Mel used her elbow to ring the bell on Jim's door. Normally, she would have come right in, but her hands, full of stacks of serving dishes, couldn't operate the mechanism. Not without dropping the hot casserole dish of beans currently burning her hands right through her potholders, the dish of potato salad perched precariously on top, and the bottle of soda tucked under her arm.
Instead of Jim, a young woman opened the door. “Hello, are you joining us?”
“You bet,” Mel replied. “I come bearing side dishes, as you can see.”
“Well, come in,” the girl urged. Mel grinned and stepped through the door. She wondered which one this was. Jim had described his sons' ladies' personalities but not their looks, so the strawberry blond hair and aquamarine eyes provided no clue. “I'm Mel,” she said, as
