Luck Be an Angel

by Liza O'Connor

  Luck Be An Angel

  By

  Liza O’Connor

  All rights reserved

  Any copying, or recording is forbidden without the written permission of the author reproduction of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, electronic except that allowed by Amazon.

  In other words: if you buy this book anywhere other than Amazon, it’s a pirated copy. Please support Authors instead of Pirates.

  We are much nicer.

  All characters in this book come from the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names, titles or professions. They are not based on or inspired by any known individual and any resemblance to a person living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Luck Be An Angel

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  A Note on Punctuation:

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Other books by Liza O’Connor

  A Note on Punctuation:

  Long ago when colonists of the New World got their first printing press, it was evidently a piece of crap. To make the wooden blocks fit better, the operator of the printing press decided all fragile punctuation (periods and commas) would remain within the tall dialogue tags for ease of printing. And thus began the U.S. illogical punctuation rule. Convenience ruled over logic. I understand.

  What I don’t understand is why, in the digital world, we cling to this archaic illogical rule instead of returning to the logical British rule that decides the location of dialogue tags by where it logically resides.

  I’m happy to say, some U.S. e-publishers are returning to the British rule of logic in this matter, and so shall I. Here forth, logical dialogue punctuation will be willfully and purposefully used in my novels. It’s not a mistake or ignorance on my part. It’s a rebellion against illogical rules of the past. I encourage all authors and publishers to overthrow silly habits of the past.

  Blurb

  Reporter, Ethan Long, is sent into the backwoods of Arkansas to investigate a woman who claims her sixteen boys were born by Immaculate Conception. Not believing in divine intervention, Ethan plans to uncover the identity of the man who continues to impregnate Sara Smith every year, leaving her to raise her sons on nothing but luck and love. He enters their home as a tutor and eventually discovers the truth, but not before he has fallen in love with Sara and her wonderful boys. Now he must face his own crossroad in life and decide whether to follow his heart or his professional obligations.

  Chapter 1

  Ethan Long hung on the doorframe and leaned into his editor’s office. “Sal said you wanted to see me?”

  Jacobs glanced up from the paper mountain on his desk and frowned. He motioned Ethan in. “Come in, close the door.”

  ‘Close the door’ was never good news with Jacobs. Ethan rummaged through his mind, trying to uncover what he had done to piss off his editor. All he could come up with was the scene his ex-wife caused the day after their divorce became final.

  “If this is about Susan’s outburst in the newsroom, let me assure you, nothing she said was true. My relationship with every woman she named is entirely platonic. She accused them because they are the only women I know.” He grimaced. “It’s not like I have a life outside of work.”

  Jacobs held up his hand. “If you had a life outside of work, you might still have a marriage.”

  The anger that boiled up in response shocked Ethan. “So you called me in to discuss my lack of a social life? Because if you have, I’d like to point out we wouldn’t have gotten the Delaney story or the exclusive on the Simmons Bank heist if I didn’t eat, drink, and sleep this job.”

  Jacobs sighed heavily. “Sit down and settle your quills. I called you in for an assignment.”

  At the word ‘assignment’, Ethan’s anger dissipated. He sat in the plastic armchair and leaned forward in anticipation. An assignment that required a closed door had to be good.

  Jacobs glanced down at a sheet of paper in front of him. His face soured as if the paper gave him indigestion. “Here’s the problem. If this story’s done right, it could be Pulitzer prize winning.”

  Ethan felt every muscle in his body tense with excitement.

  “It could give this paper great publicity which could translate into bigger ad revenues.”

  Ethan’s foot thumped with impatience. He had no interest in advertising revenue. He was a newshound, a reporter, a man on the streets, finding the secrets, uncovering the truths, and explaining the complex so all could understand.

  His news-sense told him Jacobs had a great lead on his desk. Yet, he could see the lead was not yet his. Something was making Jacobs hesitate, probably his ex-wife’s tantrum.

  “I’m your man,” Ethan said with certainty.

  Jacobs chewed the inside of his cheeks. “Well, that’s my problem. You’re my best writer, but I’m not sure you can set aside your personal issues to do this story.”

  “What personal issues? I’m a hundred percent professional!” Ethan felt his anger rise again. Damn his ex-wife! Jacobs had never in the six years he’d worked for this paper ever suggested he wasn’t professional until now.

  “If this was a bank heist, I couldn’t agree more. But this story might have a better chance with Carlson.”

  His fingers gripped the plastic arms of the chair. “Carlson! He can’t write himself out of a paper bag.”

  Jacobs sighed and nodded in agreement. “Which is why I’m contemplating giving you this story, even though my gut tells me you can’t do it.”

  He released the chair’s arms before he snapped them in two. “Well, your gut needs to see a doctor, Jacobs. There isn’t a story in the world I can’t do better than Carlson.”

  Jacobs studied him with skeptical eyes. “You promise me that you’ll put aside all this personal garbage you’ve acquired and give this story a hundred percent?”

