Previously…

‘Hello, sweetheart,’ I said going over to her bed and giving her a kiss.

‘Hi you; seen baby yet?’

‘Yes, she’s wonderful.’

‘We’ll have to think of a name soon. I hope she and Heather get on.’

‘Well you know what they say about sisters?’

‘Mmm, maybe they’ll buck the trend. Why are you wearing a rather fetching looking plaster on your arm?’

‘Oh, I just hurt it.’

Recollection dawned on her face.

‘I did it?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Oh My God, I am sorry how bad is it?’

‘Three bones broken in my hand. I should live if I rest, have thin soup for a week followed by an extensive holiday to which you and the girls are invited. The doctors have hopes for a full recovery.’

‘Blimey, I didn’t know I was that strong. Still, at least you felt the pain of childbirth.’

We stared at each other for a moment and then dissolved into fits of helpless laughter.

And now the story concludes…

3 months later…

The alarm went off–no it wasn’t a clock type alarm, it was a baby one.

‘Your turn,’ said Abby sleepily, turning over and then almost immediately snoring as only she can–loudly.

I sighed, picked one of the random cats off my tummy–Josh I think it was, but that early, I couldn’t care less–and got up, slipping on my robe and then going into the baby’s room. Heather was fast asleep, her mouth slightly open and looking as sweet as our little girl could be. That couldn’t be said for relatively new baby girl, who was testing her lungs for England.

I looked in vain for the volume control, wondering vaguely why God didn’t incorporate one when he or she had the chance to do so. Baby looked up at me and the noise switched from full blown thousand decibel, ear crunching screaming to happy gurgle at the sight of one of her mummies.

I wondered why Heather hadn’t woken up because she could hear a fly fart at sixteen paces, but she hadn’t, so for once the noise had been mono instead of stereo.

Baby was soaking wet, so with practiced ease, I changed her bum and took her into the kitchen. It was warm even this early in the morning. I loved the summer and it looked like this one was going to be another scorcher. After placing her carefully in her travel cot, it was handy for this sort of thing, I warmed up her milk and sort of zoned out for a few moments. it was only the ping of the milk warmer thingie that brought me back to life again and with the now warmed milk, I picked our little honey bunch up and sat in the rocking chair over by the window and fed her out of the bottle.

I liked this time, it was early and the day held promise, not like P.P.–pre Penmarris–where my life was full of unhappiness as I struggled with a marriage that was going nowhere.

Now I had a partner who I loved dearly and two children who were adorable. This little one’s day was to be special as it was the day of her christening. Heather had been christened some time ago and that was a lovely occasion and all our friends had come to the church and she hadn’t cried once.

Now it was Baby’s turn and I looked forward to dressing her up in Abby’s christening gown, well it was her grandmothers really–white, full of frills and lace and maybe a bit big for Baby, but tradition is tradition and I am all for that.

Baby wouldn’t be the only one to dress up today. Heather had a lovely pink flowery dress that made her look a bit older than she was, but she looked cute in it and we had almost worn out our digital camera, taking pics of her in it. Abby and I had new frocks, mine a peach colour and hers lemon. In my honest opinion, I thought as a family we scrubbed up rather well!

As Baby slurped on her milk I thought back on a few things that had happened in that already eventful year. First the unpleasant stuff. Victoria Manning had tried to spoil things for us all. She hated me and could not forgive me for her son’s death or Olivia’s for that matter. The fact that I had nothing to do with either was neither here nor there. She was fixated on me. She hated the idea that I inherited everything despite what had happened in the family.

After brandishing a knife in my gallery, she was arrested and then, because of her mental state, sectioned under the Mental Health Act.

She was now in a secure private hospital being treated for her problems. I would never tell her that I was paying for the treatment though. The doctors say that she was getting better but it was early days yet. Time would tell if she finally gets over her demons.

We were so lucky with Baby, although she was premature; she gained weight rapidly and was soon off the ventilator and thriving on her own. Although small for a three month old, Marcia, our doctor was happy with Baby and thinks that at the rate she was going, she would soon catch up and be the normal size for her age or close to it, anyway.

Everybody has been going mad over what name we were to call Baby and although it’s written in black and white on the birth certificate, we haven’t let on yet. There is a sweepstake over it, the proceeds to go to charity. I suppose an enterprising person might go to the Registry Office to look up her name, but up to the present, no one had.

