by Becky Wade
“Velma and Peg told Gran and me.”
She could guess how much he hated being talked about. “You don’t like being discussed,” she stated.
“No. I don’t.”
“I know you don’t, and I apologize. It wasn’t malicious. They asked us if we knew about your past and of course we didn’t, so they told us.”
He gave a terse half nod.
Might as well just rip the Band-Aid the rest of the way off. “They also told us about your hockey career.”
“Former hockey career.”
“Right.”
She waited, but apparently he didn’t have any more to say on the subject. “Well . . . I can’t imagine what you’ve been though, how hard it’s been. I’m here if you ever want to talk about it.”
He angled his head away, put on his blinker, made the last few turns that would take them to the drop-off spot.
Kate’s confidence fizzled and sank.
The Salvation Army came into view. Beyond open double doors an attendant waited. “Well,” Matt said quietly as he pulled in, “sorry, buddy, but we’re here with our second truckload of crap.”
Kate erupted with laughter.
Matt glanced over at her, eyes shining with subtle humor.
“See?” she said. “I offer a whole new spin on things. Aren’t you glad you let me come along?”
“Very glad,” he said sarcastically.
Relief tumbled through her like a yo-yo unfurling. It was okay. He hadn’t liked what she’d said about his wife and his hockey. But he’d survived. She’d survived.
They got out of the truck and began unloading.
She’d said what she’d needed to. He knew that she knew. And now they could proceed without elephants.
Chapel Bluff was bearing her makeover well. Like a stately grande dame, she acquiesced to their ministrations. It was as if she recognized them, Kate often thought, as if she put up with them because they were, after all, family.
Now that they’d gotten rid of all the old clutter, Chapel Bluff’s interior had become a mostly blank canvas. Room after room held little or no furniture. The old carpets were gone. In their place, plain hardwood floor awaited refinishing. Walls naked of wallpaper, their surfaces carefully repaired, called out for paint.
Kate and Gran had picked a warm yellow for the kitchen and a buttery cream color for the walls in the rest of the house. When they weren’t making slow progress through the dining room, living room, library, and den with rollers and brushes, they were working on trim. Kate wanted the window trim, doorway trim, and baseboards resurfaced so that the patina of the wood showed through again. Which meant grueling work removing layers of paint, grime, and years.
But all of it, every hour Kate put into the house, was worth the effort. Because the grande dame, the lady who’d been treasured by their family for almost two hundred years, was beginning to shine.
chapter six
“Morty.” Kate gripped the phone and forced herself to break the news. “Velma told me that she might consider a date with you if you change your hair.”
Silence yawned across the phone lines without a single crackle. “My hair?” Morty finally asked, clearly confused.
“Yes.”
“What does she want me to change about my hair?”
“The color. She’d like you to take out the dye.” Kate winced.
“The hair dye?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Another protracted pause and then, “That confounded woman! What does she know about style?”
An outstanding point. Velma had wretched fashion sense, and even more ironically, a head full of dyed hair.
“That woman will be the death of me!” he blustered. “Ordering me around. Free with her opinions. Telling me to take out my hair dye. Just who does she think she is? I’ve worn my hair this way for fifty years!”
Kate murmured sympathetically.
“My wife loved my hair this way.”
“Um, Morty . . .” He had, after all, appointed her as his dating advisor. “It might not be such a good idea in general to compare Velma to your late wife.”
He harrumphed. She could practically hear him scowling.
“Dye can’t even be removed, can it?” he asked. “Isn’t that why it’s called ‘permanent’?”
“Actually, I did a little checking and it seems it can be removed with the right products. I’d be happy to pick them up for you if you’d like.”
She could hear muffled footsteps. He was pacing.
“Morty?”
“I’m thinking.”
She waited. It touched her, the sound of those footsteps treading back and forth, back and forth. He was considering it, this gruff ex-policeman. Considering the sacrifice of pride, familiarity, and hairstyle for a chance at love.
“I’ll do it,” he said at last. “Darn her.”
Wow. She was struck anew by the fact that love held incredible power for change. “How’s Thursday afternoon for you? I’ll bring the dye remover over to your house and help you apply it.”
“I don’t need help with my own hair.”
“Unfortunately, the dye removal process takes two people. But if you’d rather have someone else . . .”
“No. You’ll do.” She heard a distinct grinding of teeth before he hung up.
Kate felt a pang of pity. A relationship with Velma guaranteed him a future of teeth grinding. Morty’d go down to the grave with a mouthful of nubs.
Kate walked into the kitchen at dinnertime that night to find Gran and Matt in a heated argument over aprons. She paused in the doorway, watching, as Gran brandished an apron in her ring-encrusted fingers. It was a white canvas number, with a loop for the neck and two dangling ties to secure behind the back. “Matt, I’m telling you that you need to put this on.”
“No way.”
“You’re about to use an electric handheld mixer,” Gran gestured to the appliance already plugged in and waiting on the countertop, “and it’s going to get messy.”
Matt’s hard features took on a defiant cast. “Look, Beverly, I’ll cook but I am not going to wear an apron.”
