Читать книгу The Prince Charming List - Kathryn Springer - Страница 13

Describe your day. Use words. (From the book Real Men Write in Journals)

Woe is me. (Dex)

Rose came in first, with Buckshot a close second, but Rose and I were the ones that rearranged the Cabotts’ landscaping on the way in.

Rose downshifted from a full gallop to a sudden stop and if I hadn’t been clutching the saddle horn, I would have somersaulted over her head. Instead I poured off the saddle like a bucketful of sand as the motorcycle roared past at warp speed.

Bree jumped off Buck and ran over. “Are you all right?”

My lungs weren’t working. They pushed out short, hot gusts of air but refused to let any back in. I could feel my eyes begin to bulge.

“What a jerk!” Bree spoke the very words that were going through my mind. “I can’t believe he didn’t slow down when he saw the horses.”

Riley ran up with Dex—Dex?—right behind him. My brain couldn’t quite process why he’d be at Riley’s.

“Is she okay?” Riley looked at Bree and I was touched by his concern.

“I’m fine,” I managed to wheeze.

“Poor baby,” Riley murmured, dropping to one knee to examine Rose’s feet.

Bree rolled her eyes and I realized I wasn’t the one he was concerned about. She’d told me how attached he was to his horses so I didn’t take it personally.

“Who was that?” she asked, frowning at the veil of dust still dancing in the air.

“Nobody from around here, that’s for sure.” Now Riley looked at me. “Are you okay, Heather?”

The adrenaline had subsided and I could inhale again. “Uh-huh.”

“Shaken not stirred,” Dex said under his breath.

I looked at him suspiciously, but he didn’t crack a smile.

“Rose never bolts,” Riley fretted. “I don’t think you need to worry—”

“I’m supposed to get back on again, right?” I interrupted.

Riley and Bree exchanged approving looks, but I saw Dex frown.

“That’s if you fall off,” he pointed out.

Details, details. If I subtracted the heart-stopping terror of being held prisoner on the back of a runaway horse and focused instead on the exhilaration I’d felt when I finally got her to stop (okay, technically it was Mrs. Cabott’s gazing ball that stopped her), all in all it had been kind of fun.

And it had helped me forget about the twins. And Mrs. Kirkwood. And The List.

Bree looked at Dex and then at Riley.

“Oh, sorry. Bree, this is Dex. Dad hired him to help with the barn chores once a week,” Riley said. “Dex, this is Bree Penny. She lives down the road. And this is—”

“We met this morning.” And I have the faucet-less bathtub to prove it. “You’re working for the Cabotts, too?”

“I’m picking up a few jobs here and there.” Dex shrugged. “Whatever comes along and pays a few bucks.”

“Too?” Bree looked at me and I could tell she was wondering why this tidbit of info hadn’t come up during our conversation over supper.

“Alex hired him to do some remodeling at the apartment this summer.” I buried a sigh. “Some carpentry, painting. Faucets.”

Dex didn’t respond except to lift one shoulder and use it to nudge his glasses back to the bridge of his nose where they belonged.

“You never mentioned him…I mean that,” Bree said. There was a funny sparkle in her eyes that warned me I was going to get the third degree later. How was I supposed to describe Ian Dexter? Narcoleptic handyman by day, sword-wielding treasure hunter by night?

“You can go riding with us if you want to, Dex,” Riley offered. “We’ll probably start a bonfire when we get back and roast some hot dogs.”

I saw the color drain from Dex’s face. “No, thanks. I have to get back.”

“I could put you on Iris,” Riley said, oblivious to the fear in Dex’s eyes. “My four-year-old cousin rides her all the time.”

Riley may have been sensitive to Bree, but obviously he needed a bit of fine-tuning when it came to dealing with other guys. Or maybe it was a test to find out where Dex’s nerves were on the wimp-o-meter.

Come on, Dex, I silently urged. Here’s your next line: Iris? What is she, a Shetland pony? Don’t you have something with a few more cylinders?

He ad-libbed instead. “That’s okay. I’ll catch up with you some other time.”