Heather now walks a few steps but still prefers tearing around on all fours or her bottom, depending on how she feels at the time. We get the occasion ‘mama’ out of her too and she seems to understand the word chocolate very well. All in all we are a very happy family and I couldn’t wish for more.

On the work front, Abby has had to take on more staff and she has just bought a lock up behind the village to store the extra pots and things her and her staff produce for her due to the ever increasing orders from shops that appreciate fine work.

My gallery–now in its second year–was a roaring success and we sometimes struggled to get enough art to fill the place. I quickly sold out of my paintings and tried to keep things going by casting an ever wider net for works of art to hang. I did wish that I had more time to paint, but with two little ones, my other successful businesses and charity work; it was hard going that year.

Nigel’s businesses were going very well, despite the downturn in the economy. I had now incorporated all my business ventures apart from the gallery under an umbrella group. I was chairperson and I had a CEO to deal with all day to day matters. She was Ruth Edwards, a thirty something who had been the manager of one of Nigel’s many businesses and had shone through despite Nigel and not because of him. We got on well and had regular meetings to iron things out and to be honest, just have a girlie natter.

The upshot of all this was that I was getting richer and richer without having to do too much. I funnelled a lot of the money to charities as I felt the need for Nigel’s money to be used for the benefit of others, it was strange though as the businesses were in a lot healthier state now than they ever were under Nigel and worth a lot more. I must have been doing something right!

Dotty was in charge of the charity side of things and she loved the cut and thrust of dealing with what she snobbishly called her social inferiors–the lady mayor being the prime focus for any angst that she had. We managed to get the planning permission and change of use for the children’s home and refuge that was now being changed from a small mansion to a purpose built home that could be used for deprived, battered and abused children. There were objections from you-know-who, but Jenkins– Mummy Dotty’s butler of all people– had somehow found certain facts about Ms Prendergast that were used to, shall we say, persuade her to let things go through.

I never found out what those things were, but after that, the position got a bit easier with the council and one counsellor in particular!

I put the bottle down and managed to get a satisfactory although rather milky burp out of the now almost comatose Baby. I placed her carefully back into her cot and made my way back to bed.

Abby was toasty warm and I snuggled up to her. She woke up and one thing led to another and we… well never mind that. Needless to say, the earth moved–again!

After our bedroom gymnastics, we awoke at seven and by some small miracle the girls were still in dreamland.

After a rather intimate shower where we attempted to save water by erm, doing it together, we started getting ready for the day ahead.

Sitting at the breakfast bar eating our Shreddies, we looked forward to the rather hectic day ahead.

‘I hope it all goes well,’ I said.

‘It will, don’t be a worry wart.’

‘Me worry, you were the one gnashing her teeth over what dress to wear yesterday. I had to physically restrain you when you wanted to rush off to London for a dress. I ask you, hundreds of miles, just for a dress.’

‘I would have used the helicopter.’

‘Ever heard of the carbon footprint and anyway, you know that the chopper has been seconded to the ambulance air rescue people.’

Evidently, Nigel apart from owning huge boat also liked other toys, one of them being a helicopter. Another one was a steam train but I’m not going there. Anyway, we used the chopper very occasionally and once used it to go up to London. Dotty wanted to pop into Harrods and we all went along for the ride, other than that, it has been useful to the rescue people–that was another thing that Nigel never thought about when he was alive; selfish, self-centred man was our Nige.

Regarding the plastic tub; The Penmarris Surprise, she was sailing or is that motoring around, the Med with twenty kids who have never seen the sea before and are more used to living in what the council calls a modern functional housing estate in one of the nearby towns but what I call a slum. Whoever thought that those sixties high rise flats were a good idea, ought to have lived in one.

On another nautical note, The Penmarris RNLI station is being rebuilt and they are getting a brand new state of the art boat to put in it–all thanks to a mysterious benefactor. I have nearly finished the painting I promised too, so that will be hung up somewhere; in the loo, probably–no it’s too good for that, maybe the canteen where they can throw darts at it.

Still with me? Good, then back to the story.

‘Anyway, Abby, your dress is lovely.’

‘I’ve worn it before.’

‘Just the once and nobody else around here has seen it.’

