It's a Wonderful Wife by Janet Chapman Page A

three.”
    Jesse slipped the cards in his shirt pocket. “Coming from a close-knit, hardworking family myself, I appreciate what it takes to build a business from the ground up. Once I’m settled in and get my bearings, I will likely give them a call.”
    Ken Dean backed away with a nod, then turned and sprinted toward the front of the store when Malinda paged him again, several drawn out words indicating she was nearing the end of her patience. Jesse loaded his basket with the chickens and fixings, gave the girl behind the counter a warm thank-you, then headed off in search of cold beer and Moxie.
    Satisfied he had enough food to sober up his stowaway, Jesse tossed a couple of candy bars onto the conveyor belt as Paul—whose name tag said he was in training—slowly scanned and carefully arranged each item into four bags. Jesse swiped his card and entered his PIN, then patiently waited while the teenager tried to decide which register button he needed to push to conclude the transaction.
    â€œSorry about that, Jesse,” Ken Dean said as he walked up beside Paul and tapped a button that made a sales slip shoot out of the register. “Wednesday evenings are usually slow and a good time for training. You help Mr. Sinclair carry his purchases to his rig, Paul,” he added, pulling out the drawer. “Check the lot for any stray carts on your way back in, then we’ll sit down together and cash out your drawer.” Ken looked at Jesse. “I’ll leave my cleaning crew a note saying you have permission to spend the night and for them not to sweep the parking lot.” He chuckled. “They usually wait until one in the morning to fire up our old sweeper and make several trips past any campers who ignore the signs for no overnight parking.”
    â€œI appreciate the note,” Jesse said, grabbing two of the bags. “What time do you open up in the morning?”
    â€œOfficially at seven, but I put on a pot of coffee and unlock the doors when I get here at six in case any fishermen need something before they head out.”
    â€œI’ll see you in the morning, then,” Jesse said as he followed Paul.
    The boy exited the store, immediately headed to the lone shopping cart in a nearby aisle, and dropped the beer and bags inside. He then grabbed the handle as he set a foot on the bottom rail, pushed off with his other foot, and rode the cart down the parking lot toward the camper.
    Jesse couldn’t help but grin when he saw the living room slide-out extending three feet beyond the camper. There were four slides total—which he imagined had all been opened and closed several times by now: a large one on this side, two on the other side in the main area and kitchen, and one in the raised bedroom that jutted out over the cargo bed of his pickup.
    â€œNice rig,” Paul said when Jesse caught up with him. The boy took the two bags and beer out of the cart and set them on the ground beside the steps. “You the guy my dad’s been building a campsite for out on Hundred Acre Isle? He said you was coming this week.”
    â€œYou’re Corey’s son?” Jesse asked in surprise, since Corey Acton had to be in his sixties.
    â€œNo, he’s my grandfather. My dad runs the bulldozer and excavator while Gramps hauls the gravel.” The boy frowned toward the store. “I’m only working here for the next two years because the stupid insurance company told Gramps I can’t work for him until I’m eighteen, even though I’ve been running heavy equipment since I was seven.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I went out to your island last weekend while Gramps was gone to Bangor, and Dad let me use the bulldozer to level out the last three loads of gravel on your camper pad.” He threw back his shoulders. “You won’t be stepping in any puddles when it rains, because I made sure it was pitched so the water will