Assassins handbook pdf

It could have been set off by a rock hitting the undercarriage. Now that tradition was broken. I put the stuffed bear beside Trisha in her perambulator.

But my kids should be able to mourn their father! But it might help us to apprehend them. But I never let Carl know that. I thought it might have crushed his ego. It was the only secret I ever kept from him. No more tears. At least, not in public. He was just … gone. His news had stripped me bare of any feelings whatsoever, let alone any modesty.

He nodded. Yeah, right, sure. He had all the conviction of a car salesman trying to unload a Hummer during an oil shortage. I stayed dry-eyed until he walked out the door. I started crying. They had it easy. There was no need for a cremation, since there were just a few body parts recovered. The next morning, Ryan drove me home with baby Trisha. Except for the box that held our framed photos and our wedding and family albums. Someone had torn that open and rummaged through it, ripping away any image of Carl, and taking his photos from their frames.

It was Carl. Donna, your husband was a genius. Taking the photos with him was his way of ensuring that the Quorum would never be able to ID him when—well, when he resurfaced later.

But now that would never happen. And with his photos gone, too, it was as if he had never existed. Before going inside, I scattered his ashes on the wisteria vines that grew along our back picket fence. I kept my word to Ryan. Oh sure, it would have been easier to do as Ryan had suggested: say that Carl and I had separated, and that the divorce would be final any day now.

Because the truth is Carl loved me too much to have left me, unless our lives were at risk and that was the only way he could protect us. I know he stopped by the club. The kids and I are flying over there sometime this summer. Most of the wives in the neighborhood were pea green with envy: a husband with a very important job that involved international travel, and a second home in Paris! In other words, a husband who paid the bills, but kept out of your hair. At the ages of seven and five, they were used to his extended business trips.

But in the past he was never gone more than a few weeks at a time, then home for at least three or four days before taking off again. Because they loved him so dearly, they missed him terribly—and cried themselves to sleep more and more often. For me, that was the most difficult part of the charade. Apparently their tears were hard on Aunt Phyllis, too. When she told me what she had done, I went ballistic.

Well, yes, as far as she knew, it was. At the same time, I had to keep my promise to Ryan, although a husband leaving his wife and family for another woman was the most logical answer. Well, I for one am glad. Once, when Mary said as much out loud, I resisted the urge to slap her.

Instead I drove out to the beach, where I stayed for hours and cried. Then she and Jeff had cleaned up the playroom as penance for breaking my heart. Of course, they knew how much I loved and missed Carl. I proved it with my lies about his business trips and my denial to admit to anything else. Carl had been dead just over a year. Ryan never turned down my monthly invitation.

And of course, I always insisted on picking up the tab. Not that Ryan divulged much. He hated me calling his bluff. But guess what? That was exactly what I was doing. I now knew him well enough to realize that he was about to drop a bomb.

I knew he expected me to say something: perhaps to rant and rave, maybe even cry. Instead I laughed. So tell me, Ryan: just what am I supposed to do now? Sell the house, get some secretarial job, and put my kids in after-school daycare? What other option did I have, considering I had a nine-year-old who needed dental work, and a flatfooted six-year-old who needed orthotics? Maybe it was my ability to negotiate a sane bedtime with Mary. Or maybe he figured out that hiring me was the easiest way for Acme to search my house as many times as needed, until it found whatever they thought the Quorum wanted.

In my home, everything has its place. Even my kids have found this out the hard way. So when something has been moved, you better believe I know it. This was true. I was solid as a rock.

Hell, I had all morning to work out at my gym since the place had a nursery, and I also ran five miles a day, rain or shine. And yeah, sure, sometimes the work can be dangerous. And certainly more fulfilling than … well, you know. He searched my eyes. Had I been insulted by his implication that my current existence is brain numbing, mundane, and unrewarding? Well, heck yeah—. Who was I kidding? So, okay, yeah, maybe it was time to get out of my rut and kick some ass. But what if it got kicked instead?

This, some day, might translate into the closure I so desperately needed. It would have to be, for the simple reason that my kids had already lost one parent to God and country. That brought the faintest smile to his lips. Ryan was a confirmed bachelor, not a mommy with three kids in tow. Before we had moved into the house, Carl had installed it, along with infrared night vision webcams.