‘Still, it’s the principal of the thing–’

‘Look, it isn’t our day, it’s Baby’s. People won’t be looking at us, they’ll be oohing and aahing at our little darling and maybe Heather who will be truly scrumptious in her dress.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Anyway, what time is the kick off?’

‘Mid-day and then to Dotty’s for the nosh up.’

‘Mmm, Jenkins was over the other day, did you see him?

‘Yes, poor man looked a bit flustered.’

‘Well, Mrs MacTavish the cook had given him instructions about getting some bits and pieces needed for the post christening bash and he seemed a bit out of his depth.’

‘Mmm, it’s a pity that Mrs MacT is agoraphobic, it stops her from personally inspecting the food that can’t be delivered.’

‘Mind you, what a cook!’

‘True.’

Just then, foghorn Annie in the shape of Baby started screaming and Heather decided to join in.

Peace was shattered and another noisy yet interesting day commenced.

The church looked lovely, with flowers everywhere, the heady fragrance reminding me that the days of winter were now long gone and Penmarris looked its best.

The village was full of holidaymaker’s and the whole place just had an exciting buzz about it. Not so in the church; it was cool and quiet and a haven of peace and tranquillity–well it would have been if it wasn’t for the fact that the place was full to the brim with friends and relatives and a not insignificant amount of babies and children who were trying their hardest to outdo themselves in the noise stakes.

Just about anyone who was anyone was there including the whole of the Potts clan, who took up two full rows of pews, but to a man and woman looked uncomfortable in their Sunday best.

Mr and Mrs Pearson were there, looking unusually prim and proper in clothes that rarely saw the light of day.

There was smell of mothballs in the air that mixed strangely with the scent of the flowers. I was glad that I had taken some hay fever tablets as I think I would have swooned otherwise.

There was a gaggle of teenagers to one side, all giggling and texting as they talked incessantly. Amongst them were Tracy with her girl friend Tammy, Bethany, Jennifer and Phillipa.

Brian and Marcia Sinclair, our doctors were also there together with my one time enemy and now friend Candice.

There were so many other friends present and it brought home to me how many people had touched our lives in a good and positive way.

At the front were the proud parents–that’s Abby and I. Jocaster was by our side holding Heather in her arms and trying to shush her at the same time. Last time when Heather was christened, Dawn and Adrian, my sister and brother in law were the God Parents, This time it was Mummy Dotty (I might be ancient but I’ll outlive most of you) and Jocaster who fulfilled that important role. Mummy was standing by Abby wearing a pink creation that clashed a bit with her purple hat, but no one dared to mention her fashion faux pas.

I won’t bore you with the ceremony that went off without a hitch other than the fact that Baby didn’t particularly like getting her head wet, especially with cold water and the screams coming from her tiny throat set just about every other child off crying except Heather, who giggled and thought that the whole thing was a bit of a joke.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the baby was named Gabrielle Dawn Jocaster Silverton-Smart.

After the baptism, there was a general stampede to Dotty’s mansion.

I remembered being there the day before with the kids while Abby was sorting things out in the pottery. I wanted to tell Mummy what colours all the principal guests, that’s me and Abby–or Abby and I if you want to go posh–would be wearing. We didn’t want a clash of colours after all.

As I arrived the previous day in my lovely, wonderful, cool BMW with the kids all strapped up in their seat and cot thingie, I could see Jenkins glide down the steps to greet us.

He opened my door.

‘Good morning Ms Smart.’

‘Sam or Samantha, please.’

‘I would be more comfortable with Ms Smart, miss.’ He replied with a differential smile.

‘Oh, if you insist, now where is she?’

He managed to look embarrassed.

‘Cough up, Mr Jenkins, what has she done now?’

I heard the sound of gunshots in the distance and cocked an ear.

‘Lady Fairbairn has an old friend visiting just at the moment–over from South Africa.’

‘Oh? Do go on.’

‘He has commandeered the Landrover and has taken her on a sort of mole hunting safari. Mr Van der Valk is more used to big game but has a keen eye.’

‘You don’t approve.’

‘It is not for me to say, Miss.’

‘You don’t have to; it’s written all over your face. He would be hard pressed to find any game around here, except perhaps pink elephants.’

‘Very droll, Miss; would you care to have tea in the drawing room?’

‘Only if that includes Mrs Mac’s famous scones.’

‘I will see what can be arranged, Miss.’

