Читать книгу Hell's Belles - Kristen Robinette - Страница 9

May 11, 2005

Della spun the chair around with a whoosh, and Mattie found herself facing a familiar image in the salon mirror.

“Now then,” Della announced. “You’re presentable.”

Presentable. Why did that word grate on her nerves? It was true, that was why. Presentable and totally boring, though she’d broken out the most alluring thing in her closet today. But from her mouse-brown hair to her white slacks and aqua twin-set, she was merely…presentable.

Mattie touched the freshly cropped ends of her hair, causing the bob to swing at chin level. “Do you think I should let it grow out a little?”

“Why would you?” Della asked, obviously confused. “It would just make it harder to care for. As it is, you can wash it and be presentable in ten minutes.”

There was that word again. Normally Mattie didn’t spend much time fretting over her appearance, but today was different. Or was it? She wondered if anyone else would remember the reunion date. She met Della’s eyes in the mirror but couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Disappointment settled in her chest. Della had forgotten. It was foolish, but she’d carried the scrap of bar napkin in her billfold for twenty years. Lately, though, it seemed to serve more as a reminder of her failures than her fantasies.

“I guess you’re right.” Mattie responded to Della’s comment and was rewarded with a satisfied smile. Della liked to be right.

The world could begin spinning again. Mattie Harold, spinster bookstore owner, wasn’t going to let her hair grow out. Much less let it down. God forbid.

Mattie wrote out a check to Della and resisted the urge to dot her name with a smiley face as she’d done as a teenager. Her eyes stung. She was feeling ridiculously nostalgic today. Blinking away the tears, she glanced around the salon.

Della had hired a new stylist named Kimee. With jet-black hair cut in a geometric bob and more piercings than a pincushion, Kimee needed no introduction to Haddes’s youth. She was the poster child for the generation gap, hired, as Della said, “to bring in the teens and their allowance.” And bring in the kids she had. Teenage girls lined the waiting area, sitting two to a seat and giggling in nervous anticipation of their Kimee makeover. She was currently stroking fuchsia eyeshadow on a young girl of about fifteen. Her red hair had been cut frighteningly similar to Kimee’s and now sported a streak of white down one side. The girl looked like she’d won the lottery. Her mother looked like she’d just swallowed one of Kimee’s nose rings.

Just say no, Mom, Mattie thought. But obviously Mom was more interested in making her daughter happy than asserting her parental rights.

Several of the salon’s patrons, all over sixty, were obviously waiting to see Della. Mattie sighed. It didn’t look as if Della could get away even if Mattie reminded her.

Which she refused to do.

Mattie tugged off her cardigan as she left the air-conditioned salon and entered the Georgia heat. May had arrived with confidence, chasing away the cool air. Already the heat was pooling against the asphalt, swirling and rising against her ankles and sandaled feet.

She lifted her face to the sun, a little sad that her wrinkle-busting, age-defying youth-radiating foundation had an SPF of 30. She hadn’t had an honest-to-God tan in a decade. Back in the good old days, they’d slathered themselves with baby oil mixed with iodine, plopped down on a quilt and fried like teenage eggs. No guilt involved. She forced herself to stop frowning and rubbed the furrow between her eyes. Maybe she should just ditch the wrinkle-defying foundation and zap any intruders with Botox. She’d been thinking a lot about Botox lately. She’d been thinking about a lot of things like Botox lately.

Mattie sighed. Too much thinking was bad for the soul, not to mention the complexion.

She tried to clear her mind as she began the three-block walk to her duplex but her thoughts circled back with a will of their own. It seemed like some cosmic joke that she was pushing forty and still single. In her mind she’d freeze-framed her age at about twenty-three. But lately she’d been catching reflections of herself in unexpected places—the window of the drive-thru lane at Hamburger Heaven, the mirrored tile behind the florist’s counter. And the woman who looked back at her was definitely not twenty-three. More often than not, the woman in the reflection was scowling. Mattie touched her forehead again and massaged away the tension.

It suddenly occurred to her that she’d drifted through life like someone drifting through a supermarket, perusing aisle after aisle with an indefinable craving.

Despite the encroaching heat, which would soon rule Haddes during the summer months, it was a picture-perfect day. A few residential areas remained downtown, snuggling comfortably against the businesses as they had for decades. Not much had changed in the nearly four decades she’d lived here, but the few changes she’d seen were for the better. Old homes were being renovated by enterprising early-retirees, morphing into quaint tearooms and antiques shops.