Riley might have pushed the issue but Bree must have felt sorry for Dex, too, because she came to his rescue with a simple but effective maneuver. She stepped in front of Riley, pulled her rain-straight blond hair off her neck and then let it sift through her fingers, completely short-circuiting Riley’s thought process.

“It’s warm tonight, isn’t it?”

Riley nodded mutely. Oh, the power of the right haircut!

“We better get going. Daylight is aburnin’, as Grandpa Will always said,” Bree sang. She slipped her boot in the stirrup on Buckshot’s saddle and he stood like a perfect gentleman as she swung her leg over his wide back.

I wasn’t an experienced rider like Bree, so my attempt to get back in the saddle wasn’t nearly as graceful as hers. To complicate things, Rose took a step to the side whenever I put my foot in the stirrup. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Dex would put his fears aside and help me out.

Nope, chivalry was truly dead. He was already halfway to his car—an ancient Impala the color of French dressing. I shuddered. Maybe he was color-blind.

Riley was the one who noticed I was having trouble and, like a knight in shining spurs, he held Rose still while I scrambled awkwardly into the saddle. I was a little nervous but instead of taking the road again, Riley led the way to the trails that meandered through a huge stand of maples on the back of the Cabott property. When I realized the trails were too narrow and bumpy to accommodate anything with an engine, I relaxed a little.

None of us said a word as the horses nodded their way through the woods. The setting sun filtered through the branches and formed intricate stencils on the ground under our feet. I closed my eyes and trusted Rose enough to go on autopilot for a few seconds while I soaked up my surroundings, lulled by the gentle creak of leather and the warm smell of horses and summer.

I talked to God a lot throughout the day and I tried really hard to listen, too, although it wasn’t as easy. I wondered if He ever got impatient with my rambling commentaries.

Thanks, God, for getting me through my first day at the salon. And thank You for bringing me to Prichett. You knew I’d need a quiet place this summer to hear Your voice, didn’t you? Well, I’m listening. Go ahead!

From the day Mrs. Holmes, my first grade Sunday school teacher, rewarded my perfect attendance with a Bible (a cardinal-red hardcover with gold-tipped pages) to my high school graduation, when I’d received a plaque engraved with the verse from Jeremiah that promises God has a hope and a future for us, I accepted that God had a plan for me. And if He could create the entire universe in six days, eight weeks would give Him plenty of time to yank out the file marked Heather Lowell and let me in on it.

“Heather.” I heard Riley’s polite cough. “You probably should ride with your eyes open.”

“Shh,” Bree scolded. “She’s praying.”

I wasn’t surprised she knew what I was doing. Bree is a believer, too. She brought God into our conversations as naturally as she did horses. Which meant she thought about Him a lot. I’d figured out that people tend to talk about the things they think about, which was another reason I was wary of the guys in YAC. Their conversations were dominated by compare and contrast. Comparing their scores on the newest version of a video game (pick one) and contrasting their cell phone plans. The only time God seemed to get worked in was during prayer time in small groups on Sunday mornings.

When we got back from our ride, Riley dragged out some rickety lawn chairs and started a bonfire large enough to bring a 747 in safely. Bree and I ended up round and drowsy from eating all the hot dogs and marshmallows he supplied us with. Finally, we saddled up the horses again and headed back to the Penny farm. By now it was past ten and the sun had slipped away, officially off duty.

“This is more peaceful than what you’re used to in the city, right?” Bree asked as we started out. Now that the two horses were better acquainted, they walked shoulder to shoulder on the road.

“Peaceful?” She had to be kidding. The crickets and the frogs were belting out a chorus in the ditch at a volume level that rivaled my alarm clock. “Okay, maybe it’s not sirens and honking horns but—”

“Not again.” Bree groaned.

I heard it, too. And it was coming this way. The motorcycle. I felt Rose’s shoulders bunch and I knew my nerves weren’t up for another lap around the track. I slid off her back, hoping that if both our feet were on the ground she wouldn’t be tempted to go AWOL again.