The tea and scones with the obligatory jam and clotted cream were, as usual, up to scratch and par excellence.

As I ate, I could hear the occasional sound of light artillery as Mummy and her guest blasted away at the local wildlife. I wondered in passing where Fifi was and she must have had a mental thingie whatsit, dooda as the doggie in question ambled in looking bored. At the sight of me and the girls she did a sort of a sailors jig and then ran at me, showering my face with wet licks.

‘Down, Fifi, what would Mummy say?’

At that, the intelligent mutt stopped mid lick and looked around guiltily. I swear that she had more intelligence than half of our politicians.

I did wonder if Fifi was deaf as she didn’t seem at all phased by the sound of gunfire. She wasn’t a gun dog but maybe, somewhere in her shady past or perhaps one of her ancestors had a gun dog type gene, who knows, anyway she settled down next to me as we awaited the return of her mistress.

As I looked out over the lawn, still looking a bit like the Somme after Dotty’s previous attempts to blow up the mole population, I wondered when she would stop her one woman crusade against our cute little short sighted furry friends. I did know that she was on the RSPCA hit list, but she didn’t exactly lose sleep over it.

Just then something caught the corner of my eye and I saw an open top Land Rover tear across the lawn. Mummy was standing up at the back, shooting off her Purdy at some unseen mole and looking like a sort of mechanised Boadicea on full war alert.

Fifi looked up as the Land Rover, engine screaming, shot off in the direction of Bodmin, with Dotty shooting from the hip, not an easy thing to do with a Purdy.

I swear I could hear her shout ‘Bugger it.’ as she disappeared from sight.

Fifi yawned as if this was nothing unusual and proceeded to lick herself where no lady should.

I stayed for a while longer and as Mummy didn’t reappear, I just left a message with the ever efficient and cool Jenkins and with my tiny tots, made my way home. At least I got a cream tea out of my wasted journey.

And so back to the post christening nosh up as Mummy put succinctly.

It was a highly festive occasion where a good time was had by all. The star of the show–Gabi, did not take too much notice of the proceedings as she was busy in dreamland. Her sister though, fully appreciated the fact that she was at a party and both Abby and I found it difficult to hold her back. She was into everything and had a crawling speed of about ten mph or so it seemed; not bad for one so little.

I was sitting down with Abby for a well earned rest while the more junior members of the mob looked after Heather and Gabi–God help them.

I took off a shoe and rubbed my aching foot.

‘Was it your idea to wear high heels?’ I asked Abby as she downed a Pims in one go.

‘Wow, I don’t know what’s in this stuff, but it reaches the spot–what did you say, oh shoes, well I did tell you not to get them?’

‘But they looked gorgeous in the shop and they felt quite comfortable.’

‘Ah, little one, you have learnt an important lesson about shoes, they can feel great in a shop, wearing them for just a few minutes, but sometimes they can be a bit of a bugger if you wear them for more than ten minutes.’

‘Alright, Miss Knowitall, are your feet hurting?’

‘Of course not.’

‘But your shoes have the same sort of heels as mine.’

‘I know, but I have been wearing heels for years longer than you, so my feet and legs are more used to them.’

‘I read in the Daily Mail the other day that high heels can damage your health.’

‘What, falling bum over tit, you mean?’

‘You are getting very course in your language, Abby, just because you have had a drink or three. No–well there is the possibility of accidents but also your Achilles tendon gets buggered up.’

‘I’m not the only one with potty mouth,’ said Abby as she lurched up and grabbed another drink from a passing waitress.

‘Look, haven’t you had enough?’ I asked primly as I sipped my lemonade.

‘Not yet, I need to wet the baby’s head.’

‘It got wet at the christening.’

‘It’s jus…jus…jusht a shaying.’

‘Oh Abby.’

I couldn’t be angry with Abby for long. She didn’t let her hair down often and as I had, in the past, had my moments with the demon drink, and the saying involving “stones and glasshouses” came to mind, I didn’t push the point. I smiled evilly though as I knew that she would feel rather delicate in the morning and even worse when I put down a full English breakfast for her to eat–making sure that the eggs have that nice runny constituency–while I turned up the CD of Barry Manilow singing “Could It be Magic” to full blast. I’m not a very bad person, am I?