The shops in the original part of the little city were old two-story brick buildings that shouldered one another along Main Street, causing shoppers to wedge their SUVs in side alleys and narrow parking spaces. Mattie took it all in, both content and discontent to walk the same path she’d walked all her life.

But then she spotted the bookstore and the doubt melted away. Something in her chest swelled with recognition and pride. Looking at the bookshop was like looking in a mirror but actually liking the reflection. Or maybe it was more akin to looking at your child, an offshoot of yourself of which you could unabashedly be proud. She wasn’t sure. But nothing and no one else belonged in that store.

She’d created it and it was hers alone.

Mattie had built the bookstore from nothing. In fact, the idea had come about eight years earlier when a stack of paperbacks on her nightstand careened over. When she went to pick them up, she realized they’d hit another stack of novels on the floor, knocking them over as well. She’d cleaned up, packing the books neatly in a plastic crate, but when she went to store them in her closet, there was no room—thanks, in great part, to her shoe collection. Mattie grinned at the memory. The left side of her walk-in closet had been stacked to the ceiling with crates of books, the right equally as jammed with shoe boxes. Since she refused to give up either prized collection, the idea for a used bookstore was born.

She took two weeks vacation from her clerical position at the bank and rented some space in an old building previously used as a saddle shop, signing for the run-down real estate on a month-to-month basis. The venture was little more than an organized yard sale at the time and she had every expectation of returning to her old job when her vacation time was up. But the day she opened for business a fierce spring storm blew through Haddes and the shop lost power. Mattie lit a half-dozen candles and opened the front door. The damp air lifted the dormant smell of leather and oil, mixing with the scent of the lemongrass candles and books. Mattie was in love.

Not only had the storm blown in that day, but customers had, as well. Somehow parting with her books had been not only easy but enjoyable when she watched them leave with a happy customer. When her own personal collection began to wane, Mattie went in search of more. Her clerical job was history. She began selling new rather than used books but also began acquiring books from estate sales. She lucked out on some rare editions and started educating herself on collectibles. Before long, she’d gained a reputation for handling antique and rare books as well as stocking popular fiction.

These days the bookstore was well known for hosting book signings and writers clubs. There was always hot tea and slices of lemon cake and good conversation. Mattie loved the shop like a friend, was proud of its success. So why did the accomplishment feel a bit abstract, as though the shop itself was responsible for the success rather than her?

She sighed. Possibly because, after nearly four decades in one place, she’d managed to misplace her self-esteem. Mattie ran her hand through her hair, surprised at the feel of the short strands. Della had been a little overzealous today. But then she thought of Kimee Scissorhands and shivered.

Though she’d hung the “Closed” sign on the door in honor of the big reunion—which suddenly seemed like a short road to depression—Mattie slipped through the door, locking it behind her. She breathed deep and smiled. It was home away from home. Like a favorite pair of faded Levi’s, or slipping into fresh sheets at the end of a long day, the shop was an instant shot of pleasure endorphins, despite the work required to run the place. And it was hard work.

Three stacks of boxes sat next to her desk, their cardboard edges battered and suspiciously dirty. Mattie knew what was inside without checking. A large order of children’s books had been missing in action for two weeks now, lost in the mysterious realm of overnight delivery. She dug her box opener from her desk and slit the wide tape from the top box. The first book in the shipment was a picture book. The artwork was delightful, sporting a neon-green cricket, the author’s name boldly splashed across the front in blue. Mattie ran the pad of her thumb across the author’s name, mentally substituting her own.

The goal of owning the bookshop had been consuming at first, and her need to see it become successful had fueled her for years. But two years ago the shop had settled into a sort of easy rhythm that worried her. Then that indefinable craving had returned.

Mattie thought of her writing and shook her head. She’d gotten the urge to see her own name in print, but the stories, the characters and erotic worlds she created under cover of night would never see print. That part of her would remain saved on a CD, safely tucked away in the closet where she did her late-night work. So she’d targeted the children’s book market instead, a much better fit for Mattie. Or at least the Mattie the rest of the world knew.

With her usual determination, Mattie formed a local writers’ group and had been working steadily toward publication ever since. But so far she’d only met with rejection. Some days she wondered if the goal to write was just another distraction, something no more achievable than marriage and children. After all, marriage required a man, and children required, well, something to which she didn’t currently have access. Especially without a man.

