Mrs. Miracle Page 0,24

If he looked at himself in the mirror, would he see Rod Serling's reflection? Seth was almost afraid to find out.

"Come on, you two," Mrs. Merkle said, ushering the kids back into the room. "Let's find out what happens to the children next."

"They shouldn't go in the wardrobe, should they?" Judd asked.

"That, my fine young man, is a matter of opinion." His housekeeper looked over her shoulder at Seth. "Everyone needs to take a risk now and again, don't you agree, Mr. Webster?"

Red Sauce

3 tablespoons olive oil

2 cloves crushed garlic

1 onion, chopped

1 28-ounce can ready crushed tomatoes

1 28-ounce can of tomato puree

1 can tomato paste, plus 1 can water

2 teaspoons basil

2 teaspoons oregano

2 tablespoons Parmesan cheese

Simmer all ingredients together for 1 ½ hours. Add meatballs.

Italian Meatballs

1 pound lean ground beef

½ pound Italian sausage

½ cup fresh parsley, chopped

2/3 cup Italian-flavored bread crumbs

2 eggs

1 or 2 cloves fresh garlic

A little milk to moisten mixture

Mix all ingredients well, roll into golf-size balls, and add to simmering spaghetti sauce. Cook 10 to 15 minutes on low heat.

Chapter 10

A closed mouth gathers no foot.

- Mrs. Miracle

Sharon Palmer quietly put dinner on the table. Her husband sat reading the newspaper in front of the television, doing his best to ignore her. She knew what he was up to. He'd barely said a civil word to her all week, but then she hadn't behaved any better.

"Dinner's ready," she told him without enthusiasm, sitting down at the round oak table in the alcove off the kitchen. She didn't wait for Jerry to join her before unfolding and placing the napkin on her lap.

Leaving the television on, Jerry claimed his seat at the table and kept his eyes on the screen. For years it had been customary to turn the set off completely. Dinnertime was sacred, a time set aside to share the happenings of their day. No longer. Her husband didn't so much as look at the meal she'd spent the better part of the afternoon preparing. His gaze left the sportscaster only long enough to reach for the serving spoon.

Not until he'd finished heaping his plate did he bother to ask, "What is it?" A frown dominated his still-handsome face.

"A casserole," Sharon assured him, not meeting his eyes.

"What's in it?" he demanded.

Jerry had never been a picky eater.

"Eggplant."

His gaze hardened. "You know I don't like eggplant."

"It's cleverly disguised with cheese. Taste it. Who knows, you might surprise yourself." The recipe came from Maggie, her best friend, who was an excellent cook.

"I don't like eggplant," he insisted.

"And I do. Why is it if you don't like something, I can never have it myself? Eggplant happens to be my favorite vegetable."

"Then order it in a restaurant, don't serve it to me."

"If you don't like it, don't eat it."

Jerry slammed his fork against the table. "Fine, I won't." The chair nearly toppled as he shoved himself away from the table. He stalked across the kitchen to the refrigerator, took out a loaf of bread, and promptly made himself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Sharon figured she was supposed to feel sorry for him, but she didn't.

Instead she poured herself a small glass of red wine and turned on the radio so that the classical music played softly in the background. Jerry did his best to counteract the soothing music by slamming around the room. Sharon ignored him the same way he'd been ignoring her all week.

Finally Jerry took his seat again and wolfed down his sandwich like a man eating his last meal.

The eggplant Parmesan was heavenly. She hadn't made the dish in years and wondered now why she'd deprived herself of her favorite dish. Jerry didn't appreciate her sacrifice. She wasn't fond of salmon but served it at least once a month because it was her husband's favorite. It was time he learned to give as well as take in this partnership. He expected her to pander to his every whim. Well, those days were over. Jerry had retired, but she hadn't been given any such reprieve. She still washed, cleaned, and cooked while he played golf with his cronies. If she showed any signs of doing something for herself, her husband invariably disapproved. The eggplant dinner was a good example. Visiting Seth and the children was another.

When he finished his sandwich Jerry sat for a moment and stared at her. "What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong?" she asked. She took pride in pretending nothing was amiss.

"You haven't been yourself lately. You don't seem to have as