At the time I thought he was being overly paranoid, and he chided me for forgetting to switch it on. After his death, I never forgot. He was dressed in black, his face covered in a ski mask and goggles, holding a semiautomatic rifle—.

I rolled out of bed shoving the pillows vertically down the mattress in order to give the impression that someone was still sleeping there. After slipping it out, I crawled to the terrace door in the master bath.

Silently I unlocked it and inched it open—. The only light I had was coming from the moon, but it was all I needed: there he was, crouching by the back door. As still as he was, though, I had a wide-open shot. And that was my dilemma: if I hit him in the head, he would die instantly. Certainly there was some satisfaction in that. He grunted loudly and rolled for cover under the picnic table. My second shot ricocheted off one of its planks.

He shot back, but it was sloppy. Realizing this, his aim suddenly got better. Of course, it helped that he was wearing night goggles. In fact, he was shooting so well that he had me taking cover back through the terrace door…. I froze, torn between going to my baby and finishing the job. But what if she woke up Mary and Jeff too? I knew I had to go to her.

I rolled back in and locked the door behind me, and flicked the switches on the outside floodlights and the alarm that alerted both the police and Acme. I got back to the monitor just in time to see the prowler limping away his right leg dragging. Perhaps that was how I would know him the next time our paths crossed. The office is located in one of the many nondescript, mirrored buildings that contribute to the mind-numbing sameness known as Ventura Boulevard.

What, have you filled your mommy quota for the month or something? No, Donna, we are always on the lookout for good field ops. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that his sudden change in attitude was giving me an itchy trigger finger, but I thought better of it.

Why do you ask? What was there to look back on? I was almost out the door when I felt his hand on my arm. Come back tomorrow, say, around ten. That would work. Trisha would be in nursery school until two. I shook his hand, then, hesitantly, gave him a kiss on the cheek.

The next day I showed up bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and prepared to dazzle. I knew I impressed him by the lift of his brow with each bullseye. Though, I must admit, I went for the groin on the last two pop-ups. Then again, they looked incredibly menacing and no doubt deserved it. I also passed the physical with flying colors. The polygraph went well, too.

I had nothing to hide—unless you considered my ever-growing list of library fines. But it was the psychological testing that blew Ryan away. I could just imagine what that was like. My guess was that he wiped it clean of fingerprints each night before going home. But you were superlative in Part Six of the test.

Things like: You are facing two assailants, both with firearms. The one to the left is in a car. The one to the right is standing only four feet away. Which one do you take out first? Or you can take out your attacker with a pole, a rope, or a fork. Which one do you choose? I chose the pole. That would allow me to attack from many angles and to do so from a distance. The instinct is natural. Oh, um, okay. Well gee, how time flies!

I grimaced at the insinuation. The commitment is for twelve weeks. And you have to live on-site. That put me back in my chair. Live away from the kids — for three months? How could I manage that? Now that Trisha is doing some daycare, and the kids are in school most of the day, you could have Phyllis move in during your training. Did you also tell her the truth—you know, about Carl? If you feel the same way a few years from now, you can tell me then.

Let me tell you, The Farm was no picnic. No, make that a fraternity, as there is nothing feminine at all about the place. It attracts a certain breed of men: cocksure, arrogant, and aimed at turning The Farm into their own private fort, no girls allowed. Needless to say, any woman masochistic enough to enter this alpha male sanctuary quickly learns that she has three strikes against her from the get-go: two above the waist and one below.

Was the first one hard, you ask? Still, he was just a kid. Maybe even a father of his own sweet, loving brood. All my missions are shoot to kill, period. That went for Manny, and the others who followed. What stiffens my resolve is the knowledge that every kill is payback for some ruthless bastard taking Carl away from my babies.

What are the most important skills you need to be a CIA field op, you ask? Perhaps the Japanese martial arts of bujutsu, karatedo, jujitsu, kendo, and laido?

How about firearms, or explosives handling, parachuting, or crash-and-burn driving? In all honesty, the skills you need to be a crackerjack CIA agent are the exact same ones that make a good mommy.

Whereas surviving a prison camp takes the same mindset as enforcing a time-out: Instead of giving in, just tune out. Eventually the other side gives up. As for losing a surveillance tail, I liken that to getting a toddler to take a nap: When the time comes, your best bet is to get her into a routine that makes her comfortably drowsy. Then, when she zones out, slip away. Setting up a kill is a lot like planning a dinner party: attention to even the smallest of details guarantees its success.

