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Going Home
A MacGyver Story by Katharine Campbell
Prologue
“Tell us the story again, please?”
“But you've heard the story a million times.”
“I don't care.”
“Neither do I.”
Sigh.
Giggle.
“You might as well, they'll never give you any peace.”
“You know it is kind of a birthday tradition.”
“Okay, well, it all started with Sam.”
Chapter One
Sometimes you wake up in the morning and know exactly how the next twenty fours of your life are going to play out. Other times, well, life slides you a blind pass. Sam was my blind pass. Three months ago we were strangers. Now, well, I was a Dad, and Sam was MY kid. My nineteen year old son. It was something I certainly never expected. All of a sudden, things I thought were important just didn't matter so much anymore - like saving the world. I'd spent most of my adult life working to right a lot of wrongs for a lot of people. Now, when I looked at Sam, I just wanted to right his world. I wanted him to have a home - a real home, like I had when I was a kid - not a bachelor pad in the marina district.
When I was a kid, we lived in town in a nice old Victorian that became a bed and breakfast after my mother sold it to move into a smaller place. I was one of the town boys, wandering the streets, fields, and woods with my friends, making minor, small town mischief, chasing local girls, and working part time at the local hardware store. All in all, I grew up ensconced in small town values. Sam didn't.
That's why Sam and I stood outside my grandfather Harry's old farm house in Crow Wing County, Minnesota, staring at the peeling paint and rotting porch. My grandfather, Harry Jackson willed the place to me when he died, along with some other things – but that's a different story. At the time, I considered selling the place, but I never got around to it. I guess something deep inside of me knew I might need it one day. Now I hoped the old house would provide the roots that were never allowed to grow under Sam's feet.
I never dreamed the move would change my life more than Sam's.
As Mac studied the house, his thoughts drifted back through the last few months. They were the best. Riding across country on the bikes, getting to know Sam - his son. The word still sounded strange to him - son. He had a son. But two weeks ago, sitting high on Table Rock Mountain down in North Carolina and staring out across the Blue Ridge Escarpment, he'd realized they couldn't wander forever. Sam never had a real home, not even when his mother was alive. The boy was dragged from place to place in search of the perfect photo story - his mother Kate's livelihood, then taken in by friends when Kate was killed. Mac, still an unknown factor to Sam, was remembered only from a small photo in Kate's locket. The contrast to Mac's childhood of small town support was extreme. Mac wanted the stability he'd known as a child for Sam. That was when Mac remembered the farm house.
Mac looked over at Sam and grinned, then strolled up the walk. Old red peonies peeked out through a choke of tall weeds in flower beds on either side of the walk. Harry didn't have much time, or inclination, to fix the place up before he died. The porch was in sad repair. One of the pillars that supported the roof was broken, so the porch roof sagged. Some of the porch boards were warped, sharp nails sticking up from the wood. Paint peeled on the once white clapboard siding. Leaves and small branches littered the porch floor, a testament to past storms. At the steps, Mac carefully tested each board for soundness. He shoved aside debris from the front door with his boot while he pulled out the house key. The lock was rusty, and it took a few jiggles before the bolt retracted and the door opened into a narrow foyer, rooms going left and right down the hall.
Near the entrance, a huge old grandfather clock stood silent sentry. Many years ago, when Mac was a kid, it used to chime the hours with amazing accuracy. He remembered his grandfather's nightly routine. Bank the fire, set and wind the clock, put out the lights - then to bed. Mac rubbed heavy dust from the clock face, smearing it worse. "I always loved this old clock. I can't believe its still here," Mac said, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned right through a large double opening into the parlor - -the "company room". A dirty and worn old sofa sat on the long wall flanked by ancient oak end tables. Heavy, rotting brocade curtains covered the large picture window. An ornate mantle and legs surrounded a large fireplace. Cobwebs filled the corners, a mouse scurried into a small hole in the wall. Sam moved to his side.
"It's a good house, solid," Mac said as he rested his arm across Sam's shoulder. "All it needs is a little spit and polish."
Sam, hands on his hips, studied the large parlor. "It's a lot of house. Sure you want to do this?"
Mac took a deep breath. "Sure, its a lot of house now, but it won't be in a few years. When you get out of college, I hope you'll get married and bring my grandchildren to visit. Often."
Sam wandered to the picture window and pulled back the curtain. The rod broke loose and the whole thing fell with a clatter. He scrambled to catch it, gave up and let it fall. He put his hands on the window sill and looked out at the over grown front yard. "Dad, I'm not so sure about college. It's expensive, and I'm doing okay without it. Besides, you're gonna need help fixing this place up."
Mac sighed. "Sam, we've already been over this. You have to go to college." He stepped over to Sam and laid his hand on his son's shoulder. "I can't give you much - not your mother, not your childhood, not a father growing up, but I can give you an education. He paused for a moment then said, "It's what your mother would want. It's what I want. I hoped it would be what you want."
Sam looked over his shoulder at his father. "It is but... It's so much money, and neither of us have worked in months." Sam added.
"I've always lived pretty simple, just banked most of what I earned, Sam. I think I can afford it. 'Course, you'll have to keep selling those picture of yours for spending money. But I can cover the major expenses," Mac answered.
Sam looked back out the window.
"Let me do this for you, Sam," Mac added.
Sam leaned on his arms, his head down. A slow smile grew on his young face. He nodded, then looked back at Mac. "Your not going to be one of those room-Mom's are you? Always hanging around?"
Mac laughed. "Not so long as you behave yourself." He slapped Sam on the back. "Why don't you start cleaning up in here and in the kitchen. I'll go into town and get us some electricity and something to eat. There's a pantry off the kitchen. It's a good place to look for a broom."
Two hours later, and a hefty electricity deposit poorer, Mac turned his motor cycle onto the gravel parking lot of the Crow County Food Co-op and Natural Foods Store, kicking up a spray of dust. The co-op was housed in an old building that used to be a full service gas station. When he was a kid, he remembered that they gave you a free drinking glass with every fill up. His grandmother had an entire set. Now, the cinder block building was painted bright white. The big front store window was sparkling clean in spite of the dust thrown up when anyone drove onto the front gravel parking lot. Someone had added a covered front porch, complete with western style railings painted deep green. Planters made from old train cross ties, full of a wild mixture of brightly colored annuals, sat where the old pumps once stood. The sign that hung above the big double doors, now flung open to the fresh morning air, was hand-painted in red and green with an ornate edging of flowers, vines and vegetables. Big comfortable rocking chairs, complete with cushions sewn from bright floral fabric waited on either side of the door. Two pickup trucks, one red and one black sat parked out front. A young woman in her early twenties tried to heave a heavy box of supplies into the bed of the red truck. Mac jogged over and lifted the box into the truck bed, then bounced up the steps onto the co-op porch.
