His interlude was interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the hallway. Seth lowered the footrest and stood. He found Jason, cheeks rosy red from the bath, wrapped in a large towel.
“As soon as you’re into your pajamas, I’ll get my book,” the new housekeeper offered.
“You won’t fall asleep, will you?” The inquiry came from Judd, who glanced meaningfully toward Seth.
“Don’t be so hard on your father. He needs to catch up on his sleep.”
The woman was not only a marvel in the kitchen, she was also a born mind-reader.
“Isn’t that right, Mr. Webster?”
He managed a nod, wondering how she knew he’d been burning the candle at both ends.
“Did you need me to carry in your luggage?”
“Luggage?” she repeated, and a look of surprise flashed in and out of her eyes. “Not to worry, I’ll get it myself.”
“I insist.” It was the least he could do.
“All right.” Again he noticed her hesitation. “I believe it should be on the porch… That’s right, I left everything on the porch. I was so pleased when I learned of this new assignment that I packed as fast as I could.”
Seth prayed his twins wouldn’t give her reason to alter her opinion.
Humming what sounded surprisingly like a hymn, she returned to the children, ushering them like a mother hen out of the room.
Seth couldn’t remember a time Judd and Jason had taken so quickly to anyone. With every other housekeeper it had demanded the better part of a week before they’d been comfortable enough to address the woman. But then no housekeeper had arrived with a meal fit for a king. The vegetables had been so well disguised that neither Judd nor Jason had noticed.
“Mrs. Miracle…”
“Mrs. Miracle…”
Laughter erupted as the twins roared out of the bedroom, dressed in their pajamas, their wet hair combed away from their faces. Seth paused, seeing the joy and excitement in their eyes. It was something he’d viewed only on rare occasions since they’d moved back in with him.
A warmth seeped into his heart. For the first time in a very long while, he had hope for the future.
* * *
Country Pot Pie
1 stewing chicken—make it easy and buy canned chicken; they’ll never know the difference
1/3 cup butter
1/8 cup flour （more if necessary）
1 teaspoon salt
? teaspoon pepper
? teaspoon thyme
? teaspoon rosemary
2 cups chicken broth
1 piecrust—the kind you buy in the refrigerator section of the local grocery works great
1 potato, cubed and boiled until tender
2 carrots, sliced and boiled until tender
1 cup light cream （evaporated milk works in a pinch）
1 small can onions
1 small can peas
Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Simmer chicken in water to cover for 45 minutes, or until tender. Remove meat from bones and reserve stock. Melt butter in saucepan and stir in flour, salt, pepper, thyme, and rosemary to make gravy. Gradually add broth and cream and cook over medium heat, stirring frequently until thickened and bubbly. Add the cubed chicken and vegetables to the gravy. Prepare the pie crust. Line a 13x9x2-inch pan or 2-quart casserole dish with 2/3 of the pie crust. Put the filling in the dough-lined pan, top with remaining crust and bake 15 minutes, or until crust is golden and the filling is bubbling.
* * *
Chapter 4
God wants spiritual fruit, not religious nuts.
—Mrs. Miracle
Harriett Foster prayed with one eye open as she studied the older, retired women in the Tuesday morning Martha and Mary Circle. She zeroed her prayer request toward Ruth Darling. Harriett had seen the way the sixty-year-old had been eyeing the new man in church. A married woman, mind you. Why, it was nothing short of scandalous. It was difficult enough for a widow like herself to find a new husband without having to compete with a married woman.
“Dear Lord,” Harriett said loudly, making sure her voice carried, “I’m selling my sewing machine. My Singer, Lord, with five separate attachments. Why, Lord, a person could embroider names on the thickest of towels with this machine. Hemming skirts at the proper length, of course, would be no problem, nor would it be difficult to attach buttons. Those of us suffering arthritis can appreciate a sewing machine with all those built-in extras.” She paused and surveyed the group once more. “This modern marvel was reconditioned only six months ago. I’m a reasonable woman, Lord, and you and I both know that my Singer, although ten years old, is well worth the hundred-dollar asking price. You’ve placed that figure upon my heart, and I don’t feel I can let it go for a penny less. You know that I’d gladly tithe my ten percent of that sales price, too.