Speaking of naps, Trisha has awakened from hers, just in time for us to pick up her big brother and sister. Putting my precious locket in the back of the curio cabinet where it belongs, I smother her with kisses as we head for the door with Lassie at my heels—. But I stop when I hear the chirp of my cell phone.

Or in this case, Marion, an Acme operative who just so happens to works there at the circulation desk. That sentence may sound innocent enough, but it is filled with encryptions to be decoded. I barrel back through the door, dragging Trisha with me. Of course, there are no oven mitts anywhere in sight. Finally I see one on the floor: Lassie is using it as a pillow.

She whines as I whip it out from under her head, cram it onto my free hand, and throw the blackened pie into the sink. Oh, well. Since I have to hook up with the Good Humor Man anyway, ice cream without pie will just have to do. I am fully aware that some of my neighbors talk about me behind my back. After all, I am a very visible wife with an invisible husband. Whose gourmet potluck casseroles get the most rave reviews at the neighborhood block parties?

And who set up the neighborhood watch program? Admittedly, I did it in order to link the Hilldale network of security cams to my computer. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make eleven phone calls with bullets flying past your head? And I am certainly not the neighborhood slut. And in a universe of desperate housewives, that is the worst thing you can be. They sweetly simper out their hellos, but I brace myself for the snarky barbs that will soon follow. Even Lassie, my trusty co-pilot, growls as they approach.

By the way Tiffy cocks her head to one side I know she did. Then why would you have taken her to the pool yesterday? As she snickers at such a perfect gotcha, Tiffy shifts uncomfortably in her BCBG ankle boots, not because of their narrow width but out of guilt.

Cafeteria volunteers. I make a mental note to invite her over for burnt pie and coffee later this week. We just want to get to know you better. Where are the kids? He is winding his way to me, Cheever in tow. Mary is not far behind. Realizing that the Bitches of Hilldale have me cornered, Mary rolls her eyes and skirts into the van through the side door, like a wary gazelle in dangerous territory—.

Too late. Ooooh, wait, my bad! Penelope glares down at her little spy, Cheever, who shrugs at this new turn of events.

Her frozen smile solidifies all doubts Mary had that the world sees her as a loser. Like an alien tractor beam seeking its next probe victim, Penelope shifts her glacial grin in my direction.

No excuses! Tiffy has them on order, at Beyond Heavenly Bakery. Because Penelope has conquered it as yet another fiefdom, all my creative ideas have been totally ignored. I peel away from the curb, wishing for once that my hybrid emitted enough carbon monoxide to take Penelope Bing out, once and for all.

Would anyone blame me if I accidentally backed over her, just this once? Who wants a yummy Sundae Cone? I can always count on her for support—or more specifically, I can count on her sweet tooth. In my job, sugar is an occupational hazard. Wish I could say the same about Mary. Her silence speaks volumes.

I park right behind it. Some parents may find the sight of his long beard and turban above that legendary white uniform a bit disconcerting, and perhaps the neighborhood kids stare the first time they see him.

In effect, Abu hides in plain sight as we conduct our business. However, today there is an undercurrent of anxiety rippling through his usual Zen-like calm. It heightens visibly as the neighborhood bully, eleven-year-old Billy Earhardt, shoves Trisha aside in order to be next in line. There is no time for retaliation, not with seven other kids behind me impatient for their sugar fixes.

Does this matter to Billy? His indecision is making Abu a little hot under the collar. After all, his real purpose here is to pass me my orders. In this neighborhood, it is an odd flavor, something no one else likes, which is the whole point.

Hey, I want one, too! Abu and I look at each other. This is no ordinary ice pop, and we both know it. Encrypted on the inside of the wrapper are my mission orders. Nevertheless, I grace Billy with a smile.

Not many kids love ice cream spiced with tamarind. They use it a lot in Mexico, too. To make chili. This has chili in it. You know, the usual desk jockey stuff. Instead I find myself in this monkey suit. Hanging around all this ice cream, too. Want to take a guess at my last cholesterol count? I nod sympathetically but take care to hold the ice cream tube away from my slacks.

I chase after her, but no amount of begging or threats can loosen the tube from her slobbering mouth. Is it worth waiting to see if what comes out the other end can be decoded? In a word, no. I refuse to do so literally, too. Always empathetic, Abu rolls his eyes.

