Richards.” The fire in the fireplace crackled and the image of Meriam sitting beside it, curled up on the rocker’s red-and-white-checked cushion and smiling at him, disappeared. “Mr. Richards? Did you hear me?” Mrs. Wiggins pulled out a chair. Its legs scraped over the tile floor. “I’m resigning.” Irritated, Bryce looked across the round oak kitchen table to the sour-expressioned woman now seated opposite him. Pushing sixty, her hair slicked back into a tight bun that tugged at the skin at her temples, she clamped her square jaw shut and swiped smooth the sleeve of the gray dress she reserved for wearing only on her official resignation days. He rubbed at his neck. She did look about as resolute as he’d ever seen her. Well, hell. “Again?” She rolled her gaze toward the light oak cabinets and lacy white curtains, clearly not amused. Seeking patience, most likely. He’d opt for a little divine intervention himself. He’d only swallowed half a cup of coffee, had been thoroughly enjoying his now shattered early morning fantasy, and his bones still ached from their night on a chilly hardwood floor, especially his old football-injured knee.