A headlight barreled toward us, but just as I braced myself to become a human windsock, the bike slowed way down and stopped a few yards away.

“Hey.” The muffled Darth Vadar voice beneath the helmet was definitely male. I saw a tall shadow unfold. Now I wish I had stayed on Rose. I’d still be five foot six but at least I would have felt bigger. And I was about to get up close and personal with the guy responsible for re-creating the Kentucky Derby a few hours ago.

“Hi.” Why aren’t there any streetlights around here?

God must have heard my pitiful question because suddenly the moon rolled out from behind a cloud and lit up the area like a spotlight. It gave me courage to know He was keeping a watchful eye on us.

“You almost scared the horses to death,” I said bravely, buying some time now so I could give the police a full description later. I started at the storm trooper helmet and memorized my way down the black leather jacket to the slashed blue jeans and heavy boots.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Just before he reached me, he yanked off the helmet, releasing a ponytail that swung against his shoulder. But he didn’t look threatening anymore. Maybe it’s because he looked…well, drop-dead gorgeous. I heard Bree suck in a breath.

He smiled at us and shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m lost.”

“Who are you looking for?”

He hesitated for a second. “A cow named Junebug?”

When Marissa Maribeau stumbled into the salon the next day, I almost performed a pirouette. Bernice had told me she’d been trying to coax Marissa into her chair for years but apparently she was a hairstylist’s ultimate challenge—a self-trimmer. She had thick, waist-length hair, but the ends reminded me of frayed wire and the humidity was definitely not her friend. She must have come right from her pottery studio because she was wearing baggy khaki pants and a white T-shirt smeared with dried clay.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made an appointment. Bernice had warned me about the customers she referred to as Wild Cards. The ones who impulsively decided to get their hair colored, cut or styled and they wanted it done now.

I snapped a fresh cape open and held it up. Marissa skidded to a stop in front of me. I shook the cape and she took a wary step backward.

“My four-thirty canceled, so you can be my last customer of the day.” I gave the chair a cheerful, game show hostess spin.

“I’m not here…” Marissa glanced in the mirror and her eyes widened. She reached up and pressed on her hair. Which promptly sprang back into place like a chocolate cake just out of the oven.

She groped for the arm of the chair and sat down. Hard.

Bernice wasn’t going to believe this! The elusive Marissa Maribeau was now a Cut and Curl customer.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” I told her. “There’s just way too much of it. Especially when you’re fine boned. You want people to see your face, not your hair.”

“I don’t like to fuss.”

“You’d have to fuss a lot less if it’s shorter.”

“How much shorter?”

Using my fingers as scissors, I made a pretend cut at her shoulder and ignored her low moan. “It’ll still be long enough for you to put in a ponytail or tie in a scarf, but this will get rid of the split ends.” All ten inches of them.

“I guess it would be all right.”

That was good enough for me. I hustled her over to the shampoo sink and grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength conditioner.

She blinked up at me. Natural brunettes like Marissa usually had brown eyes, but hers were a striking bluish-gray. Tiny pleats marked the corners, indicating she wasn’t as young as I thought she was when I’d met her at the wedding. Her skin was smooth and well moisturized, but some oil-free powder wouldn’t be a bad idea for her T-zone…

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“I know that look and you can forget about it.”

“There was no look.” I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’m an artist, remember? I throw a pot and I can see exactly what I need to do to finish it. What kind of glaze. Whether to etch it with leaves or flowers or just leave it alone.” Marissa settled back comfortably in the chair. “I suppose it’s the same for you when you’ve got someone’s face in front of you.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Didn’t everyone pay attention to the shape of someone’s face, the color of their eyes and whether or not their hairstyle flattered their features?

“You can’t compare the two,” I murmured, remembering the few pieces of Marissa’s work I’d seen. She’d given Alex and Bernice a beautiful set of handmade dessert plates as a wedding gift. Each one had a delicate dandelion puff blowing across the center. I remembered wishing at the time that God had gifted me with an ability to create something like that.