Try a Google search in a half-hour, okay? Acme has an emergency back-up system: in dire emergencies, the encrypted message is uploaded online. Still, it beats the alternative: explaining to Ryan that the dog ate my mission. Scott Fitzgerald? Mommy Dearest? Whatever it is, it will have to wait until after Mary and I have our long-needed chat. I have come to the very important decision: Mary will finally get what she so desperately wants:.

Whatever it is, the kids are oblivious to it. Jeff, figuring that my talk with Mary will keep me too busy to notice, runs up to his room to sneak in a half hour of Call of Duty: Black Ops before I remind him that homework comes first.

Sensing a serious showdown, Trisha follows him upstairs, knowing full well she can tune us out in the perfect Barbie universe waiting for her in her room. There was no reason for her to behave that way. Oh my God!

Mary and Jeff are right on my heels. I see Trisha standing on the threshold of my bedroom door. She hovers there, as if deciding whether or not to go in. The rest of us freeze, hearing what has drawn her to the door: running water. Coming from the shower. No, wait: whomever is there has just turned it off. But before I have time to whisper frantically for them to run back down the stairs and out the door, he is standing there, in front of us.

He is tall, handsome, and humming off-key. One hand holds the towel wrapped around his taut middle. The other is wiping down his broad, muscled chest as he saunters over to us. A wisp of shaving cream still clings to the dimple in his jaw.

His dark hair has coiled into a bed of damp curls. His seductive grin is totally captivating. Before I have a chance to catch my breath, he is standing next to the children. And Jeff! Wow, boy, how about a shake, huh? Mary, the most jaded—and yes, the most traumatized of all my children. But none of this takes her in. So, what do I do now? Embrace him with open arms, or put him on the spot in front of the ones whose approval counts the most: my children?

Then, before I know it, he has me in his arms. I feel his lips gently brush over mine, too quick to resist—. Jeff and Trisha, their emotional radar always in tune, seem to pick up on this and shove us all, including Mary, into a group hug. They too are confused; but thrilled nonetheless. Mary, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions, is the first.

Slowly and awkwardly, she backs out of the room. The others, less out of doubt than natural shyness, follow suit, closing the door quietly behind them. Then I turn to him, and with a shy smile, I give him a sidekick to the solar plexus that lands him flat on his face, gasping for breath. I mean that body parts make great mulch. What, did you think I was getting soft on you or something?

Tell, me, do you love it when I do this? That breaks my concentration, enough for him to grab my ankle. I can feel his knee in the center of my back.

I resist the urge to spit in his face. And do me a favor, and mash the potatoes. Just call down if you need anything. I inch my one free hand up slowly. As if reading my mind, he grabs my arm and curls it behind my back. And all this time I thought this was just your way of welcoming me to the family.

So, he wants it rough? Now I remember! What is it that they call him on the spook loops? Oh, yeah: Wild Card Jack. The agent known to shirk protocol whenever it suits him; to bend the rules according to his whims. I told him it was crazy, too. This is exactly what I told Ryan. Being saddled with you would just tie me down. Why you… Wait! The Quorum? A brow raises just as the smirk hits his lips. I presume Abu handed it off to you at the ice cream truck. Might get rid of those love handles.

My punch to his jaw has him reeling backward, into the wall. And make it snappy. I want to get this meeting with Ryan over pronto. For that matter, are you a top or a bottom?

To hide my shock and awe, I turn and walk out of the room, slamming the door behind me. She gives Jack a shy peck on the cheek. It only takes a second for his initial look of shock to melt into gentle appreciation.

I wonder if this cover is going to be harder for him than he initially imagined. Already my heart is breaking. He better have a hell of a good reason for doing this to us. Jack and I take separate cars. Three heads that turn as he races down Main Street are those belonging to Penelope, Tiffy, and Hayley. As Jack idles at the corner, Penelope licks her Collagened lips and lifts her sunglasses in order to get a better view of him. This is not lost on Jack. Through his side-view mirror, I can see him honoring her with a wink and that lazy smile of his.

As he screeches out of the grand gates fronting Hilldale, I wave at them sweetly. The way they show their obvious disappointment is to ignore me. But I know better than to presume it would earn me their friendships, let alone their respect. Not that it matters. Ryan looks up from his desk.

