It tumbled toward the swing and landed with a soft plop on the front of Samuel Adams’ white shirt. It was the final straw. He quirked his eyebrow as if indicating it was all Molly’s fault, and impatiently brushed away the offending berry. She stifled her laughter. It served him right. She wished she’d thought of pelting him with berries herself. A good chinaberry war might loosen him up. She almost reached up and got a handful of berries, but she quickly changed her mind. After all, he was going to be a member of the family. She’d best try to make peace. She scooted across the swing and leaned toward him. Up close, his eyes were startlingly black and exactly like Bea’s. They almost made her forget what she was doing. “Here. Let me look at that.” She plucked the front of his shirt between her thumb and forefinger. “What are you doing?” “Chinaberries are notorious for staining clothes, especially white shirts. I’m checking you out.” “You already did that—with the water hose.”