Wood bins on the porch, fully stocked with produce were tagged "locally grown, no pesticides". He lifted a tomato and looked for something to put it in, but saw no bags, so he put it back. He strolled past a rocker then into the building. The co-op was not fancy inside, but was well kept. The homey scent of cinnamon and fresh baked bread filled the air. The floor was concrete, but carefully painted a deep, rich mahogany color coated with a protective poly layer. It was so clean it gleamed. Three ceiling fans kept the air moving. Homemade wood shelves, painted the same dark green as the front railing, ran perpendicular to the front wall. They were stocked with "all-natural and/or pesticide-free" kitchen staples, natural cleaners, toiletries and other household supplies. Jars of honey, homemade jams, pickles and sauces took up the entire left wall. Neat, hand printed signs listed prices below the items. Full member, associate member and non-member prices were listed for each item. Heavy, clear plastic sheeting covered the entrance to the right where the doors to the garage were once. Above the sheeting, a sign announced that it was the "Cold Room", and promised fresh eggs, fresh milk, cold fruits and vegetables.
An elderly man stood near the honey, reading labels. With her back to Mac, a short, thin, but very curvy, woman stacked jars on a shelf to his right. The sales counter, made of rustic old boards and curious tree trunk supports, carefully sanded and stained dark mahogany to match the floor, stood in front of the back wall. Behind the counter were more green shelves full of covered bins of flours, rice, dried beans, dried fruits, and spices, among other things. A peanut butter grinder sat on one end of the counter. On the other end, an old-fashioned mechanical cash register sat in front of a dainty elderly woman. Homemade baked goods flanked her on the counter. She smiled at Mac. "Mornin'," she called out. "What can I do for you?"
"Morning," Mac answered as he walked to the counter. "The manager of the Food Rite in town sent me here. They thought you could help me out." He leaned on the counter and gave the elderly woman his best little boy grin. "I just moved to town and need to stock up my kitchen, but I can't carry much on my motorcycle. The folks at the Food Rite won't deliver. The manager sent me here - said you might could help me?"
"Well, we don't deliver often, but if the price is right we might can work something out." The woman answered. "Where do you live?"
"About four or five miles west of here, on Taylor Road. Old farmhouse on the left with a windmill in the yard," he answered.
"The old Jackson place?"
"Yea, you know it?" Mac answered.
"I do, but I didn't know it was for sale."
"It isn't. I inherited it."
The woman cocked her head, and narrowed her eyes. "You Ellen's boy?"
"Yes, ma'am," he answered.
"Well, I'll be,” she answered. “ I remember you now from Harry's funeral. That old farm of his has been empty for some time. It's going to need a lot of work to make it livable again."
Mac laughed. "You bet. Can you deliver out there?"
The woman glanced across the room. Mac followed her eyes and saw that the young woman who had been stacking jars now watched them, hands on her hips. Wisps of dark brown hair escaped from her thick, waist length braid and curled around her cheeks. Her skin was as fine and smooth as alabaster, and she wore no makeup. Truth be told, she needed none. Her eyes, he noted, were as clear and warm a blue as the morning sky.
She glanced at him, then at the elderly woman, then back at Mac, and said , "Cash up front for every thing you buy and ,for the delivery, ten dollars for my time and the gas. And, you have to load, then unload the truck," she stated. Her voice was soft and slightly throaty, a sexy southern drawl. Mac smiled and thought about the Beach Boys song – how 'Southern girls keep their boyfriends warm at night.'
"Done," he answered.
"You'll find some boxes on the side porch," she continued. "Pack up what you need and pay up. My truck is the dark green one out back. You'll find a hand truck on the porch. Any cold stuff you get, you can leave in a box in the cooler. I'll load it when I'm ready to leave. Delivery will be about six tonight, after we have shut down for the day.
Chapter Two
Four hours later, I looked like some survivor from a horror movie. The electricity company did their thing about an hour ago and, thankfully, nothing shorted out when the power kicked on. Our luck ran out a few minutes later when Sam turned on the kitchen faucet and nothing happened. The well once supplied good, fresh, cold water - as much as Harry needed. But, here I was, taking apart and rebuilding the old well pump. I was covered in black grease and slime. Sweat poured down into my eyes and plastered my hair to my head. I'd taken my shirt off to protect it. Good thing too because the pump squirted green bilge all over my chest when I pried open the housing. One knuckle was crusted in blood from being slammed against the well shaft. I stank worse than the sludge plastered to the pump. Oh, I could go into town and buy a new pump but, despite what I told Sam, money WAS a factor. And fixing up Harry's old house wasn't going to be cheap. It needed a lot more work than I originally estimated. The tin roof was rusting, the fridge didn't work, and now - no water or toilets. I had just started back to work on the pump when I heard a vehicle coming up the dirt driveway.
Mac uncurled his legs and pushed himself up from the ground where he'd been working on the pump. He glanced at his watch. It was six-fifteen, the food delivery was right on time. He sat down the pump and grabbed a rag on which to wipe his greasy blackened hands, then headed for the front yard. The old green Chevy pickup pulled up and stopped in front of the porch steps.
As he rounded the corner of the house, he noticed a tiny face peering out from the passenger side of the truck. The little girl was maybe two. Curly blond hair framed her angelic baby face. At his approach, the child looked at him. Her mouth opened wide and she screamed in fright. The driver's door slammed shut and the stock girl from the co-op jogged around to the child's side. The woman was dressed in worn jeans that hugged her curves like a glove. Under an unbuttoned white man's dress shirt, she wore a gray tee shirt silk screened with the logo from the Crow Wing County co-op. Her thick, dark braid hung almost to her waist. She opened the door and unbuckled the little girl from her car seat. Mac stood still and watched as the woman snuggled the screaming child in her arms, and cooed softly. The woman looked up at Mac, her head cocked to the side, her lips pursed.
"I don't normally have that effect on children," he explained. "They usually love me."
The woman nodded. "I'll bet. But then, I doubt that you usually look like the 'wild man of Borneo'.
Mac grinned, wiping his hands on a rag. "Little Rascals - my favorite episode. Yum, Yum, eat 'em up."