  His hands flew up in rage. “What personal garbage?” What the hell did Jacobs think he’d done?

  Jacobs shook his head. Ethan knew his response wasn’t the one Jacobs wanted, so he changed it. “Yes, I promise. While I have no idea what personal garbage you think I have, I swear to you, I will give the story a hundred percent.”

  Jacobs pounded his chest until he released some of the gas tormenting his stomach. “You’ll probably need to go undercover for a month, at least.”

  “No problem. Unlike Carlson, I don’t have a wife expecting me home every night.”

  He lifted the paper from his desk. Ethan’s hand reached out to receive it. A chill of excitement ran down his spine. This was just what he needed to get his mind off his sorry excuse of a personal life.

  Jacobs continued to hold the paper inches from his reach. “Once you take this, there’s no going back. We’ve got one shot at this, then the story’s blown.”

  “I’m your man!” Ethan stretched his hand closer to the paper.

  Slowly the paper moved toward him. The moment it was within reach, Ethan snatched it from Jacobs’s fingers. It was his. The story of the century was his!

>   As he stared at the paper, his excitement crashed to the floor.

  Caring person to teach sixteen nice children. $100/week, meals and board incl. 431-222-3654

  He flipped the paper over, hoping for something better on the other side. Finding nothing, he stared at Jacobs for an explanation.

  “Little Turner caught that ad and brought it to my attention. That boy has the makings of a good reporter.”

  Ethan sighed. This was just one of Jacobs’s stupid morality lessons. Every six months or so, Jacobs would make a big production over something small so the reporter would remember it and ‘grow’ from it. Although Ethan had yet to figure out what the damn moral of this drama was supposed to be, he’d lay money that it had something to do with his ex-wife.

  Jacobs leaned back in his chair. “You haven’t caught on yet, but then Little Turner had a bit more information than you do. He knew the woman’s name who called in and placed the ad.”

  Ethan knew Jacobs wanted him to ask for the name, but he just wasn’t in the mood to play nice right now. Jacobs had promised him the story of a century. It was not right to get his hopes up for a damn morality pageant.

  “Sara Smith…name ring any bells?”

  Ethan resisted asking if she was the cousin of Jane Doe. Sara Smith. The name did ring a bell. Something about a fairy tale: The old woman who lived in a shoe. He glanced at the ad. Sixteen nice children. “That’s the crazy harlot with all the kids?”

  Jacobs looked disappointed by his response. “It’s never been proven she’s a whore.”

  Ethan shook his head. “She’s unmarried, with no viable means of support, and pops out another kid every year. I think her claim of Immaculate Conception is wearing a bit thin now.”

  “Yet, no one has ever proved her a liar, and believe me, several papers have put photographers on the story.”

  Ethan’s brow furrowed in disgust. “Including this one.”

  Jacobs held up his hands. “Hey, it’s a great story if you can get it.” He then leaned forward. “But no one has. No one knows how she gets pregnant every Valentine’s Day.”

  Ethan rubbed his neck. “This is your great lead? A worn-out story with no pictures to back it up?” Maybe he should move to a new state with a new editor. Jacobs has lost his freaking mind.

  Jacobs shook his head and pointed to the ad. “That is the lead to a great story. No one has ever told her side. No one has ever gotten close enough to uncover the truth. I know you hate women right now…”

  Especially women that sleep around.

  “But you said you’d give the story a hundred percent.”

  Ethan stared at the ad and then at him. “You expect me to apply for this job? To go live with a prostitute and her sixteen no-named fathered children to uncover…exactly, what do you think I’m going to find?”

  “The truth. If anyone can find out what’s going on, it’s you. There’s a story here! Do you know why she’s placed this ad? Last year, she won a drawing by a local builder to build a four-bedroom house on her property. Only she doesn’t own any land. The good townspeople of Briarville pulled together and bought her land for her new house. After her house was finished, they revealed she was outside of city limits and her children couldn’t attend their school anymore. She left school when she was pregnant with her first child at fourteen, so she can’t teach them, nor can she afford a reasonable salary. She wanted a woman, but Little Turner explained the ad couldn’t specify gender due to discrimination laws. Smart boy, eh? I imagine you’ll be the only one applying for the job, and she has to have a tutor. Child Welfare has told her if the children don’t have a teacher by the end of this week, they’ll send them out to foster homes.”

  Ethan sighed and rubbed his temple. He wanted to tell Jacobs to give the damn thing to Carlson, but he couldn’t do it. He hated that slimy bastard too much to let him have any story. “All right, I’ll do it, but I doubt it’ll take a month.”

  “Take as long as you need to find the truth.” Jacobs opened his desk drawer and pulled out a jar of Tums. He popped four in his mouth and chewed them like candy. “I know you hate women right now. But, I also know you love the truth. If I send Carlson, and he can’t discover the truth in a few days, he’ll just make something up. I don’t want that. I want the damn truth. So I need you to take hold of your hundred-percent-professionalism, drop your well-earned dislike of unfaithful women, and find out what is really happening to Sara Smith.”