The afternoon stretched into the evening and the kids went off and had a disco in the hay barn while we incredibly old ones had a party of our own. I got to dance with Abby a couple of times; she seemed to get her second wind after her umpteenth drink and the only signs of inebriation was her slightly red nose and the fact that her eyes crossed occasionally.

As usual, a sort of crá¨che was in operation and the mums took turns looking after the little ones in a soundproof bomb shelter under the mansion. Once again, we got off lightly as Abby and I were principal guests.

I had dances with half the male population of Penmarris including Mr Pearson who I think told me that his wife didn’t understand him, but as I couldn’t understand him either, he could have been talking about the prices of turnips.

The Potts clan were well represented at the party and according to old Albert Potts, they had evidently never knowingly missed a good p**s up since great grandfather Arnold lost his virginity to a cow maid and forgot himself.

Mummy Dotty was in her element. She lorded–or should that be Ladied–it over the proceedings like a general on the field of battle. She never allowed anyone’s glass to be unfilled and she had provided enough food to feed a regiment.

‘Goin’ well, young Samantha,’ she said as she came up during a rare lull in the proceedings.

‘Yes, Mummy, thanks for putting it on here, we didn’t really have room at Jellicle Cottage.’

‘That’s all right, m’dear, glad to help and all that nonsense.’

‘So, Mummy, erm, did you bag any moles yesterday?’

Her painted and powdered brow creased into a number of furrows, making it look a bit like a ploughed field.

‘Blasted Van Der Valk, said he was good at shootin’ game. Bloody man couldn’t hit the back of a barn door at ten paces. Had to take over and let him drive. I think I got three of the buggers, but not so sure, they kept poppin’ out of the bloody holes and then disapearin’ for some reason. I still, feel that mines are the answer, but that stupid cow, Prendergast, on the council wouldn’t allow it, some soddin’ by-law or somethin’. What’s the world comin’ to when yer can’t use high explosives on yer own land?’

I smiled at that and then she had a look of intense concentration on her face. I looked over in the direction Mummy was staring at and there she was.

Fifi was on an SAS mission, perhaps emboldened by our last party. She sort of crept along the walls, stopping occasionally like some wild animal and crouched down, her tail twitching, the only sign of movement. Then, when she felt safe again she continued on her covert exercise. People were dancing and talking and did not notice the small form as she slinked–or is that slunk–along, belly almost touching the highly polished parquet flooring.

We both held our breath as she reached one of the long tables, still full of food. She must have known where to go. Perhaps she had done a recce earlier or perhaps her strong sense of smell could discount the jellies, cakes and other delights–she was after meat.

She stopped under the table and then waited, looking around the room, her radar like senses scanning the crowds around her. Someone came up with a plate and filled it quickly. Fifi was completely still, not wanting draw attention to herself, no doubt. The man left and the coast was relatively clear.

She struck.

In the blink of an eye, she came out from under the table, grabbed a ham on the bone and then shot out of the nearest door. It was so fast, that she was like a streak of lightning.

I felt like applauding. Then I turned to Mummy, expecting a number of expletives. Instead she was smiling.

‘That’s my girl.’ she said.

As the evening drew to a close, we said our goodbyes to all our friends and family, thanking Mummy for a wonderful evening and David and Jocaster for the service and all the help and support that they had given us. Then we took our sleeping girls back home.

As we walked back, the sky was full of multi coloured fireworks put on by the local Rotary Club. They did this in the summer on a regular basis for the holidaymakers and they were getting a reputation for such a good show that it drew more and more crowds down on to the beaches when a display was to take place. There were three old barges, moored a quarter of a mile off the coast that were used for the display and everyone with a view of the sea had a grandstand view of the wonderful Technicolor display.

We were both too tired to go anywhere but home though; but it was nice to see the fireworks light up the sky as we walked up the hill to our lovely quaint Jellicle Cottage and all the cats that awaited our return with varying amounts of anticipation and gluttonous thoughts.

We soon arrived home and managed to put the girls to bed, feed the cats, grab some hot cocoa and sit out on the veranda as the last of the fireworks shot up into the moonlit sky.

The moon shone on the water and gave the cove and surrounding hills an eerie and yet reassuring glow. Almost automatically and without really noticing it, a cat jumped up and sat on my lap. It was Suzie, she was looking for cuddles and attention that she thought was her right to have. I didn’t argue but just stroked her gently. I noticed in passing that Eric, our argumentative and know it all big tom cat was on Abby’s lap, but purring loudly, so he had nothing to complain about; mind you, it didn’t stop him from meowing for attention every few minutes.