The number of dates she’d had in the last ten years—or rather the lack of them—was scary. Some days, especially after a rerun of Sex and the City, when it seemed the whole world was having sex, she’d vow to join them and just do it. Like the Nike commercial. She was straight. She was still relatively young and attractive. But then she’d go out with the postman, or the nephew of her insurance agent, and somehow the urge was lacking. She really didn’t want to sleep with the postman. In all honesty, she didn’t want to sleep with someone she wasn’t in love with. She’d only had sex with one person, her college boyfriend, Brad. A.k.a. a distant memory. Brad had been a disappointment. Or maybe she had. Who knew? But she’d sort of given in, then given up.

Now she considered herself a sort of pseudo-virgin, and she was actually kind of comfortable with that. She figured there was some sort of statute of limitations. If you hadn’t had an orgasm in a certain number of years, you got to reclaim virginhood. It made sense to her.

She spent the next two hours unloading the boxes, making order out of chaos and managing to avoid smudging her white slacks with dust. Finally she shelved the last book, stacked the empty boxes for recycling and made her way to the ladies’ room to freshen up before heading to the Stop-N-Bowl. What’s the point? her inner crab complained. Go home. Eat ice cream. Watch Oprah. Avoid more rejection. No, she countered. She kept her promises. If she was the only one that showed, she’d at least have the satisfaction of being the only friend with enough honor to remember. She smoothed pale pink lipstick across her lips, powdered away the afternoon shine on her face and mentally braced herself. No one would remember the reunion date but her. Unlike her friends, the wheel of Mattie’s life turned at a predictable pace. Manageable. Comfortable. Familiar. As easily shelved as one of her books.

She decided to walk to the Stop-N-Bowl rather than hoofing it back to her duplex to get her car. Besides, she wasn’t too anxious for her friends, in the unlikely event that they showed, to see her recent purchase. The land barge, as she thought of her Crown Vic, had been retired from the local police force. And it was as ugly. Dirty white, with the outline of the police shield still visible from the side, it had turned out to be more embarrassing to drive than she’d expected. Mattie sighed, feeling a niggling of regret. Oh well, it was big and cheap, which was why she’d taken the plunge and bought it at auction. She could stack boxes of estate-sale books in the trunk and back seat and still have room for a pony.

When Mattie rounded the corner to the bowling alley, she was surprised to see several cars, none of which she recognized. Probably the cleaning crew, she reasoned. The Stop-N-Bowl shouldn’t even be open this time of the afternoon. She paused when she reached the door, her hand icy despite the fact that she clutched the sun-warmed handle. In all likelihood, the door would be locked and she would spend the evening in a blue funk, watching someone eat bugs on reality television while she downed a pint of rocky road.

Mattie squeezed the latch and the door swung open easily, enveloping her in an air-conditioned cloud of familiarity. She took a deep breath. The Stop-N-Bowl was her own personal time machine. Her writers’ group held its share of meetings there, taking advantage of the deli and private party rooms available in the back. But no matter how often she came, she always experienced the same sense that time had stood still.

As her eyes adjusted to the interior, she found that the lanes were darkened but the bar area was well lit. Only a few tables remained, the rest squeezed out by a new pool table. Pinball machines still lined the wall but were now frighteningly referred to as “vintage.” Rows of neatly arranged liquor bottles topped a mahogany bar devoid of graffiti. Mr. Murphy, Della’s father, had an imposing presence that kept the locals in line. His glare as he wiped down the glossy wood was usually the only warning necessary.

Della’s brother Jack hadn’t been behind the bar since his summers spent home from college. He’d moved to Atlanta fifteen years ago to start a career as a private investigator. Mattie could never seem to reconcile the quiet athlete she knew with her image of a PI, though Della assured her it was less gumshoe and more corporate inquiry than the books that filled the mystery section of the bookstore led one to believe. Still, the job sounded dark and mysterious and only fueled the fantasy.

As if her fantasies about Jack needed more fuel. They had been simmering since she was the ripe old age of thirteen. Though she knew he often made it home for the holidays, the Murphys were a tight clan and Mattie made certain not to intrude on their family time. She’d run into Jack a time or two, though, her knees turning to Jell-O and her brain becoming sixteen again.

Thirty-eight-year-old knees and a sixteen-year-old brain. A scary combination.

Muffled voices from the far end of the bowling alley caught her attention. Mattie froze. She could have sworn she was alone. She glanced around, still feeling like a trespasser. Mattie grabbed her purse and thumbed through it to distract herself from the acid burning in her gut. She found her envelope in the side pocket of her purse and tossed it on the table as if it contained flesh-eating bacteria.