The woman grinned back, then turned her attention back to the wailing child. Coddled, the child sniffed then tucked her head in the nape of the woman's neck.
The front screen door slammed and Sam came out, covered in dust.
"I'm MacGyver," Mac introduced himself. He pointed at Sam. "My son, Sam."
"Beth. Beth Reardon," the woman answered. "This is my daughter Molly. Molly, can you say hello?" The girl slammed her eyes shut and snuggled closer to her mother. Beth smiled at the child, then kissed her forehead. Her smile was that gentle sort of Mona Lisa smile that Mac rarely saw except between a mother and her child. Beth cut her blue eyes up at him, blushed, and looked back down. Mac melted. He didn't hear Sam say something about the groceries. Beth looked at Mac. "You have to unload them, remember?" she reminded him.
Mac shook himself. "Yeah, right. Sam? Help me out?"
Beth and Molly watched as the men unloaded the boxes and stacked them on the porch. When they were done, Mac turned back to them. "I really appreciate this."
"You're going to need a truck, or four wheel drive around here," Beth answered. "Those bikes might be fun, but they won't be any good hauling hay or groceries. And, come winter, you'll freeze."
"Yeah, I know. But first we need to make this place livable," he answered.
"Mary - the other woman at the co-op - said you inherited this place from Harry?"
Mac nodded. "He was my grandfather. You knew him?”
“Of course, he was my neighbor. He used to bring us trout from the stream. Do you plan to farm it? Or are you one of those yuppies who commute out to the country place on weekends?" Beth asked.
"No, I plan on living here full time, but farming - well, I haven't thought that far yet," he answered.
Beth nodded and patted Molly's leg. "Well, I guess I need to get home. It was nice to meet you Mr. MacGyver, Sam."
"Just MacGyver. Mac works. Hey, thanks again for the delivery," Mac said. "And, I'm sorry I scared Molly."
Beth smiled again, then turned to buckle the child back into the car seat. The child settled, she closed the door and turned back to Mac. "You know, I may be crazy for doing this, but, well... It looks like you two men could use a good home cooked meal. Why don't you clean up and come on over to our house for dinner? It's nothing fancy, pork chops and potatoes. I might have enough dried apples left for a pie."
"Yes," Sam interjected before Mac could answer. "I'm no cook, and he's not much better - all tofu and alfalfa sprouts. I could really use a sugar fix."
"Hey!" Mac answered as he gently gave Sam a push backward. "Alfalfa sprouts are good for you. Love 'em."
"For you maybe," Sam answered. "I need fat and sugar and lots of carbohydrates."
Beth laughed. "Alfalfa sprouts are good for you - full of vitamin C, and good for your appetite."
Mac smirked at Sam and said, "She works at a health food store." Sam rolled his eyes.
"A food co-op," Beth corrected. She smiled and added, "An all natural food co-op." She moved around the truck to the driver's side.
Mac glanced down at his grubby hands. "Yeah, um, about the cleaning up part. We have a bit of a problem," Mac said. "No pump, so no water."
Beth pursed her lips to keep from laughing, but didn't turn around. "My house is there.” She pointed to the large yellow farm house across the road. “Out back, by my barn, you'll find a shower. No hot water, but you're welcome to use it." She turned half way around. "There's a toilet out there as well, but then, you have a perfectly good outhouse." She climbed into the truck, still smiling and turned over the engine. "Seven thirty, food goes on the table," she yelled over the engine noise.
"Outhouse?" Sam asked as he looked at his father.
"Outhouse," Mac answered. "That small building out back."
Chapter Three
Mac towel dried his hair while Sam, dressed in a chamois shirt and jeans, sat on a bench and pulled on his socks. Thanks to Beth Reardon's barn shower, they were both clean and freshly shaved. Mac wore his sky blue silk shirt and a pair of dark chinos. Across the yard, beside a huge white, gazebo, covered with gingerbread molding, Beth set a picnic table. A vase of summer flowers decorated the enter.
She turned to watch her mother carrying out plates of food, Molly galloped in front. Beth scooped up her child and gave her a big kiss before setting her back on the ground. Old Maynard-dog, her twelve year old "other child" limped toward them. Beth looked over at him, smiled, then went to the house.
Mac ran a quick brush through his hair and walked to the picnic table. Sam followed. As he neared, Molly cut her blue eyes at him and frowned. Sam sat down to snuggle an appreciative Maynard-dog. Mrs. Schockley, Beth's mother, poured glasses of iced chamomile tea froma big earthen pitcher. Mac stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He kneeled in front of the child and pretended to pull the quarter from her ear. The child's eyes grew wide. He handed her the quarter as Beth ,her hands full of plates of food passed them. Molly giggled.
Beth sat the food on the table and turned to Mr. MacGyver. "I see you have managed to buy my daughter's affection," she said. She deftly slipped the quarter from Molly's fingers, and replaced it with a biscuit, just as the coin headed for the child's mouth. “Too small,” she added wagging the quarter in front of his face. “Choking hazard.”
Chagrined, Mac answered. "I needed to do something. My greatest fear in life is being that crazy old man that frightens children. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No, I think we're ready to eat."
"Where's Mr. Reardon?" Mac asked her, looking back at the house. Neither Beth or Mrs. Schockley had mentioned Molly's father.
"Where's Mrs. MacGyver?" Beth answered, her voice just above a whisper.
"Touche'," Mac\whispered back.
She motioned for Mac and Sam to sit on the bench on the far side of the table, then she helped her mother step over the bench on her side and take a seat. Beth pulled Molly onto her lap. When everyone was settled, she bowed her head for grace.
They ate like pigs. Beth made homemade biscuits – Southern style. There was also fresh steamed green beans, squash cooked with onions, boiled potatoes, and a huge stack of baked pork chops. There were sliced tomatoes, wedges of cool, sweet onions, jars of pickles, honey, molasses, and three kinds of jam – not to mention a deep dish dried apple custard pie.
As they ate, Mac quizzed Beth on the changes to Mission City. Beth, in turn, asked him about his life, and Sam's.
When the dinner was over, Mac helped Beth carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen. As she filled the sink with hot water and soap, he scraped food scraps into her compost pail, setting aside meat scraps for Maynard-dog at her instruction.
As he stacked the plates for her, he brought up "the question" again, but this time more diplomatically. "Sam's mother and I were never married.” he told her. “She died when he was nine. I didn't even know he existed until a few months ago."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, slowly exhaled. "I'm sorry Sam had to go through that."