‘Happy?’ asked Abby.

‘Mmm, you?’

‘Very.’

We talked for quite a while about how things went that day and our plans for the future.

Since little Gabi had been born, we had put some things on the back burner. It didn’t help that she popped out rather early!

Sipping my cocoa, I brought up a subject that had increasingly come to mind.

‘I want to have my surgery as soon as possible; I’ve been a good girl and it’s been a year now. I mentioned all this to Marcia and she thinks that I’m ready now; the shrink thinks so too.’

I had been seeing a trick cyclist for some time now and she had dealt with any minor issues that I had regarding completing the physical changes to a girl–like the blood, pain, suffering and torture that I would go though, just to put right the problems with my plumbing and also the acceptance or non-acceptance by others of the official change of gender. Marcia had already told me all of this, but Sharon Gold, the shrink, put it all into perspective and made sure that I wasn’t going to turn round afterwards and ask for my manhood or money back.

It helped a lot that everyone around here knew me as Samantha and not some hunking, hairy brute.

Abby looked at me and smiled while stroking the purry engine on her lap.

‘It will be nice when you are complete. I know that it’s been a problem for you. You do know that I love you, no matter what happens?’

‘Despite my faults.’

‘You mean the fact that you leave the top off the toothpaste, don’t tidy up after you, take twice as long as I do in the bathroom of a morning; you can’t cook for toffee, have no patience with me when I go and buy another pair of shoes when you know that a hundred pairs are just not enough?’

‘Is that all?’ I asked.

‘I have a list, do you want me to go and get it?’

‘Don’t bother, I get the picture. I don’t know why you put up with me.’

‘That’s easy, despite your faults, you are lovely, kind, compassionate, love cats and babies, are generous to a fault and not a little bit scatty sometimes. I love you for who you are, my love, so don’t change too much.’

‘I’ll try not to, so you agree that I should make my outie into an innie?

‘Of course, what have I just been saying?’

I sighed. I had so much to learn and so little time.

‘What about the wedding?’ I asked.

‘What about it?’

‘We said that we wanted to get married as soon as pos, but I have a hankering to have two brides maids and they are both too small, are you willing to wait a while?’

‘And live in evil sin with you?’

‘Mmm, that’s the idea.’

‘Sounds good to me. I think that they would love to be part of their mummies wedding. We won’t wait until they are teenagers though–too much angst and they will be well into sibling rivalry by then.’

‘Fair enough, that’s a deal. So shall we go to bed and see what heights of ecstasy we can attain?’

‘Will that involve chocolate sauce and the loofah?’

‘I think so, don’t you?’

Nearly 4000 miles away, in Chicago, three men sat around a table in a luxurious room at The Trump International Hotel. The air conditioning had a hard time coping with the strong cigar smoke. They drank their Jack Daniel’s and looked through some papers.

The three men were in expensive business suits and had the look of people who did not always go to church on Sundays and if they did, it was to confess their many sins, including murder, extortion and other illegal and dubious pastimes.

‘What do you think, Lou?’ asked one, slightly differentially to the man sitting opposite.

‘So, she’s got all of Nigel Manning’s stuff?’

‘That’s right, every last cent.’

‘Including the boat and the chopper?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think that we need to liberate her from these things, after all, Manning was the one who double crossed us and she has items that are ours by right.’

‘It could be difficult.’

‘In what way? We’ve had problems like this before, Phil. We lean on her and her family, she’ll crack and if she doesn’t she’ll face the consequences.’

‘Which are?’

‘The usual end contract.’

‘How much?’

‘One hundred K.’

Lou turned to the third man who up to that moment had said nothing.

‘Angelo, are the terms acceptable?’

Angelo’s ice blue cold eyes looked at Lou for a long second. He shifted in his seat, the glint of a gun in its holster under his arm becoming visible for a moment.

‘One hundred K now, and another hundred K on completion of the contract.’

His voice was quiet, well modulated and lacked any warmth or inflection.

Lou looked at Phil and then back to Angelo.

‘Make it so––’

To be continued in Book 3? It's up to you.

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines, pulling the story into shape.