  Ethan sighed. “You know… those kids probably would be better off in foster homes.”

  “Well, if you discover that’s true, write about it. You’ve got a woman and sixteen little subjects. There’s got to be a story in that alone.”

  Ethan nodded in agreement. Jacobs was right. There was a story here. Not necessarily Sara’s, but that of her children. What hell have they gone through being the children of Briarville’s most prolific whore?

  He stood up and stared at the number. “I’ll call her now.”

  “No. Go down and meet her in person. But first, talk to Little Turner. He spoke to her for a half hour. He knows what she’s looking for.”

  Ethan gritted his teeth at the idea of getting advice from a sixteen-year-old kid. He breathed in. Think of him as a source. They come in all sizes and ages.

  Chapter 2

  Sara hung out the laundry with the help of her second son, Colby, and the dubious but well-intentioned help of her middle sons: Joe, Tyler, Oscar, Paul, and Tom whose ages ranged from nine (Joe) down to five (Tom).

  “Honey, don’t drag the clothes through the dirt or we just have to wash them again.” Sara kissed Tom’s forehead and set aside the now dirt-covered wet shirt he had attempted to bring her.

  Tom’s face puckered up. He looked ready to burst into tears. She looked at Tyler for help. Tyler walked over and took Tom’s hand. “You can help me. We T’s gotta stick together.”

  Tom’s face shifted into a happy smile. “We T’s,” Tommy repeated.

  Somewhere along the naming of her children, the boys had discovered that each of them shared the first letter with another brother: Joshua and Joseph, Colby and Conrad, Sam and Sean, Peter and Paul, Edward and Elijah, Mike and Marcus, Oliver and Oscar and Tyler and Tom. The eldest of each letter looked out for the youngest.

  While normally this was a good thing, right now it caused a problem, because Joe, Oscar, and Paul didn’t have their letter-mates here to pair with. She ruffled their hair. “Joe, you’re the biggest. Why don’t you let Oscar and Paul help you?”

  Joe scrutinized his seven and six-year-old brothers for a long moment and then nodded. “I’ll give em a shot.”

  Sara knew he liked being the eldest in a group. His letter-mate was her first born, Joshua, so being the leader was a new experience for Joe.

  Sam came running out the back door. “Mom, our school teacher has come! Joshua’s started the interview.”

  His declaration caused all the boys to drop the clothes and run into the house, leaving her to pick up the fallen clothes and add them to the pile requiring a second wash.

  Sara hurried with her chore, worried that the poor woman would run off before she could intervene. The sight of so many boys, identical but in age, all in one room, could be a bit terrifying.

  By the cluster of bodies in the kitchen, she assumed Joshua had chosen his favorite room for the interview. She shook her head and gently moved her mass of boys about so she could enter.

  She heard Joshua’s voice, full of challenge. “By only moving one match, I want you to make a perfect square.”

  Her eldest wasn’t interviewing; he was testing the poor woman…

  She finally moved aside Colby so she could see the teacher and apologize for her son’s inquisition. Her apology was lost in the shock of discovering the teacher was not a woman. He was most decidedly a man, probably in his late thirties, with a long nose, which gave him a slightly hawkish look. His dark eyes presently sparkled with amusement as he studied the puzzle her son had posed. She
liked his face. He looked like a good man. Only she didn’t want a man. She couldn’t have a man here. She had enough problems with the townspeople thinking ill of her as it was.

  The man leaned over and gently tugged on the leg of one match a bit, making a tiny square in the center. The younger boys cheered his success.

  He stood and bowed to the applause of the boys and then grew serious when he noticed a smiling woman standing in the midst of her boys. She stepped forward.

  Joshua stood up, his chest puffed out with pride. “I’ve checked him out, Ma. He’ll do just fine.”

  “Does that mean they won’t take us away now?” her ten-year-old, Oliver, asked.

  Peter ruffled his younger brother’s hair. “That’s right O, you can stop screaming in your sleep now.”

  She reached out and touched Peter’s shoulder. He looked at her and sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like it sounded. I just meant you can rest easy. We’re going to be okay now.”

  She leaned over and kissed her thirteen-year-old son for his fine recovery. She returned her focus on the man who watched her rather like a bird of prey.

  He stood before the simple wood chair located at the end of their twelve-foot eating table. He was considerably taller than she expected, standing an inch taller than her eldest.

  “I’m Ethan Long,” he said and held out his hand.

  He had a nice grip—firm, but not crushing—a sincere grip, one you could trust. She remembered her Ma saying she could always tell a man by his grip. She figured her ma would’ve like Mr. Long just fine. She hated that she had to send him away.

  She looked at her boys. Lord, they didn’t look this happy on Christmas. “Joshua, will you help Colby finish his chores, and Sam and Peter, aren’t you supposed to be watching the nursery?”