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eyes.
    â€œSometimes,” Morgan agreed, “but the biggest problem seems to be the attention-deficit syndrome. That gets them into trouble in school and adds to their disadvantages.”
    â€œSo, prospective parents, knowing about the drugs, don’t want these babies?” Everett brushed the hair aside again.
    Morgan nodded. “Sadly, yes.”
    Hunter spoke up. “I can identify with that. It’s hard enough being a parent without taking on more problems. But what happens to these kids if nobody takes them?”
    Ivy felt sorry for Morgan, who as director had to make the hard decisions about these children. A fierce surge of maternal concern flooded her body, causing her to cross her arms over her waist in a protective gesture.
    Morgan shrugged. “The usual. Foster homes under the overworked guidance of the city social services unit—out on the street and on their own when they turn eighteen, unless they’re hopelessly retarded, in which case it’s institutions or group homes.”
    â€œThat seems so heartless,” Ivy murmured.
    Emma and the nurse both nodded.
    â€œSometimes people will take any child, no questions asked, just to get one,” Everett said. “Older couples. Desperate ones.”
    â€œNot from this agency,” Morgan declared firmly. “Nasty surprises for unsuspecting adoptive parentsare not in the best interests of the children, not in the long run.”
    For some reason, Ivy looked back at Everett to see how he would rebut this statement. When the accountant realized everyone was looking at him, he dropped his gaze to the floor and shrugged in an embarrassed manner.
    A thought came to Ivy and she spoke without considering the words. “Were you adopted, Everett?”
    He visibly jerked, then shook his head in vigorous denial. “No, not me. I was never adopted.”
    She wondered if he wished he had been and thought his home life might have been difficult. Perhaps he’d had alcoholic parents. Or abusive ones. More likely they were accountants or librarians or something, considering how quiet and reserved he was.
    She nodded and smiled, then glanced at Hunter. “I suppose, since we’re the hosts, we should circulate and thank everyone for coming out and buying stuff they don’t need so this event will be a success.”
    â€œI have this theory about charity sales and such,” Morgan said in a cheerful manner, sweeping a hand out to include the tables piled high with brownies, cakes, aprons, pot holders and other goodies on sale. “It goes along with the fruitcake theory.”
    Ivy played the straight man. “What’s that?”
    â€œThere are at most only ten fruitcakes and theyget circulated around the country at Christmas,” he explained. “The donated stuff we have here gets sold again and again at different bazaars until it’s circulated all over town, probably once every five or ten years.”
    â€œYeah,” Hunter said with great seriousness, but a twinkle in his eyes, “that sounds about right. A friend and I kept up with the ugliest urn we ever saw at a church fund-raiser one time. That was the second time it had been there that we personally knew of. Sure enough, it turned up again at the same church three years later, then six or seven years after that I saw it at another charity event. I felt so bad about the poor thing, I bought it for my grandmother. It’s still at the ranch with roses growing all over it so nobody can see it.”
    Ivy laughed with the others at this happy-ending tale, then she and Hunter roamed from table to table and thanked the donors and the buyers for taking part.
    By the time they helped close the place down, it was almost midnight. Driving home through the pleasantly cool September night, she realized she was tired. It wasn’t something she usually noticed. She tended to keep going until the job was finished.
    Tomorrow she would sleep