"So, where's Molly's dad?" Mac persisted.
She opened her eyes and looked out the kitchen window at the gazebo where Sam playfully chased Molly, Maynard-dog barked at his heels. A cardinal landed on the bird feeder outside the window and scraped seed off onto the ground, then flew away with a sunflower seed in his beak. "Desert Storm," she answered quietly. "The first wave. Steve's plane went down over Kuwait." She brushed wisps of hair away from her face with her wrist, trying to keep the soapy water out of her eyes. "Molly was born a month later."
Mac laid a hand on her shoulder and she jumped back, startled. He pulled his hand away. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
She nodded., then pointed at the dish she just washed. “You dry.”
"We bought this place six years ago. It was our dream,” she explained. “When he got out... We planned to make it self-sustaining. Live off the land. Reduce our carbon footprint and all of that." She glanced over at Mac. "Why are you out here?"
Mac shrugged his shoulders and picked up a drying towel. "Sam never had a real home, with family," Mac said. "I want to give him that. Home, hearth... A place to go to when things go wrong," he added.
Beth nodded and him bluntly, "What is your name?"
His jaw dropped at the unexpected question. "Uh," he stammered. "Most people call me Mac."
"But what is your name?" she persisted.
He sighed and looked around the room, then smiled sheepishly. "It isn't pretty."
Beth locked her blue eyes to his brown. "If you want to give Sam roots, you need to face up to your own. Your parents gave you a name that meant something to them, I'm sure. It is part and parcel of who you are. Yet you throw away what they gave you?"
Mac cocked his head. His brown eyes bored back into hers daring her to react. "Angus. It's Angus - no middle name, just Angus MacGyver."
Beth laughed. He could tell she was trying not to. She even bit her lip, but couldn't stifle the cackle that erupted. She bent over double laughing, then laughed even harder when she looked up into his face. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's not the name. The name is a good name. It's the look on your face - like a defiant child caught doing something naughty!" She reached out and steadied herself by placing her hand on his arm. Her gentle touch sent chills up his spine. He reached into the sink and scooped up a finger full of soap suds and plopped it on her nose. Her eyes were crossed as she looked at the cloud of suds between her eyes. Slowly, she nodded. "Uh-huh," she cooed. "Tell me, who is the adult in your family? You, or Sam?"
"Sam," Mac answered without missing a beat. "Shall we finish the dishes?"
Chapter Four
People don't realize just how much we have in this modern world of ours until they have to do without. The last two days, Sam and I did just that, do without. We lived like pioneers. We boiled drinking water from the creek on the property, used the outhouse. No telephone, no TV, and of course, no air conditioning. Now I can do with out a lot of things, but August in Minnesota can be brutal. That summer was especially hot. The air was dead still and it hadn't rained since we'd been here. Even with all the windows open, I sweated like a pig while I worked. Because mice invaded all of the upholstered furniture, we didn't have beds, just pallets on the floor - camping inside. At night, the sounds of the mice rustling around us kept us awake. I needed to get a cat.
Mac grinned with satisfaction as he watched the water flow cleanly down the kitchen drain, finally. The pump was working, at least for now and he'd drained, then sterilized the well. In a day, or two, when the well had a chance to fill completely and settle, he planned to take a sample to the county Ag department and have the water tested - just to be sure it was safe. At least they could shower and use the toilets. His grin widened as he thought about the way Sam *moooo*ed the last two days about going to the ramshackle outhouse. Mac put the new heating element in the water heater just this morning, so they now had hot water.
He stretched. Things were coming along nicely. He rode into Mission City early that morning and bought a new fridge from Sears. It was due to arrive today; after two they told him, and the phone company was due out sometime in the afternoon as well. While he was in town, he called his old friend Pete Thornton who promised to get a moving crew to his place as soon as possible. With luck, his furniture, and his truck, would arrive in a week or so. A bed would feel good after sleeping on thermarests on the parlor floor; they'd not cleaned the bedrooms yet.
With food, water, shelter, refrigeration and sanitation taken care of, he could turn his thoughts to remodeling the house. He looked around the huge kitchen. A realtor would call it a "country" kitchen - huge. An enormously heavy rectangular cherry table, and eight ladder back chairs sat in he center. It reminded him of the Walton's table. Room enough for John Boy and the gang. Boxes of food from the co-op covered its worn surface.
A worn butcher block counter ran the length of the exterior wall, deep stainless double sinks in the center - cabinets above and below the counter. They were white, he supposed, at least sometime in the past. Now they were a dusty, yellowish sort of color from age. The fridge and stove stood on the right wall. Two out of four of the burners worked, the oven element half worked.
He filled a pail with water and sloshed in a healthy portion of vinegar, grabbed a scrub brush and started to scrub the interior of the cabinets, now stripped of their crumbling old shelf paper.
He heard the front door squeak and a thump from the parlor. "Sam?" he called. "Is that you?" Sam rode into Minneapolis early that morning to pick up applications and to talk to the financial aide people, he shouldn't be back until late. Mac wiped his hands on a towel and strolled into the parlor. Mrs. Shockley, Beth's mother stood in the foyer looking chagrined.
"I knocked, but no one answered," she stuttered. "I was afraid you couldn't hear me."
Mac waved his hand and smiled. "Your right, I didn't hear you. Please, my door is always open to you. Come in." He looked around the dirty, spartan room and added, "Such as it is." Mrs. Shockley was a petite woman, like Beth. Her salt and pepper hair was cut short and "poofed" in that traditional small town beauty shop style Mac remembered his own grandmother wearing. She was well over seventy, he was sure, but she still maintained a shapely and well put together appearance. Her makeup was fresh and subtle. She wore a pink print 'June Cleaver' dress and sensible pumps. She carried a basket covered with a kitchen towel.
Mrs. Shockley looked around the room. "I've never been in here before. It's a beautiful room."
"Thanks," Mac answered. He looked around trying to see the dingy room through her eyes. It looked even dingier.
Mrs. Shockley held the basket in her hand out to Mac. "Beth made these this morning. But the recipe was larger than she expected. We thought you and Sam might like some." She pulled back the towel to reveal a large stack of homemade cinnamon rolls, complete with sugar frosting.
"Wow, that's great, thanks," Mac answered taking the basket.
"Will you show me around the house?" She asked.