“I’m not so sure. I walked in the door and right away you saw I had twice the amount of hair as a normal person. I’ve been looking at my face in a mirror for the past thirty-two years and missed it.” Marissa crossed her arms under the cape and gave me a knowing smile.

That was because she was busy creating something beautiful outside herself. I didn’t argue, though, because the customer is always right. My summer working at the Fun Fruit Factory had taught me that.

I picked up the scissors and clicked them above her head.

“Ready?”

Marissa closed her eyes. “Surprise me.”

Half an hour later, I turned the chair around to face the mirror. “All done.”

Marissa stared at her reflection. Instant panic washed over me when I saw her expression. I’d talked her into this and she hated it.

“What did you do?” Her eyes were wide with shock as they met mine in the mirror.

“I just…cut it.” How was I supposed to explain this to Bernice? I definitely wasn’t ready to go out on my own yet! “Your hair is naturally curly, but the length and the weight of it pulled most of the curl out. When you take that away, the curls find their original shape.”

I’d also used enough anti-frizz gel to straighten the hair of an eighties’ girl band, but no need to mention that. The overall effect was that Marissa’s hair didn’t dominate her face anymore. And I’d guessed that her curls, given the proper attention, were the beautiful corkscrew kind. And I was right. Normally I would have taken satisfaction in the final results, but not at the moment. Right now my stomach was tying itself into knots because I’d ruined one of Bernice’s friends.

“I can see my face.” Marissa touched her cheeks lightly with her fingertips.

“That was the plan,” I said cautiously. “Look how big your eyes look now that you aren’t hiding behind all that hair.”

Marissa’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She tried again. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

At least she didn’t pretend she loved it, like the first woman I’d practiced on at cosmetology school. She’d smiled and thanked me and then I’d heard her in the hall, frantically calling her usual stylist for an emergency appointment. The only reason I’d scraped up the courage to go back the next day was because my parents had already paid the tuition. Things had gotten better after that. Until now!

“No charge.” Taking money would only add to my guilt.

“Why not?”

“You don’t like it.”

“I just said it would take some getting used to,” Marissa corrected. She fingered the much shorter ends of her hair. “You did a great job, Heather, I’m just not sure I was ready to come out of hiding yet.”

What did that mean? I saw her glance at her reflection again, but this time she smiled slightly. “Help me out here. I don’t venture out into the real world very often. I’m supposed to give you a tip, right?”

“Make it a practical one instead. Please.”

“That’s easy. Don’t let anyone talk you into joining a committee.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got a temperamental art student named Jared Ward in my studio at this very moment who’s insisting that Denise—one of the PAC committee members—promised him housing for the summer. That’s why I stopped in, to see if you had a number I could call to get in touch with Bernice.”

I had a swift flashback featuring the motorcycle maniac I’d met the night before. The one looking for Junebug. As soon as Bree had given him directions to Lester Lee’s farm, he’d given her a polite salute and hopped back on his bike. It hadn’t occurred to us that he was the one who’d been commissioned to create a statue for the park. A statue of Lester Lee’s Holstein, Junebug.

I’d heard all about her from Bernice and over Easter break I’d seen the billboard with Junebug and Elise Penny’s picture on it. A month ago, some mysterious benefactor had paid to recover it with a cute advertisement for the local 4-H. I can’t prove anything but I think Alex was the culprit.

“I have no idea where to put him,” Marissa said with a shake of her head. Which sent her curls into motion. She touched them and smiled again. “He showed up about an hour ago. Apparently Denise told him there was a vacant apartment on Main Street this summer that he could rent. Now Denise is gone to a weeklong crafting retreat and I have no idea whose apartment she was talking about.”

As if on cue, something crashed above our heads and plaster dust sprinkled down from the ceiling like bits of confetti. I winced, half-expecting my bathtub to crash through the ceiling and take up residence next to the shampoo sink.

“Is someone in Bernice’s apartment?” Marissa asked.

“It’s my apartment now,” I told her. “But I’m pretty sure Jared Ward thinks it’s his.”