“Your sweater is cashmere!”
He shrugged.
“Cashmere!”
“I’d rather throw it away after this,” he motioned toward the apron, “than wear that.”
Gran glared at him as if he’d insulted her.
He returned her glare, not backing down an inch.
“Matthew Jarreau! If I knew your middle name, I’d use it!”
Still nothing. He set his mouth in an endearingly mulish line.
They faced off for several charged seconds before Gran hefted an enormous sigh, shook her head, and went to hang the apron on its peg in the pantry. “Men!”
Matt glanced at Kate.
“No fair of you to start the fun without me,” she said.
He grunted, pushed up the sleeves of his beige sweater, and started washing his hands.
Gran took up her position at the counter, her expression disgruntled. “I didn’t think your masculinity could be so easily threatened.”
“You thought wrong.” He dried his hands with a dish towel. “It’s David.”
“What is?”
He lifted one eyebrow. “My middle name.”
“Matthew David Jarreau?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, good.” She gave a haughty sniff. “The next time I need to use it, I will.”
One side of his lips twitched upward, and just that quickly, animosity disappeared and contentment hummed through the kitchen as the two of them launched into their cooking lesson.
Kate had dressed in clothes appropriate for treading through the detonation site of a nuclear bomb. She’d tugged on plastic gloves. She’d mixed chemicals like a scientist. And she’d just shoveled an appropriate amount of something called color remover onto something called a tint brush.
Operation Correct-Morty’s-Hair-Dye-Blunder was about to commence
.
The object of her charity was sitting on a vinyl chair in the center of his kitchen, eyeing her grumpily.
She wondered if he’d take offense if she snapped on a pair of goggles and a gas mask.
“Is it ready?” he asked.
“Ready.” Kate approached him, centered herself directly behind him, and shellacked the first brushful of goo onto the crown of his head. Whatever unseen “personal space” boundaries they’d had between them evaporated. Discomfort crashed over Kate and she paused momentarily, deeply tempted to pound out the back door at a dead sprint.
Massages, she reminded herself. Facials. Manicures. Spa pedicures! She dove in grimly with both plastic-covered hands, meticulously raking the goo through his hair.
“So,” Morty said, “how about those Dallas Cowboys?”
Kate laughed. The tension began to deflate. “How about them.”
“They won their preseason games and now they’re three and one. They’re up against the Eagles, though, on Sunday. . . .”
He continued chatting about football, and Kate continued with the goo and the brush. Like many things in life that made one painfully self-conscious at the outset, like wearing your swimsuit on the first day of summer, time and practice helped one adjust.
When she finished with the solution, he looked like a geriatric rock star with a fetish for hair gel. Some of the black strands stuck directly up, and some lay in matted surrender.
Kate consulted the directions for the hundredth time, then snapped a shower cap onto him.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now it has to process for twenty minutes.”
“What does that mean?”
“We let it sit for twenty minutes. It says that I can use a hair dryer on the shower cap to help it along.”
His eyebrows lowered skeptically.
Kate grinned at the picture he presented. This burly frowning grandfather, his hair glistening under a shower cap.
“Can we at least move into the den so I can watch TV?” he asked.
“Sure. And then we’ll need to come back in here to rinse, shampoo it, and put on the—” she consulted the directions again—“processing lotion.”
“Fine.”
She followed him into his den. He settled into an old brown fabric recliner that had a concave back and butt indentions. He’d placed the recliner, without creativity, directly in front of his television. Apparently they still made the this-TV-is-a-piece-of-furniture! televisions, because that’s what his was. A TV, surrounded by wood, with a top like a buffet table.
She thought of Peg and William’s lovely, tasteful, magazine-worthy home. She thought of Gran’s snug ranch-style house in Dallas. She thought of Velma’s scruffy house, with its debris-stuffed carport, peeling paint, and six acres of property. They all had homes that suited them. But somehow this two-bedroom condo on the edge of town didn’t seem right for Morty.
He kept it neat, but the place was worn and stark, filled with outdated furniture. After a lifetime of police work in this town, children raised, and grandchildren grown, it seemed to Kate that Morty ought to be entitled to more. To a place less lonely.
Kate plugged in her blow-dryer and managed to unfurl it just far enough to reach Morty with the warm air. Morty responded to the noise by turning up the TV volume, so Kate found herself blow-drying Morty’s shower cap while the four o’clock local news blared in the background.
Twenty minutes had seldom passed so slowly.
When the time was up, they returned to the kitchen and Morty ducked over the sink. Kate stood on a footstool and leaned over him, rinsing, then shampooing his hair.
The color had faded from inky opaque black to . . . plain dull black.
Kate’s hopes sank.
“How’s it look?” Morty asked the sink drain.
“Well . . . it didn’t change much.” She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his head.
“What’s that you said?” He straightened with two joint pops, dried his hair vigorously, then draped the towel around his shoulders. He looked at her questioningly. “Didn’t change much?”
“No, but the directions say we can repeat the process two or three more times today.”