The weariness glazing his eyes is a symptom of his perennial state of anxiety. He stands up, stretches, and then walks over to the door in order to close it. Well, boohoohoo. Ryan nods. The online chatter tells us that there is a high concentration of Quorum operatives located in the OC. In fact, our intel shows that the Quorum has made Hilldale its satellite headquarters for whatever operation is in play in Los Angeles.

Still, I feel the dread that comes with knowing that the Quorum is so close. And of course, your special skills are second to none. Jack Craig walks on water. And she practically lives at our house.

Ryan has all the bases covered. If I want in on this mission, I have to accept it. Instead of turning around, I glare at Ryan. What else can I do? I breathe a sigh of relief and see that the picture inside is that of Emma Honeycutt. She can set up in the bonus room, over the garage. Ryan laughs. And of course Abu will be close by, on foot, acting as your eyes, and conducting passive probes. Finally, something that brings a smile to my lips. On a job in which I stopped an assassination attempt on the Pope during his recent visit to San Francisco, Arnie was able to slip me through security by posing as a nun.

Him, not me. Ryan glances over at Jack. Jack turns to me. For once, he looks serious. Find out where he got the stuff. He shrugs. I start for the door, and then turn as I pass Ryan. I turn to Jack. Why am I not surprised? He frowns. I turn to face him. Craig, my children have lived without their father for almost six years now. They have little if any memory of him, and a lot of emotional trauma over their loss.

I just walk out the door. When we get home from Acme, the kids have already set the table. Are their parents nice to them? What they want instead is for him to take an interest in them, to get involved in their lives. In other words, they want him to act like a father; to return their love.

Still, it hurts to see my children try so hard to win his affections. For most of the evening, Mary seems wary of him. I presume she was unable to reconcile the man before her with her memories of the real Carl. I freeze with my hands in hot sudsy dishwater. But I think it would mean more, coming from you.

She nods slowly, taking in my motherly advice, my false hope. Okay, sure. This week, in fact. Maybe that would be best. If I live that long. As you can imagine, my job is rife with occupational hazards. Granted, your hard-working hubby is doing his fair share just by bringing home the bacon. Now, how romantic is that? Trisha is slapping me awake. Can Daddy take us to school today? Pretty please? I groan as I open one eye. Before Jack entered our lives, there is only one other man who could get her to rise before the crack of dawn: Santa Claus.

The stuffed polar bear that has been her constant companion since birth bumps along the carpet as she makes her way back to the door. His room is empty. I wonder where Jack went. Trisha nods listlessly. Her tiny mouth turns down at the sides, and her head hangs low.

And hopefully by the time I get back, Emma will have moved into the bonus room. At least the kids are in a great mood. I listen to their happy patter as I dole out the pancakes. Mary is glowing. I presume that all night long she fantasized about introducing her father to her friends at the dance. He would certainly be the handsomest man there. Through a mouth full of bacon, Jeff wonders out loud if his father will be watching his ballgame this afternoon.

The Wildcats are playing the Torrance Tornadoes for the county title. My answer is to choke on my coffee. My children are dropped off by age, eldest first. The odor hits me as I enter the house.

Seeing the look in my eye, Lassie skedaddles, making a dirty paw print trail as she jumps through the dog door in the kitchen. Cautiously I make my way upstairs, wading through a trail of muddy clothes that stretch down the hall, from the guest room to the hallway bathroom. As I sweep them up off the floor and toss them into a laundry basket, it dawns on me that I better nip this crap in the bud, and fast.

Just one of the guys. I look around. The place is a mess! His suitcase is open, and clothes thrown all over the room. Computers, cameras, and guns are piled on my antique secretary.

He ate his breakfast in here instead of the kitchen or the dining room, and there are dirty dishes all over the place. I was told you had a maid to do that kind of stuff. Even so, you make a bigger mess than the rest of us combined. This room is a pigsty!

I think you can handle something as simple as making up your own bed and doing your own laundry—and for that matter, cleaning your own bathroom.

It stinks to high heaven. I set up a surveillance cam that feeds to Acme, so we can watch for any activity. Good thinking. I snatch the binoculars from his hands. I hate to break it to you, but your boy has X-rated taste. Nola does enough of that already. Okay, enough of this. I pull the blinds. Craig: everyone in this house does chores. Is this the way you live at home? By the way, they bring me my meals on a tray. And by the way, the laundry room is on the far side of the kitchen.