She’d experienced absolutely nothing written inside. But the moment of truth was here.

She wasn’t anxious to admit her failure. So why was she here, trespassing, wishing her friends had remembered their childish pact?

“Long time no see.” Della’s familiar voice rang out as she sidled up to the table and slung her ten-pound purse atop it.

Della was still beautiful, despite the fact that there was more of her to love these days. She’d styled her platinum-blond hair in an ultramodern cut picked up from a recent hair show in Birmingham. It barely brushed her shoulders, the ends moussed to messy perfection. Everything about Della’s appearance spoke confidence. Tight, black capri pants said, “Love me as I am,” and a spaghetti-strapped tank peeked from beneath a colorful mesh blouse, flashing glimpses of ample cleavage.

Mattie was so shocked that Della had showed up, that she was speechless. But Della didn’t appear to notice. She lifted her well-padded hips onto the vinyl seat across from Mattie, sighing heavily.

“You little sneak. I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Ditto.” The knot in her stomach loosened considerably and she smiled. “I thought… You had so many clients waiting.”

Della waved a dismissive hand, nails the identical shade of red they’d been twenty years ago. “I gave them to Kimee.”

“You did not!” Mattie suddenly pictured hordes of Haddesians walking around with Goth haircuts like a scene from The Night of the Living Dead. “Oh my God, please tell me you didn’t leave old Estelle Ashworth with Kimee.”

Della grinned a grin so mischievous that Mattie had only seen it on one other face—that of Della’s three-year-old son, Trevor. “I did.” She giggled. “I can’t wait to see what she does to her.”

“You mean Kimee or Mrs. Ashworth?” Estelle Ashworth was no shrinking violet. She ran the local dry cleaners and had a reputation for being gruff. She kept a candy jar full of Dubble Bubble and handed pieces out to the children along with a fierce pinch and a smile. Half left crying and the other half knew to refuse the offer politely. “I don’t know which one to be worried about.”

“Good point. It should be worth showing up in the morning.” Della laughed, then opened her purse and began sorting through the contents. “Estelle gripes every time I cut her hair. Maybe after Kimee gets through with her, she’ll appreciate my talent. In fact, I’m going to consider it a crash course in Della appreciation.”

Mattie nodded. That course should be mandatory for a few people she knew. Namely, Donald. But she kept that observation to herself.

“So have you heard from anyone else?”

Mattie knew the “anyone else” Della was referring to meant Shay and Erica. She shook her head.

“I have a feeling we’ll be the only attendees at this little party.” Removing a sandwich bag filled with what Mattie hoped were raisins and a Hot Wheels car, she continued fishing until she extracted her envelope, placing it atop Mattie’s. “Last I heard Erica was out of the country and Shay was out of her mind.”

Mattie chose to ignore the comment about Shay. It hurt that Shay had withdrawn from their lives, but her reasons were certainly valid. She’d left Haddes to free herself from an abusive marriage, and despite the fact that her life was totally unconventional—maybe even a little weird—Mattie understood. And what was worse—making every poor choice available, as her friend had, or taking no chances at all, as she’d done?

She lifted the corner of the sandwich bag and examined the contents. Was it possible for raisins to shrivel? She gave Della a questioning look and dropped the bag. “Last I heard, Erica was covering the war in Iraq.”

Della ignored her silent commentary on the state of the raisins. “If a war breaks out without someone there to snap a picture, does it really break out?” Della slipped from her chair and sauntered to the bar, smiling at her humor.

Mattie considered the caustic comment. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling a little ordinary. Besides, she knew Della well enough to realize that the comment was sheer bravado. Sarcasm was easier than worrying about Erica’s safety.

“Do you have any red wine back there?” Mattie asked. She’d only recently learned to tolerate alcohol in the form of wine. Half of the articles in the medical magazines she stocked at the bookstore were now claiming that red wine was beneficial to your heart. But in all honesty, holding the stem of a graceful wineglass while she read in bed at night made her feel more like a literary connoisseur and less like a lonely spinster.

“No, no red wine,” Della answered absentmindedly, ducking beneath the bar in search of something.

“Are you sure?” Mattie eyed the dozens of bottles on the shelf.

“No.” Her friend’s blond head popped up. “Besides, today I’m making margaritas.” She shook a canister of salt for emphasis, cha-chaing her hips to the beat, then held up her hand when Mattie started to protest. “Don’t be a wimp, Mattie.”

