Maxwell's Smile. Michele Hauf
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they remain dedicated to Kid Flicks. Today the movies are shipped to their father’s law office, then brought back to the family home to be stored (in the pool house, the living room and sometimes in their dad’s car) before being delivered. So far there has nearly always been one sister living in L.A. to step in while the others finish school. Yet even while the sisters have been at school, Kid Flicks has been part of their lives to varying degrees.
“The great thing about Kid Flicks is that we can choose when we can dedicate a lot of time to it,” says Marni. “There are four of us working on it, so we can shift who has the bulk of the responsibility.”
The arrangement does seem to work. Back when Marni was an eleventh-grade student and her older sisters were away at college, the Barta sisters won the President’s Volunteer Service Award and were invited to meet the president and tour Air Force One. They visited the White House later that year.
When Marni met the president as he landed in California, her father beamed and told her, “In my fifty years, I’ve never reached a point in my career when I’ve done anything like you have.”
Marni pauses for a moment before finishing the story.
“It just shows that it’s not about how old you are. You don’t have to be a certain age to do something good.”
Michele Hauf
Maxwell’s Smile
Michele Hauf has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and creatures she has never seen.
Michele can also be found on Facebook and Twitter and michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at: P.O. Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303.
For Ashley
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
The rust bucket groaned to a stop in the parking lot outside the local hospital. The small town of Birch Cove, where Sam Jones worked as a handyman, edged the Twin Cities suburbs. He patted the 1974 Ford pickup’s dashboard and then sneezed at the dust that filled the cab.
“You may not be pretty,” he said to the vehicle, which was held together in some spots with a lacing of rust, “but you are reliable.”
Swinging his well-worn work boots out of the cab, he landed on the ground with a purposeful jump. Flakes of sawdust sifted from his shoulders and the creases in his jeans. Best way to shake off the morning’s work. He thumbed the hardened wood glue smeared along the thigh of his jeans, grimaced, then decided he looked better than on the days his face was coated with white Sheetrock dust.
From the truck bed, he grabbed the cardboard box of DVDs he’d cleaned out from the entertainment center in his basement last night. Boots clomping on the pavement, he strode inside the airy lobby of the newly refurbished hospital. The receptionist gave him directions to the patient resources office.
Sam clutched the box a little tighter, feeling a weary sadness spread across his shoulders. His plan was to get in and get out without passing through the children’s ward. Unfortunately that was the straightest path to patient resources. He turned a corner and walked by a room where a young girl sat on a big, imposing bed. A pink bandanna covered her tiny head, and no light shone in her tired eyes.
Sam nodded to her and offered a quick smile, but she merely stared. With a swallow, he shifted the box in his arms and forged ahead. He could do this. He had to do this. For Jeff.
Running the route the receptionist had given him through his mind, he turned left, but instead of walking down a hallway, strode into a patient’s room by mistake. The wood floor gleamed and the walls were papered in subtle stripes. Wood-slat blinds had been pulled, blocking out the bright sunshine, and the chemical smell of disinfectant punched Sam in the gut.
“Uh, sorry.”
He turned to go, then stopped in the doorway. The tousled-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the bed didn’t even lift his head to acknowledge Sam’s presence. He was hunched over what looked like schoolwork, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his compressed lips. An iPad sat next to the notebook he wrote in. An IV drip was attached to his left arm.
“Homework?” Sam asked.
The boy nodded. And frowned.
Sam cast a glance down the bare hallway in search of a parent. It wouldn’t be right to stay without permission, but a niggling impulse to linger struck him. The kid’s messy mop of brown hair reminded him of his little brother. Jeff had never known the real purpose of a comb, preferring to launch spit balls from the end of it—heck, neither of the Jones boys had mastered the comb. And when he was leaning over a bowl of Super Crunchies for breakfast, his brother’s concentration had been as fierce as this kid’s was right now. Jeff had never been into schoolwork, though, so that’s where the similarities ended.
“Hey,” Sam called out, feeling compelled not to leave without at least speaking to the boy. “Who does homework when they’re in the hospital? Shouldn’t this be a free pass to get out of schoolwork?”
The kid sighed, but didn’t look up. Instead, he plucked a colored pencil from the box on his lap and started drawing in the notebook spread out on the movable table that hugged the bed. “Who would have thought getting my work done would be less important than lounging around.”
Okay. The kid didn’t look old enough to have mastered the snarky comeback he’d just flung at Sam, but Sam took the verbal hit like a pro. Besides, if anyone deserved to be in a grumpy mood it was a kid sitting in the hospital. Sam knew that all too well.
“What are you in for?” he asked, then dropped the smile. Stupid, Sam. The kid hadn’t been incarcerated. And if he answered something like “cancer,” Sam wouldn’t know how to respond.
“Appendicitis. They took out my appendix last night.”
Whew. And yet anything that put a kid in the hospital wasn’t to be made light of.
Sam read the chart hung at the end of the motorized bed. “Maxwell, eh?”
“Maxwell McHenry,” the boy stated, as he set the pencil down with a smart snap and finally looked up. “And you are a stranger.”
“Oh, right. I am. Sorry. Name’s Sam Jones.” He offered his hand to shake.
Maxwell ignored the gesture and instead crossed his thin arms over his narrow chest. “A name doesn’t make you any less a stranger. You’re not wearing an ID badge. I don’t think you should be in my room, Sam Jones.”
“Just thought I’d try to put a smile on your face. Hate to see a frowning kid.” Sam tilted the box to display the contents. “I’m dropping off some DVDs to patient resources.”
“Why? Do they spend their time sitting around watching movies when they should be taking care of the ill and infirm?”
Whoa. The kid had a load of attitude.
“No, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do. My brother—” No, don’t go there. “Er, I know when kids are in the hospital it can be boring waiting around during some of the treatments. Watching a movie gives them something to do. Makes them smile.”
“I’m