"Of course." He took the basket and crooked it on his arm. As they toured the house, Mrs. Shockley politely pointed out the good qualities of the rooms, never mentioning the run down condition. They ended up in the kitchen. Mac filled a stainless tea kettle, one of his few luxury purchases in the last few days, and put it on the aging electric stove to heat. As he worked, Mrs. Shockley studied the kitchen.
"You should have Beth over here. She has a talent for making a house a home. I've never seen anyone who could take so little and make so much of it. I don't know where she got the knack. I always had to hire out to get things done right." She ran her fingers along the butcher block counter. "She can show you how to refinish this counter, she did ours and its beautiful," She looked up at Mac. "Steve was like that, too. A couple of regular do-it-your-selfers."
Mac leaned against the stove and crossed his arms. "Tell me about Beth... and Steve."
"Well, they met in college. When she brought him home the first time to meet us I thought it would never work out between them. Beth always tended toward the unconventional. She's an artist, you know. Steve was gung-ho Air Force. He was in the ROTC." She shook her head. "You should have heard them argue about the military." She laughed. "Not angry argue, but more like debating." She continued. "When they graduated, Beth went to Paris to study for a year and Steve was commissioned into the Air Force. I thought that was the end of it, but," she sighed. "It wasn't. He was stationed in West Berlin, and they somehow managed to get together from time to time."
Mac filled two cups with water and dropped in tea bags while he listened.
"When the year was up and Beth came home, she told me that they were going to get married when he returned. He was gone for three years." She took the cup that Mac offered. "When they finally did get married, they moved into a tiny house outside Wright-Patterson Air Force base - not on base, Beth didn't fit in with the rest of the Air Force wives. Every penny they made went into savings to buy a really nice home place - somewhere they could rear children. But the children didn't come. Beth moved on out here when they bought this place, to start fixing it up. Steve moved onto base, and came out here every chance he got. They loved each other with a passion unlike I've ever seen." She shook her head. “But, infertility does things to a marriage. Beth wouldn't let on, but I think things were strained."
"When she finally got pregnant," she smiled. "Well, you never saw two happier people. They were like newlyweds again. Steve took an extended leave and they threw themselves into getting the house ready for the baby. Then he got called up for Desert Storm." She sipped her tea while Mac munched on a cinnamon roll. "She was alone out here, except for old Harry across the road, when the Air Force chaplain showed up at her door." She continued. "The chaplain told her that Steve was ferrying supplies to the front lines when he was shot down. The plane was incinerated." She sighed and looked out the window.
Mac narrowed his eyes. “I completely forgot about that. Harry was supposed to come for a visit, but he canceled because his neighbor died.”
She nodded. “Harry's the one that called me that night.” She looked up at Mac. “Your grandfather took care of everything – arranging the memorial service, getting the military paper work filled out.” She sighed and shook her head. “Beth still mourns for him.”
So when did you come here to live?”
"Well, there was still a pretty hefty mortgage on their farm. Sixty acres with a home and outbuildings doesn't come cheap. Beth didn't know how she was going to make the payments. I still lived in South Carolina, then - Dacusville, north west of Greenville. My Bill died of a myocardial infarction two years before, so I sold our farm and invested the money in her mortgage. Then I moved out here to help with the baby. It seemed like the right thing to do. My two boys are well off - they share a successful law firm down in Charleston. Besides, a girl is the one to take care of her aging parents. I figure she will earn what I gave her in a few years."
Mac nodded. "You did the right thing, I think. I'm sure you are a comfort to each other."
Mrs. Shockley sipped her tea. "We were strapped for cash for a while, then Beth started the Co-op and that gives her a modest income, and her art work sells well, not to mention what we make from the farm. We get by quite nicely now. We are even rebuilding our savings - for Molly's education".
"Beth started the co-op?" Mac asked surprised. "I thought she just worked there to get the better prices."
"Oh no, that co-op is her other baby," Mrs. Shockley answered. "She fixed it up all by herself. Made those shelves and the front porch herself out of materials she bartered for with portraits of people's kids and dogs. Now, it's the social gathering place around here. When you've been here longer, you'll see. She sponsors classes, art shows, craft fairs, even outdoor movies - you name it. More than that, its been good for the small farmer around here. It's easier and cheaper for truck farmers to sell their produce to her than to get it into the supermarkets. But she had to get the agriculture department to host a lot of classes for them on growing without pesticides before she would take their produce. That's where she is now, inspecting a local farm and testing for chemicals. You know," she added. "You really should join. The prices are much better if you put in time working there."
"Sweat equity?" Mac asked.
"That and the yearly membership fee for a full membership. Associate members can either pay the membership or work, which ever is better for them."
"And she gets a cut of the membership fee?" Mac asked.
"That, a ridiculously small salary, and what she takes in on commission sales. You saw the local canned goods at the shop. Those come from housewives all over the county that want to bring in a little extra money. Beth runs a mail order business for the co-op and sells the canned goods all over the country. She can hardly keep up with the demand. Her own wild blackberry jam is especially popular," she added. "She just bought a computer and is working on getting one of those Internet sites running, but I don't think people will buy things over a computer."
"Beth is an enterprising woman," Mac commented.
"Beth is amazing," she answered. She took another sip of the tea. "What about you? What do you do for a living?"
"Well," he started, paused, sipped his own tea. "I sort of fix things."
"Like toasters?" she asked.
"Yeah, toasters, well pumps, water heaters," he answered. "But I'm unemployed right now. I have some savings, but I need to keep that for Sam's college, so I guess I'll have to find some kind of work."
She nodded, then sat down her cup. "I best be getting home. Beth and Molly will be coming home for lunch pretty soon."
Mac touched her on the arm. "I'm really glad you came by. Please, come anytime."
She smiled. "I'm glad, too. You're a nice man."
He walked her to the door and noticed no car. "How did you get here?" he asked.
"I walked," she answered.
"All that way? It must be a half of a mile," he asked.
"Walking helps me keep my slim, girlish figure," she answered with a grin.
Chapter Five
Later that evening, Mac sat on the front porch and looked out over the yard, and the old garden kitchen spot beyond. The road was barely visible. Beth's house rose majestically on a hill in the distance. It was twilight, and her front porch light came on. He smiled – the traditional country signal. If the light was on, company was welcome. He could just make out her porch swing. Sam wasn't home yet. Without him, the place felt dismally lonesome. He sipped a paper cup full of iced tea. Sam will be pleased, he thought. The new fridge has an ice maker. As night advanced, he got up and wandered back inside. He smiled as he looked down the foyer. The wood floor was scrubbed clean, along with the grandfather clock. All of the cobwebs were gone. He wandered into the parlor - Sam's project. The picture window sparkled, the floor was spotless, although it needed refinishing. A paper cup filled with summer flowers sat on the mantle, Mac's recent addition. In the kitchen, the man hours he spent scrubbing it down showed. The food was put away in the cabinets. The new fridge hummed by the door; the new wall phone hung beside it. More flowers sat on the big table.