“Let me go look in the mirror.” He disappeared around the corner into the hall bathroom. After a moment he called, “And what if it still doesn’t change after two or three more times?”
“Then we’ll have to wait a few days and try again. We’ve got enough product”—Kate’s voice and courage were shrinking—“for ten applications,” she finished faintly.
He returned and planted himself back into the vinyl chair. “Confounded Velma.”
She half expected him to launch into a string of curses, but instead he gave a rusty laugh and shook his head. “Let’s try it again, then.”
At seven o’clock that night Kate stood above the brown recliner blow-drying Morty’s shower cap for the fourth time that day. The television shows had changed each time around. This time he had the volume at max for a cable offering of The Rockford Files.
Her mind drifted in circles of bored contemplation. She was thinking how glad she was that she hadn’t pursued a degree in cosmetology when something caught her attention. She straightened and stared.
A section of Morty’s hair actually looked . . . gray.
Gray!
She checked her watch. Time to shampoo. She shepherded him into the kitchen. He bent over the sink without being asked, well familiar with the routine by now, and she started to wash his hair.
Yes. It truly was gray. A beautiful gun-metal color, slightly darker near the temples, slightly lighter in a streak over his right eye.
“Morty!” She rinsed the suds out, practically bouncing on the footstool with excitement. “It worked!”
“It did?”
“It did!”
And then, before he’d even had a chance to see it, or form his own opinion about it, he asked, “Do you think Velma will like it?”
“Oh, Morty,” Kate replied. “She better.”
Feeling like a CIA operative, Kate covertly tailed Velma to the bathroom. It was Friday again. Poker night. She waited in the shadows of the hallway.
A few minutes later, Velma exited the bathroom, spotted Kate waiting, and frowned. “Is this going to become a regular thing? Me using the ladies’ and coming out to find you here? Because I don’t exactly like the idea of somebody listening to me pee.”
“Completely understood.”
“From now on if you want to talk to me, just tell me you want to talk to me.”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Velma sniffed, then crossed her arms over an orange turtleneck and a black vest decorated with iron-on Halloween characters. Ghosts, pumpkins, witches, and black cats gazed at Kate with surprised eyes. “You wanting to talk to me about Morty?”
“I am.” Kate smiled hopefully. “Doesn’t his hair look great?”
“His hair looks . . . nice.” Velma inclined her head like a queen granting a serf a concession.
“So? Will you go on a date with him?”
“No.”
Kate furrowed her brow. No? No!
“His hair’s better,” Velma said, “but his clothes are still a problem.”
Kate just stared.
“You know, the white T-shirts and the jeans and the penny loafers. I married my sorry husband when I was twenty years old and that’s exactly how he dressed back then. Lord knows, that man was a disappointment.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t cotton to Morty reminding me of Herb every time he walks into a room.”
“O-kay,” Kate replied slowly. She wanted to shout, Do you know how many hours it took to remove that hair dye? Instead, she marshaled her thoughts and managed to ask in a level voice, “What kind of men’s clothing do you like?”
“I like a man to look stylish, you know. Maybe some of that Italian fashion.”
A mental image of the mobsters from The Sopranos popped into Kate’s head. She grim
aced. “Ah . . .”
“I also like those shirts, those . . .”—Velma waved fingers painted with her trademark pearl polish—“Tommy Bermuda’s shirts.”
“Tommy Bahama?”
“Yes, Tommy Bahama. I think they sell them in Philadelphia.”
Great. Philadelphia. A mere two-hour drive round trip.
“I like slacks,” Velma said. “And boots with a nice heel on them. And a spiffy looking burgundy leather jacket would be nice.”
Velma had been giving this some thought, Kate noticed, and tried to take that as a promising sign. “So . . . if Morty buys some new clothes, will you agree to a date?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’m going to need a firmer commitment,” Kate replied. “If he spends money on new clothes just to please you, then I’m going to need your promise that you’ll go on a date with him.”
Velma regarded her with a steely gaze.
In the background Kate could hear the others talking, the clack of the poker chips as Morty stacked them into piles.
Velma gave Kate an airy shrug. “Well, you’re not going to get a promise. I’ve been living on my own for forty years, and to tell you the truth, I like it just fine that way.”
Kate blew out a defeated breath.
“The only thing I’ll say is that I might, might, be tempted to accept a date with a man wearing a Tommy Bermuda’s shirt.”
“These seniors know how to eat.” Matt scooped up a second handful of Beverly’s caramel corn. They’d been playing poker for an hour and a half and were taking a break before starting up again. He and Kate stood side by side at the butcher block in the kitchen.
“This is very true,” Kate agreed, popping some into her mouth.
Man, it was good, he thought. Sticky and buttery with lots of nuts in it. He hadn’t stopped appreciating Beverly’s cooking. Still couldn’t get over it. In the years since he’d moved to Redbud, he’d eaten lousy food either over the sink or in front of the TV. But for more than two weeks now he’d been eating Beverly’s home-cooked meals at her kitchen table every weeknight.
