright tragic ones, including a distraught call from Lee Harper, whose wife, Francine, had been killed in the convenience store collapse.
People who’d lost loved ones phoned to plead for the money so others might be saved in the future. Four firefighters called in, some nurses, a doctor or two, an ambulance driver.
The two councilmen who had supported him inlast night’s meeting both phoned in to make their positions clear.
Councilman Cecil Thomson didn’t call and neither did his two cronies. Patrick didn’t believe for a second that they hadn’t sat glued to their TVs as they faced public humiliation. He was sorry the funding crisis couldn’t have been resolved in a less public way, but damn, he was glad to be finally getting somewhere. The message to the three hold-out councilmen from their constituents had been loud and clear: Release the money or face a citizens’ uproar.
So Patrick whistled. He had the windows open in the car, and he sure hoped no one could hear him, since his whistling was totally off-key—but he had to do something to celebrate.
He pulled
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