He picked up the notepad and pen that he bought at the co-op that first day and sat down. It was time to make some decisions. He needed an income. As he saw it, he had several choices. One, he could call Pete and ask for another assignment. Two, he could get a regular nine to five job. Three, he could take a lesson from Beth Reardon and make his own way. If he let Pete set him up a job, the money would be good, really good, but he'd be away from home, unable to work on the place. If he took a nine to five job, well, that just didn't seem an option, not for him anyway. Mrs. Shockley gave him an idea when she suggested that he fixed toasters. Mission City was fifteen miles away Brainerd, twenty. While he'd seen auto shops, general stores, and tractor repair shops in the farm country around, he hadn't seen any general "fix-it" shops. Harry's old tool shed, attached to the barn would make a good customer service area. The barn offered enough space to work on what ever was too big to fix in the tool shed. Then there was the local community college. Maybe they'd take him on as a part-time instructor in something. There were lots of things he could teach, and he had the degrees to back up his application. He jotted down his ideas.
He glanced at his watch, nine-fifteen. He hoped Sam rolled in soon. Mac smiled and shook his head. "Worried Dad, who would've thought?" he muttered to himself. He thought about the days to come. He'd be alone like this all the time once Sam started school. It was a dismal thought. He was used to having the kid around. He shook his head. So this is what it feels like to have an empty nest. "Three months ago I didn't even know I had a nest," he muttered again.
The phone rang. Mac jumped then checked his watch. Like any parent when his child is away from home, a raw fear that something happened to Sam ran through him as he answered.
"Hello?" She answered in that soft German accent he loved.
"Maria?" He instantly recognized her voice.
"Mac," she answered. "Oh, Mac, I thought I'd never find you again."
“Maria, where are you?” he asked. She'd been on assignment in Brazil when he and Sam left L.A. Since then, whenever he asked Pete for information about her, all he was told was that her assignment was long term.
“I'm home, finally. But you aren't,” she answered.
Mac smiled. “Pete wouldn't tell me where you were, or give me contact information. It's good to hear your voice. Maria, a lot has happened since you left.”
“I know. I went to your home as soon as I got in, but you weren't there. Then Pete told me about Sam. He told me that he is very special, and very much your son,” she answered. “I want to meet him. Oh, Mac, are you coming home soon?”
Mac sighed. Her cool crisp voice, with its soft German accent brought back a flood of memories.
"No, I'm not coming back. I want to make a home for Sam - a real home. Here where I grew up. Maria – its so clean here, wholesome. So... so different from the crime and dirt in L.A. Sam saw too much of what's bad in life. I want him to know what's good." He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
"I understand,” she answered. “Mac? You and I talked about making a commitment before I left. I'd still like to have that conversation."
She caught him off guard.
"Mac?" she asked, as he struggled for the right words. Because of her assignment, they had no contact the entire time she was gone. Then he'd put all of his emotional cards in one basket the last few months – Sam. Am I still ready for that commitment, he wondered?
“Maria. I can't come back to L.A. right now. But I want to see you – a lot.”
“Oh Mac, I want to see you too. My life is so empty here without you.”
"Then say you'll fly out here for a visit. There's an airport in Mission City, not too far from here. I can pick you up," he answered.
"Yes, oh yes. When?"
Mac glanced around the shabby room, thought of the rotting mattresses, the broken front porch. “I have a little work to do on the house, its pretty rough.”
“I don't care about that Mac. I just want to be with you. I need to be with you. I need to feel your arms around me.”
“Ok, look. Give me a week, maybe two to at least get rid of the mice,” he answered laughing. The thought of her soft hands caressing him sent shivers up his spine.
“I'm not afraid of mice,” she answered. He laughed. There was very little of which Maria was afraid.
“Mac? There isn't someone else is there? Because I thought we had something special,”she asked.
Mac twirled the cord in his hands. He thought about Beth – sweet, gentle Beth - still mourning her lost pilot. “No, there's no one else. I can't wait to see you.”
“You don't know how happy I am to hear that,” she answered. "I have to go now. I've only been home two days, and have so much to take care of."
"I'm sure – I remember those long term assignments." he answered.
“Goodbye Mac, sleep well and dream of me,” she cooed. The line went dead on the other end of the phone. He tapped the receiver in his palm for a few seconds before returning it to the cradle. Full of renewed energy, he grabbed the broom and dust pan and sprinted upstairs to the master bedroom.
Sam showed up at 11:49 that night, a six pack of beer stuffed in his backpack along with a stack of paper from the University. Mac was scrubbing the walls in the master bedroom upstairs. Sam popped a beer and leaned on the door jam. "Decided to move up here?" he asked.
"Company's coming," Mac answered. "You know that stuff'll stunt your growth," he added pointing at the beer. “Besides, you're not legal.”
"Hey, no father-son lectures tonight. I've had a long ride, and I'm beat. Who's coming?"
Mac let the matter drop, for now. There would be a better time to fight this battle, he thought. So he answered Sam's question. "Maria Romburg. A friend." He grinned. "A special friend."
"Oh," Sam answered. "Real special?"
"Maybe," Mac answered.
Chapter Six
I have a habit of never really looking at my home until I visualize it through the eyes of a woman. In the broad light of day, I looked around trying to see things the way Maria would see them. I wanted everything to be perfect, but the place was so far from perfect it was laughable. I wish that I could have waited until the place was in better shape for Maria, but the deed was done.
It was time to call in a pro – Beth, according to her mother. Mrs. Shockley told me that no one could make a house a home better than Beth, so I begged her to come over one evening after Molly went to bed – nearly a week after Sam and I moved in. She showed up after dinner with a writing pad, tape measure, and a thermos of coffee.
Beth looked at Mac over the top of her reading glasses. “Tell me what you want, Mac,” she asked him.
Mac scratched his head, then showed her into the kitchen. He poured two mugs of coffee from her air pot, then handed her one. “Cream and sugar?” he offered. She shook her head no. Mac rarely drank coffee, tea was his caffeine of choice. When he took a sip, the unaccustomed rich, dark flavor of Beth's strong brew bit his tongue slightly. The second sip was as smooth as wine. He nodded, “It's good.”