She snapped her mouth shut. Tonight she was not a wimp. She was a successful small-business owner, single and still a size six. She bit her lip. Well, a size six most of the time. If she wasn’t retaining water and if she held her breath. At any rate, she was going to drink a margarita without grimacing, dammit.

After sipping and perfecting, adding various potions and revving the mixer to a deafening RPM, Della returned to the table with the drinks, leaving a half-full blender on the bar.

Mattie took a sip and managed not to grimace. A muted burst of male laughter erupted from the direction of the conference rooms. Della waved her hand as she sipped.

“Chamber of Commerce meeting in the back.”

Mattie was about to get the details when a soft rustle from the entrance caught her attention. Shay stepped out of the shadows, her tall form gliding gracefully toward their table.

“Shay!” Mattie jumped to her feet, scooping her friend into a hug as she neared. Della was next in line for a hug, though Mattie thought she detected a guilty expression, at least one that looked as close to guilty as Della ever came.

“We never dreamed you’d come.” Della hesitated. “How are you?”

Shay took a seat and met their eyes, hesitating until she had their full attention. “I’m great,” she answered, her voice breathy. Shay always gave the impression of being delicately out of breath, as if she’d just breezed in from somewhere important.

Mattie shook her head in amazement. Shay looked like some misplaced Celtic princess. The crushed silk sheath she wore came nearly to her ankles, the effect no less than stunning. Auburn curls wound to her waist, and her ivory complexion was ten years more youthful than it should have been. Cut crystals hung from her ears, matching the crystal pendant that swung between her breasts. The New Age garb was the only hint that Shay’s life had taken a turn down the road less traveled. Mattie sipped her drink and suppressed a surge of jealousy. Did everyone else have to be so damn interesting?

“Cough up that envelope.” Della got right to the point.

Shay opened a delicately crocheted handbag and removed her envelope. Mattie eyed her own pedestrian-looking purse, then Shay’s. Heck, she’d probably grown the cotton—organically, of course—spun it and crocheted herself, all the while chanting good thoughts for the universe. Mattie sat her drink down with a thud. Was it the alcohol or was she just becoming a middle-aged bitch?

Shay added her envelope to the growing pile in the center of the table, her expression serene but not entirely natural. The envelopes themselves told part of the story. Della’s was ringed with coffee stains, Shay’s rumpled but clean, and Mattie’s pristine, having survived its twenty-year wait pressed between the pages of a dictionary.

Mattie thought about what her envelope contained. This was the one that had started them all, the first time one of her fantasies met paper. And for twenty years it had been her little secret. Proof that she could be naughty when she wanted to. But now she wasn’t so sure. What had been deliciously wicked twenty years ago suddenly seemed a little, well, stupid.

There was a feeling Mattie got when she was about to do something colossally dumb. It was a creepy creeping sensation that started at the base of her spine and worked its way to her chest like a big hairy spider. It was crawling now. And once it got to her chest, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. She flexed her shoulders as if she could dislodge it. It didn’t work.

“Jack!” Della’s voice shouted in Mattie’s ear. “Come say hi.”

What? What? She followed her friend’s gaze to find the silhouette of two men frozen in the shadows of the entrance. One was thin and rather short. The other was obviously Jack. The shadows fell across his face but she’d know that perfect silhouette anywhere.

“He and his partner are moving back here from Atlanta.”

Partner… Mattie’s tequila-laced mind turned the word over, trying to make the puzzle piece fit.

Jack’s posture spelled r-e-l-u-c-t-a-n-t as he crossed the distance to their table. Mattie’s stomach clutched, then froze in a spasm of denial as Jack stood before her. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a stunningly shy grin and…bronzer? She squinted. Mother-of-pearl, he looked like the local news anchorman after last season’s disastrous brush with self-tanner. And to make matters worse, his black hair was spiked and so thick with gel that it could put out an eye.

“Y’all remember Jack, of course.”

Shay stood and embraced Jack without hesitation. Mattie watched her friend’s ample breasts flatten against the lapel of Jack’s suit, strained to make out her breathless greeting. Unlike Shay, Mattie was frozen in place, cemented to her seat. Something was off kilter, something—

“And this is Cal,” Della said, as she motioned the second man to the table. “Cal is Jack’s partner.”

