The smile never left Maria's face. It seemed to say the world is a marvelous place and I'm tickled pink to be here. It was a beautiful smile that caused Dean to wonder what life the young girl had left behind. What the hell, if hand signals and the language of smiles could do the trick, she'd make a fine employee. So far, wee Maria stood head and shoulders over any other domestic helper Bird Song had employed.
Fred took a deep breath. "I might as well roust up the rest of the family-so's Maria can meet 'em," he said as he went over to Martha's bedroom door, knocked and entered, closing the door behind him.
The Deans retreated to the front porch, allowing Fred and Martha time alone, and Maria to her new chores. The rocking chairs were back, four in a row, red, green, yellow, and purple, adding a blaze of color against the century-old white building of Bird Song. The front walk was banked with crimson petunias, the lawn spring-green and the window-boxed geraniums aglow. Even Bird Song's gilded front sign, advertising the bed and breakfast, had been washed of a year's dust from the unpaved side street. The mountains that ringed them remained capped in their winter snow. In spite of Martha's pending departure, they gloried in the early summer sunshine, rocking contentedly in a few stolen minutes of relaxation.
Fred O'Connor moseyed out and joined them. He said nothing of his visit to Martha's room and busied himself on the stoop taping a "Dean for Sheriff" poster to a wooden stake before adding it to a growing pile.
"Why do I need signs if I'm running unopposed?" Dean asked to break the silence.
"Getting a jump in case some latecomer signs up," Fred grumbled. "I don't know why you vetoed my 'Dean is Mean-on Crime!' slogan. If I'm going to be your campaign manager, leave the business to me. All you have to do is smile a lot and go kiss some babies."
Martha joined them, slumping into the purple rocker, her favorite. She was red-eyed, as if sleep had eluded her.
Cynthia forced a smile. "Do you want some breakfast, sleepyhead?" she asked.
"I guess. I've been packing my stuff." She began to rock vigorously. "Do you have a couple of paper bags?"
"We have to do better than paper bags," Cynthia answered.
Dean turned. "How about we go into Montrose this afternoon and buy a real suitcase?"
"Bags are okay. I came with bags. I guess I can leave the same way."
"Nonsense," Fred said. "I'll even pay for luggage. I owe you some bucks from selling them dishes we bought at last week's moving sale. The lady at the library bought 'em. We was fifty-fifty on that stuff. Remember?"