Beth smiled. “Of course its good. It is my one luxury. I order it from Seattle – a company called Starbucks. But then, you're from the big city, you've probably heard of it.”
He offered her a seat at the table, then took one himself across from her. “I have a visitor coming as soon as I can clean this place up some – a special visitor.” He took a deep breath, then another sip of coffee. Beth waited patiently. “Maria and I, well, we had something special once. We talked about about making a life together,” he added as his sat down his cup.
“I see,” Beth answered. “What about Sam?”
He grinned. “She's excited to meet him. But, if his application is approved, Sam will start school in the Fall semester, Spring at the latest. He'll only be around during holidays or on some weekends. I'm looking at an empty nest,” He looked into her blue eyes, then chewed his lip. “It would be good to share that with someone.”
Beth blushed and looked at her hands. A wide grin spread across her face. She glanced back up at Mac, then giggled. “What is it?” he asked.
She waved her hand, “You don't want to know.”
“Yeah, I do,” he answered.
She wiped her hand across her face, as if to wipe off the smile, was unsuccessful, then nodded. “Well, I thought,” she blushed again. “I thought Sam wasn't really your son, but your special friend.”
Mac's jaw dropped. Beth broke into a full laugh. He was shocked. “ME? Me and SAM?” He couldn't ever remember being accused of being gay.
Beth looked embarrassed, but continued to chuckle. “What did you expect? All of Mission City is buzzing with the news of the return of MacGyver. But instead of contacting any of your old friends, you hide out here all alone with a VERY handsome young man. A young man that you have not even taken into to town for a burger.”
Mac sat back in his chair. “People are talking about us?”
Beth shrugged. “You are how old? Forty-two according to Chuck at the hardware. You've never been married. Then suddenly you show up with a barely legal, cute young thing?”
Mac shook his head, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Well I'll be damned.” He chuckled. “Maria will put any of that talk to rest. She's drop dead gorgeous.”
“Tell me about her.” Beth answered.
He talked about Maria for about thirty minutes with Beth occasionally interrupting him to ask a question. Finally, Beth stopped him. “Enough. I think I get the picture.” She opened her legal pad and uncapped her pen. “What I'm hearing is that you need this place to look good enough to entice her to stay.”
“Yeah, that's about it,” he answered.
“Okay,” she started. “You've done a pretty good job scrubbing down the interior. Paint is the next step. You say your furniture is coming. That means you can throw out the mouse infested upholstery?”
Mac thought about his possessions. Everything he owned fit into a two room houseboat. “I never needed much – just a place to eat, to sleep, and to fiddle with things, so there isn't much.”
“Fiddle?” she asked.
“Yeah, electronics, gadgets, Popular Science sort of stuff,” he answered.
She nodded. “Traditional bachelor pad type of furniture?”
He shoved his empty coffee cup to the side. “Yeah.”
Beth scribbled on the notepad. “The best thing you can do is make her feel safe and comfortable here. That means the mice have to go.” She looked up at him. “Now, lets take a walk through.”
Mac nodded, and led her through the house. Downstairs featured the front parlor that opened to the dining room. Between the kitchen and dining room was a narrow butler's pantry. At the back of the kitchen was an added mud room/storage room. Across from the kitchen was a family room. Across the hall from the parlor was a small keeping room, behind the curved staircase. Down the hall, between the keeping room and the family room was a large bath.
Upstairs, another small keeping room backed the curved staircase. Across the hall was the master bedroom with an attached sitting room behind it. The bath was off the hall, across from the master sitting room. Two bedrooms flanked the back, one large and one small. Sam picked the smaller back bedroom for his own. Music from a tape player blared into the hall as they neared . “Just wait.” Mac said. “Your time will come.” Beth smiled. As they surveyed the rooms, Beth made notes and drew diagrams.
They entered the master bedroom. It was clean, but virtually empty except for Harry's old maple cannon ball bed and a worn dresser. The old mouse infested mattress and springs was outside, ready for the dump when he got hold of a truck. A 19-inch TV, with rabbit ears sat on the dresser. Mac's sleeping bag and thermarest sat in the center of the room under the old ornate ceiling fan. His backpack was casually tossed in a corner. Beth looked at him. “Where do you plan for Maria to sleep?”
Mac glanced at her, pursed his lip, then looked away. “Well I...”
“Hmm, that's what I thought,” she answered. She touched his arm. “If you really want to make her feel special, fix a room for her – separate from you.” She shrugged. “If things get personal, so much the better, but at least give her the choice.” Mac nodded.
“This room for Maria while she visits,” she added while they stood in the master bedroom. “It should be yours when she is not here.” He nodded in agreement. “What kind of bedroom suite do you have?” She wrote everything down as he described his meager possessions. When he finished she tucked her pen behind her ear. “This is the big question. What kind of budget do you have?”
Mac sighed and leaned on the door frame. “I don't want Sam to know, but it is kind of tight. I don't want to touch my savings – Sam needs that for tuition.”
“I understand. But you need to give me a figure,” she pushed.
Mac scratched his chin, took a deep breath then slowly blew it out. Can you do anything with five hundred dollars?”
Beth smiled. “We can perform miracles with five hundred. Ready for another cup of coffee?”
They slipped back to the kitchen. Beth pumped fresh cups of hot coffee from her air pot while Mac watched her. She was so fragile looking, but he was learning that she was anything but that. If not for Maria... He let the thought drop. She handed him a full paper cup and slipped onto the chair beside him. He smelled a faint aroma of vanilla coming from her ever present braid.
Beth flipped through the pages of notes until she found a fresh sheet. “Mom says you fix mechanical things for a living, but how are you with carpentry?” she asked.
Mac shrugged. “I worked on a construction crew one summer in college.”
She nodded. “Do you think you can fix the front porch?”
Mac considered the warped boards and the broken pillar. “I think so, but I don't have tools with me.”
“Tools aren't a problem. You can find everything you need in Steve's tool shed beside the barn. Just get Mom to unlock it for you. “I'll leave you my pick up tomorrow so you can get lumber. An, while you're in town get two large buckets of exterior latex paint. I suggest white for now. Also get two large buckets of interior latex paint – again pure white. You're going to need brushes and rollers, with extenders for you and Sam.”