I fling one of the messy plates at him like a Frisbee, but he ducks. It skims over his head and shatters as it hits the wall. For just a moment, the smirk on his face drops into a frown. His eyes darken with anger. What would that reaction have been, anyway?

I know this, because my hand is now on his chest, trying hard to push him away—. Like Jack, I should be pursing my lips to keep from giving into the urge to press them against his. Even after all these years, it leaves me mesmerized.

It takes one to know one, I think to myself. How convenient. He lifts the binoculars back into position. The key is on the hook beside the back door. I should be back in time to pick up the kids from school.

The injection was as noticeable as a pinprick. I nibbled playfully on his ear at the same time. Which do you think caught his attention? This six-minute feat of creative choreography buys me enough time to ask him the questions we need answered:. Where did he get the uranium? Who did he give it to?

What are they going to do with it? Where and when will this disaster take place? Apparently, the uranium was brought in by a Chinese diplomat. Yeah, okay, that was to be expected. In exchange for getting his drug lord cousin—now on Death Row in San Quentin—released and returned to his homeland under some sort of international immunity, Xie handed it off to a tall Anglo. His cousin may have avoided a heart attack in a needle—for now, anyway—but not Xie. My next injection, Sodium Thiopental, kills him instantly.

By the time they discover his body, my gloves, wig, and G-string will have been tossed into the Pacific Ocean, along with anything else that would indicate I had anything to do with his demise. I go speeding up to the house, only to find no one there: not Emma, not the kids, and not Jack.

They look up as I swerve to a stop. Her naturally brown hair is dyed platinum blond. Yes, she can certainly pass for a Swede. In keeping with mission protocol, I put my hand out to her. So that neither of us catches him laughing, Abu sticks his head into the freezer of his truck. Mary gives me an annoyed sigh. What are we going to do with her? That way, she can explore on her own. Ja, Inga? I vill vatch American TV to learn your language.

She nodded toward the ball field. And Trisha is there, with … Dad. As I pay Abu, I also hand him my grocery list. I doubt anyone would ever suspect that cantaloupe translates into lethal injection. We get to the ballfield bleachers just in time to see Jeff strike out the player up at bat.

Trisha is beside him, snuggling in tight. Jeff looks up, smiles, and touches his hat, then his ear, then repeats these moves. Jack does the same. I hand him one of the Sundae Cones, and Trisha the other. Tiffy, Penelope, and Hayley are sitting on the first base bleachers.

Penelope, who has been licking her lips as if Jack was dipped in chocolate as opposed to her Brown Bonnet cone, drops her jaw almost to her surgically inflated chest when she sees me sit down beside them. For once, his sly grin is welcomed. I smile lovingly as I stroke his cheek. As he leans in, his tongue parts my lips, tantalizing them with the memory of that very first kiss…. When, finally I remember to breathe again, I open my eyes to find him suppressing a smile.

All three women are gazing at us, stunned. Penelope comes to her senses just in time to smack Hayley so that she closes her mouth before she swallows a fly.

He shrugs, but Jeff is bubbling over with pride. If you work with the pitchers, I can focus on our batters and fielders, and we may make it all the way.

What do you say? Jack is shaking his head, and Jeff is begging while Trisha is doing cartwheels. He looks over at me. For dinner, I make my special spaghetti. While I drain the noodles, I watch from the kitchen window the pantomime of Mary bringing Jack a beer, and his thanking her. This is accompanied with a pat on the arm. By her stance—sideways, with one hand nervously pushing aside her bangs—I can tell that the moment of her big ask has come—.

When, finally, I open them again, I see that Mary is still making her case. Jack has been listening thoughtfully, but his smile has disappeared. When Mary looks away, he glances over at me—. Does he see that I want him to break his promise to me: that no matter what happens afterward, we can deal with it because this is truly worth it? Finally he turns to Mary. Her smile, too, is gone now. Her falling tears sparkle in the last rays of the sun as they fall onto her cheeks—.

But then she whoops with joy and grabs him around the neck in a tight hug. Squealing, she runs into the house. He said yes! In a flash she is twirling me around, and then, like a whirling dervish she flies up the stairs. He stands there for a minute, just looking at me. Finally he turns off the hot water, which has been running over the noodles all this time.

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