Made to Order Family. Ruth Herne Logan

rethink your choices.”

      The lower lip thrust out, a sure signal of Hurricane Skeeter making landfall.

      She ballyhooed at the top of her voice, shouting the injustice of Brooks, her mother, Liv and life in general.

      Liv glared.

      Rita prayed.

      Skeeter yelled.

      “The police station’s right across the street.” Brooks reentered the room looking partly annoyed and partly helpless, an unusual combination. “Cade showed me where he hangs the keys to the empty cells. She’d be safe and we could eat in peace.”

      Tempting offer but… “I’ll take her home.”

      Brooks moved forward, ignoring Skeeter, which wasn’t easy considering her volume. “That’s not fair to you and Liv.”

      “Well, life isn’t always fair, Brooks.” Rita knew that firsthand, didn’t she? Hadn’t she tried everything under the sun to keep Tom happy? In the end, it wasn’t enough. In retrospect, she knew nothing would have been enough to appease Tom’s hunger for power, greed for money and prominence. Oh, he’d played the part well, a showman all the way, his weekly presence at church service a sham that covered the heart of a cheat and embezzler.

      Outwardly he shone like a gleaming jewel, a salesman to the max.

      And she’d been fooled, like all the rest, at least to a certain degree. That was almost as embarrassing as it was shameful. Some suspected she’d been part of his schemes, his deceit.

      Nope. Just clueless. A part of her thought that might be even worse than being complicit. At least complicity indicated intelligence.

      “I’ll drop her off, get her settled and come back for Liv.”

      “I can bring Liv home.”

      Brooks looked less than pleased by her plan. Oh, well.

      “Thanks, but no. I’ll come back. My kid, my job.”

      Brooks looked about to argue the point, then didn’t. He stepped back, shot Skeeter a look that indicated a preference for strong-arm tactics mixed with relief that Rita was handling her, then shrugged. “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

      “Right.”

      Her stomach growled, the scent of hot pizza a reminder of a hectic day and a long time since her last meal.

      Skeeter flounced through the door, stomped her way to the car and shoved her way through Liv’s supplies to climb into the backseat.

      She was a brat, plain and simple.

      God, help me. I’m in over my head with this one, and she’s adept at picking the world’s worst places for her tantrums and tirades. Show me what to do, how to handle her. Help me be strong when a really big part of me just wants her to be quiet. And nice.

      Change the things you can…

      Her catchphrase of the day, the month, the year.

      Skeeter was her responsibility, her job, her child. It was up to Rita to fix the problem, one way or another.

      As she passed the small Grasse Bend police station, Brooks’ words came to mind. Hmm, jail cells for seven-year-olds?

      Definite potential if she didn’t get this obnoxious behavior under control, the sooner the better.