“We're going to paint?” Mac asked surprised. “I thought the repair came first.”
Beth smiled. “Usually it does, but in this case, time is a factor. Paint covers a multitude of sins. If you use white paint, it gives you a good base coat for later when you figure out your color scheme.”
He nodded. What she said made sense. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how they would get everything painted in time. Mac shook his head.
Beth smiled up at him again, then reached out and patted his hand. “You can do this, Mac,” she whispered. A warm tingle flowed from her hand to his then up his arm. “Trust me,” she added.
Mac smiled over at her as he curled his fingers around hers. “Well, I don't know. You think I'm gay.” He leaned toward her and gave her his best seductive look, just for fun. She jerked her hand away and shifted away from him on the bench, then busily stacked all of her papers. Her hands shook and she looked panicked. Mac shook his head, he'd only flirted in jest – hadn't meant to frighten her. “I'm sorry, it was a bad joke.”
Beth closed her eyes and nodded. “I need to get home.”
Chapter Seven
Now, I can do just about anything I need to do with all things mechanical, and many that are chemical, but when I stared at that leaning porch and those warped porch floor boards, I got kind of a queasy stomach. When I was twelve, my friends and I built a tree house out back of my house. We had great plans for it – camp outs, make out trysts with local girls, but the old boards couldn't support our weight. I crashed through. My left arm wedged between two stout branches as I fell, and my forearm snapped. It was a clean break and healed the way boys' bones do. The experience, however, added one more reason for me to not like being off the ground very much. It was also the reason that I didn't really trust my carpentry skills.
As Mac finished jotting down his materials list, Sam came out, barefoot and yawning, a cup of tea in his hand.
“Morning,” Sam mumbled.
Mac folded his list and stuck it into his back pocket. “I'm going into town this morning to get supplies to fix the porch. What do you say' to me buying you breakfast?” he asked his son.
“Bacon and eggs? Smothered and covered?” Sam asked.
“They're your arteries,” Mac answered as he checked the cash in his wallet.
Half an hour later, they cruised toward Mission City in Beth Reardon's old '82 Chevy pickup. Sam nodded drowsily while Mac pointed out points of interest.
They strolled into North's Cafe' the local breakfast hangout. One side was a “quick shop” where you picked up over priced milk, sodas, beer, and a mismatched assortment of other items. The other side housed the cafe'. A sales counter stood between the two. From the cafe' side, someone called out his name and Mac smiled. Chuck and Neil, two of his best friends from childhood sat at a worn booth. Chuck was a local police officer. Neil ran the gun dealership. It was great to see the guys, so Sam and Mac stayed in the cafe' longer than they planned, talking over old times. Tom and Chuck diligently related every embarrassing childhood incident Mac ever had to Sam. They also received two invites for dinner – Wednesday night spaghetti at Tom's, and best of all, Monday night football night at Chuck's when the Vikings kicked off for the season. It was great to be with old friends, but after an hour, Chuck and Tom both left for work.
Mac and Sam drove to the lumber yard, then to the hardware. They finished the morning at the library getting library cards and stocking up on books for the week – mysteries for Sam, how-to's for Mac.
Back home, the real work began. With Beth's power tools to help, it didn't take long for them to “get into the zone.” To his surprise, Mac discovered that Sam knew much more about lumber construction than he did, so he let his son take the lead.
Under Sam's direction, they wedged a 4X4 beside the broken pillar to support the roof, then carefully removed the old pillar. Sam opened the break in the pillar, drilled holes into each end of the break and hammered in glue soaked dowels. Then he coated the break with more glue, clamped it, and set it in the sun to dry. “You can sand that down when it dries,” he told Mac.
“How did you learn so much about carpentry?” Mac asked as he watched his son.
“I had to make my way somehow,” Sam answered as he measured lengths of wood for the porch floor.
Mac winced. Sam claimed he didn't hold Mac culpable for his childhood, but he still felt guilty that he'd not been there to support his son.
Sam straightened to unkink his back, then glanced at Mac. “One of Mom's friends owned a construction company – houses mostly. “I started working there as a gopher when I was ten. By the time I graduated, I was a carpenter's apprentice.
“I'm impressed,” Mac answered.
Around seven that night, the new porch floor was laid and the repaired pillar was back in place. New railings would have to wait for tomorrow, as well as new steps.
Mac watched while Sam stomped around on the porch to check for squeaks. At the sound of tires on gravel, he turned to watch Beth and Molly rattle up the drive in an old red Toyota Corolla. She stopped in front of the porch. While she unbuckled Molly, Mac grinned at Beth's appearance. She looked like an Indian princess with her hair braided into two plaits. She wore an embroidered gauze “hippy” blouse. The outside seams of her tight jeans sported embroidered vine and flowers from the hem to the waist. A pair of bright pink flip-flops covered her feet. The whole effect reminded him of a sixties flower child. Although she was well into her thirties, she wore it well.
“Hi guys,” she called out as she tucked Molly onto one hip. She studied the new porch floor. “Good job,” she added with a nod.
She looked at Mac. “Did you get the paint?” He nodded.
“Good. Tomorrow we paint. I've arranged a few folks to help out,” she answered. They'll be here at seven in the morning, so be up and ready to go,” she said.
Mac and Sam glanced at each other. “How many people?” he asked.
Beth shrugged. “How ever many show up,” she answered. “Ya'll gotta trust me,” she added, exaggerating her southern accent. “And... do me a favor,” she added.
“Sure,” Mac answered. “Whatever you need.”
Beth grinned and plopped the two year old into his arms. She went back to the Toyota and pulled out a huge pink flowered bag and handed it to Sam. “Diaper bag,” she explained. “I have some running around to do, about an hour, maybe a little more. I'd rather not drag Molly along with me this late, and Mom's busy. Molly's already had dinner, but there are some wheat crackers in the bag, as well as a juice bottle if she gets hungry.
Mac looked at the squirming toddler in his arms, then at Sam. “Uh,” he stammered.
Beth grinned. “Just play with her, change her when she gets wet. If she gets sleepy, tuck her in her blankie on the floor. It's in the bag. But don't let her out of your sight for even a second. She's in the 'eat everything' phase,” she told him. “I'll leave the Toyota here with the car seat if anything happens.” She patted the child on the head, then gave her a kiss. “Be good for Mr. MacGyver, Molly.” Then she was gone, rumbling down the drive in her old pickup.
Mac looked at the child, then at Sam. “Uh, yeah,” Sam stuttered. He sat t
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