The smaller man literally seemed to pulse with energy as he approached. His head was shaved smooth, the shiny dome interrupted only by a pair of goggle-like glasses perched atop it. He wore a casual white shirt tucked inside eye-popping striped pants. Mattie felt her eyes go round with realization. No straight man she knew would wear tight white denim with wide brown stripes. She cocked her head, thinking for a moment that the vertical stripes had a great slimming effect. She blinked, forcing herself to focus as her gaze traveled upward, finally resting on a diamond stud that winked in one earlobe. Cal smiled in response to her scrutiny. He had blindingly white teeth and one perfectly manicured hand resting possessively on Jack’s shoulder.

Oh God.

“E-excuse me.” Mattie stood.

“Mattie? Mattie Harold?” Jack held out his arms and her stomach lurched. “My God, you haven’t changed—”

Neither have you. The normal response formed in her brain but ended as a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “I— I’ve got to…” She stammered, then reached for the obligatory hug. The sound of a million and one fantasies shattering was deafening. “Excuse me for a moment.” Mattie swiped her drink from the table and dashed to the ladies’ room.

As Mattie hightailed it, Della shook her head. Her gaze fell on her brother, sweeping him from head to toe before settling on his face. “What,” she said slowly, “on God’s green earth happened to you?”

Jack’s jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed. “Kimee happened to me.” He tried to flatten the spikes on top of his head but they only bent, instantly standing up again like a tinsel Christmas tree.

Della burst out laughing. “You look like Dennis Rodman and Peter Pan’s love child.”

“I can’t believe you left me with her.”

“You showed up out of the blue. I had no choice.”

Jack’s face was turning a threatening shade of red. “You told Kimee I was on my way to get a photo made for the chamber of commerce.”

“I did.” Della pretended to swoon, pressing her hand to her chest. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. What was I thinking?”

Jack raised an eyebrow, then pointed to her drink. “How many of those have you had?”

“Not enough. Now please explain to me how telling Kimee that you needed a haircut so that you could get your picture made has caused you to look like—” she wavered a little under Jack’s glare “—like a tanning salon mutant.”

“Because, dear sister, little Kimee was convinced that the photographer’s lighting would…how did she put it?…fade me out.” He rubbed at his face with his knuckle. “She put… What was it called, Cal?”

“Bronzer,” Cal offered with a sly grin.

“Yeah. That’s it. She put bronzer on me with a weird little sponge.”

Della looked at Cal. “And you were…?”

“Reading Cosmo.” He shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What can I say?”

“Yeah, about that,” Jack interjected. “Try Field and Stream next time you’re in public.” He glanced at Cal’s slacks. “I know subtle isn’t your nature, but you might want to let people get to know you before you break out the tiara.”

“Oh, please.” Cal rolled his eyes. “This is Haddes, not Green Acres. I think they can handle one gay man.”

Jack looked serious. “This is Haddes, not Atlanta.” He shrugged Cal’s hand off his shoulder. “And cut the touchy-feely stuff before you give everybody the wrong idea about us.”

Della straightened. “A tractor and a head of cattle wouldn’t hurt, either.” She fell into a fit of laughter. Shay muffled a giggle.

Cal winked. “Cows. I’ll get right on that.” He looked at Shay, then gestured toward Della and Jack. “Can you believe these two?”

Shay smiled, laughter replaced by her usual Mona Lisa serenity. “Haddes is pretty good at taking folks in.” She met Della’s eyes for a moment. “Even people who are different.”

“So.” Della jumped back to her brother. “Why did you let Kimee do this to you?”

“I didn’t let her.”

“Then why are you, uh, tan?” Della leaned forward to get a closer look.

“Because when I said no thank you, she started to cry.”

Della laughed. “Kimee does not cry.”

“I can assure you that she does.”

Della was horrified. “Why? Why would that make her cry?”

“You left the poor kid with a gazillion people waiting. When I got there Estelle Ashworth looked like she was going to a Pink concert.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh is right. Kimee was in over her head. I thought putting up with this stuff—” Jack scrubbed his jawline with his knuckle again, but the uneven color appeared to have adhered permanently “—until I could get to the car and wipe it off would make her feel better. But now it’s not coming off.”

Della smirked. “Well…uh…it’s kind of a stain.”

Jack looked puzzled.

“Self-tanner. It’s what we use in the salon. It’s a semi-permanent application. It won’t wash off, it has to wear off.” Della flinched and jumped behind Shay when Jack straightened his six-foot-three frame to full height. “It may take a week.”