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half-thawed bag of spinach to her eye. Her desk, a rummage-sale reject, was piled with files: a pile of animal-client files, a pile of files of past customers for animal talent, a pile of sale coupons for dog and cat food, and a pile of bills.
    Even though it was Saturday, she had every intention of sorting through the entire depressing mess. If Glendenning wasn’t going to use Darwin for the Van Bryant ads, she was going to have to redouble her efforts to find work for her otherclients, or she was going to find herself in financial hot water.
    Kelsie had faith in her business. She knew there was a market for animal talent, not only in advertising, but for live appearances as well. What Monkey Business needed was more exposure. But exposure meant advertising, and advertising meant spending money, big money. It was one of the frustrating catch-22s of operating a small business: She could make more money if she advertised more, but she couldn’t afford to advertise until she made more money.
    She groaned in frustration, squeezing the mushy spinach into a better position against her swollen cheek and eye as she listened to a load of clothes tumble in the drier in the corner behind her. She stared at the little cartoon pinned to the corkboard on the wall above her desk. A chubby little cat proclaimed nothing would happen today that couldn’t be cured with a large dose of chocolate. At that moment she’d have given anything for a big, thick square of pure, unadulterated fudge.
    Cheevers bounded onto her desk and curled upto sleep on the stack of bills, ignoring Kelsie with the supreme arrogance of a cat. Kelsie regarded him through her good eye. If she could get Cheevers another ad for Seafood Sam’s, she would make enough to buy a couple of spots on the radio for the upcoming holiday party season. She would have to check into it Monday.
    Jeffrey came down the cellar steps in his pajama bottoms and a rumpled Twins World Series sweatshirt, rubbing his eyes, his thick blond hair standing on end. Without a word he shuffled to his mother’s desk and leaned against her.
    Kelsie hugged him with one arm. “Morning, buster.”
    “Mmm. How come you’re holding that green slime on your eye?”
    “It’s spinach. We didn’t have any cheese curds.”
    “Huh?” He laid his cheek atop her head.
    “I had a little accident last night and hurt my eye. Nothing major.”
    “Did somebody clobber you?” he asked with more enthusiasm than concern.
    Kelsie pushed her chair back from the desk. “Let’s go make some waffles.”
    When it came to diverting her son’s attention, food was infallible. Jack had been the same. Jeff was like his father in so many ways, it was almost frightening. At nine years old he was already showing signs of having Jack’s sturdy frame and unmanageable hair. Kelsie said a little prayer daily that the similarity would end there.
    The doorbell rang as they reached the kitchen. Kelsie sent her son to see if his sister was awake and went to the door herself, expecting to see the paper boy waiting for his payment. But when she swung the door open, still holding the bag of spinach to her eye, instead of finding the freckle-faced boy, she found a full-grown man.
    “Alec!” she said with a gasp, her heart slamming against her ribs.
    Alec took deadly aim and hit her right between the eyes with the most devastating smile he could conjure up. “Morning, Kelsie,” he said in his best morning-after voice, even though there hadn’t been much of a night before. Leaning negligentlyagainst the doorframe, he handed her her morning paper.
    “Aren’t you a little old for a paper route?” she asked, not able to think of anything more intelligent to say. It was a wonder she could think at all with Alec McKnight standing on her doorstep in a black sweatshirt and jewel-blue sweat pants, his hair comfortably mussed, his lean cheeks flushed from the chill of the morning.
    “Just helping out,” he said. “I happened to be