One

      Rachel Martin had had it. She zipped her ancient yellow VW into the driveway, cut the engine and then scowled at the debris piled on the passenger seat. There was no way she could carry the mail, groceries, her purse and her briefcase into the house in one haul—but she was too darn hot and cranky to make two trips.

      Since the divorce, of course, Rachel had learned the obvious. A woman could always find a way to do the impossible. Sometimes the impossible was just a little more challenging than other times.

      Once she climbed out of the car, she stuck the mail between her teeth, hooked the key ring on a finger and then used both arms to scoop up the grocery sack, briefcase, and purse tote. The success of her hauling mission seemed assured until she tried slamming the car door closed with her fanny—which jostled everything, particularly threatening to topple the ice cream at the top of the overstuffed grocery bag.

      Oh, man. She needed that ice cream. She deserved it. The whole day had been a nonstop test of sanity. The air-conditioning had malfunctioned at work. All six of her engineers had been testy and demanding. She’d skipped lunch and then had to work late. Her blue linen suit had more limp wrinkles than a shar-pei’s face, her right stocking had a run and her stomach was making pitiful growling sounds of starvation. The unrelenting heat was so unfair. This was Milwaukee, for Pete’s sake. Cool nights should have been a guarantee by the middle of September—particularly by seven o’clock—and yet the temperature still registered a mean, cruel ninety degrees with enough humidity to melt steel.

      Carefully juggling her packages, sweat drooling down the back of her neck, Rachel mentally pictured her life ten minutes from now. Forget