“Are you okay?” we asked in unison.
“I’m fine,” I said, then started blubbering like a big, fat, firebug baby.
He pulled me against his chest. “It’s okay. The fire is out, and it looked worse than it was. There wasn’t much damage.” Then he pulled away and winced. “Except for your clothes.”
Clothes, schmothes. I sniffed. “Even my Dolce coat?”
He looked confused, then turned to wave at the fire truck that came into view. He walked over to confer with the men, shaking hands and pointing, obviously diffusing the panic.
I felt a nudge on my leg and looked down to see Angel staring up at me. I leaned over to pick her up, then stroked her head to calm both of us. I watched Sam, horrified to know that my carelessness could have cost him his clinic or his life.
“I’m the curse,” I murmured.
18
“YOU COULD have been killed!” Jacki said.
“We all might have been,” I said miserably. “I’m a walking weapon.”
“It was an accident,” she soothed. “I’m sure Sam doesn’t blame you.”
“He says he doesn’t, but what’s he going to say? ‘Get away from me, you plague?’”
“I actually used that line once on a guy—it really works. Did you lose anything in the fire?”
“All of my clothes.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Even the Dolce coat?”
“Even the Dolce coat.”
Jacki moaned. “Well, at least you’re safe. Hey, if you set the apartment on fire, where are you sleeping?”
“In Sam’s guest room.” I laid my head back on the pillows of my new bed. Same woodsy furniture as the rest of the house, but with a camouflage and deer motif. “I offered to get a room in town, but he insisted that I stay here. Besides, it was so late by the time we cleaned up from the fire, I was too exhausted to walk any farther than across the road.”
“Well, I have to ask—did the dildo survive?”
“It did,” I said. “Do you think there’s some kind of message in that?”
“You mean, like ‘stop, drop and roll’?”
“No, like I should just be happy with the facsimile.”
“Okay, that’s just plain creepy. Since when have you been into signs?”
I hesitated, knowing how crazy I was going to sound. But if you couldn’t confess crazy things to your friends, that left only Internet chatrooms and daytime talk shows. “I talked to Helena yesterday morning, and she warned me that something bad was going to happen.”
“I’m not following.”
“Helena consults a psychic, and the lady told her something bad was going to happen here yesterday. I was suspicious because it’s the same lady who’s pushing the idea of this cover curse, but then again…”
“Kenzie, be serious. Something bad has happened every day you’ve been there—did she predict those things, too?”
Good point. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I think the country air is doing something to my mind.”
“Like oxygen overload?”
“Yeah, I need to get back to the smog and exhaust—apparently I operate better on fewer brain cells.”
“Are you still planning to come home Sunday?”
“If I live that long.”
“Chin up. And call me tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and decided to get the call to Helena over with. If I was lucky, she’d have downed her first cup of coffee. If I was really lucky, she wouldn’t pull me through the phone line when I delivered the questionably good news about Angel.
I dialed and waited.
“Personality magazine, Helena Birch.”
“Helena, it’s Kenzie.”
“Where have you been? I called and called last night.”
“We’ve been really busy.” I cleared my throat. “Helena, there’s been a little development with Angel’s spaying.”
“You didn’t allow Dr. Long to perform the procedure yesterday, did you?”
“Urn, no—as it turned out, he couldn’t have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Angel is pregnant.”
“What? That’s impossible.”
I gave a nervous little laugh. “Actually, that’s not true. Remember when I took Angel to the groomer’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she sort of got away from me when I took her out of the carrier, and she was lost in the facility for a little while. It was only a few minutes, but Sam says that’s long enough to…er—”
“I get the picture,” Helena snapped. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t raise a litter of puppies in my flat. And God only knows what kind of beast compromised her— the offspring could be huge!”
“We’ll find homes for them.” I swallowed. “I’ll find homes for them. In fact, I’ll take one.” I squinted, trying to remember if my apartment building had a no-pets policy.
“So this was the bad thing that Madame Blackworth predicted,” she said.
“It must have been,” I said to pacify her. She sounded so forlorn I saw no need to tell her about the fire.
Helena heaved a queenly sigh. “Well, I suppose you can’t change destiny. How is that article coming along?”
“Nicely,” I lied. Where had my ambition gone? I was blowing it.
“And Dr. Long is well?”
“Yes.” So far.
“Hmm, there’s my other line, Kenzie, I’m expecting a call from—well, I’d better go. I’ll call later to talk with Angel. I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandma!”
I hung up the phone and considered pulling the covers over my head. But I had to face Sam sooner or later, so I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. Getting dressed was easy—my choices were smoky orange overalls or smoky dark coveralls, all of which had been spared from the fire by virtue of me having taken them into the bathroom to cut off the tags. I chose the overalls and a long-sleeve navy T-shirt from the stack of pullovers that Sam had lent me. Under the T-shirt, however, I was shocked to find my pink Lejaby panties, the ones I’d left for Sam on the bed in the hotel room. Sam must have realized I would need undergarments. Interesting that he’d kept them. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I was happy to have a clean pair of my own underwear to put on.
My hair—I sniffed and faced the reality: between the skunk and the smoke, it had to go. Where I would find a stylist in Jar Hollow, I didn’t know, but I’d have to take my chances when I went into town later to look for underwear and socks. Meanwhile, I skimmed it back into a ponytail.
I dressed Angel in a black chenille sweater and put a festive silver bow in her hair, then I carried her out into the hall lest she be assaulted by Sam’s pack of hounds, but all was quiet, except for clinking noises coming from the kitchen, so I set her down. I followed my nose down, then through the den and into the place where I’d doled out our fried chicken dinner just—had it only been four days ago?
Sam stood at the stove with his back to me, wearing low-slung Levi’s jeans and a gray T-shirt (Banana Republic, I thought, although I’d have to see it from the front to be sure). He was barefoot and his hair was uncombed and I thought I would die from wanting to touch him. He was nodding his head to the beat of the song on the radio, using a spatula to move sausage around in a cast-iron skillet. He seemed relatively unburdened for someone saddled with me.
My chest tightened and I felt downright miserable in my skin—helpless that I had all these feelings for this man and had made such a mess out of things. I’d given up on the fantasy that Sam would fall in love with me—now I was simply hoping he wouldn’t have me incarcerated.
“Good morning,” I said.
He turned and flashed a heartbreaking smile. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
I nodded, then burst into tears.
He looked alarmed, then abandoned the sausage to steer me into a knotty pine chair. “What’s wrong?”
“I almost burned down you
r clinic,” I bawled.
He made soothing noises. “I told you, it was an accident. I have good insurance, and besides, the damage was superficial. And you made sure all the animals were safe.” He winked. “Even the snakes. Forget about it, okay? Let’s eat, I’m starving.”
I hiccuped. “What are we having?”
“Sausage, biscuits and gravy.”
I was pining for fruit and cereal, but I wasn’t going to argue. He set coffee and a plateful of steaming food in front of me—links of meat and open-faced biscuits smothered with taupe-colored gravy. I sniffed the gravy suspiciously, but my empty stomach overrode my reservations, and I dug in.
Sam was already working on his plate, piled twice as high as mine. He chewed slowly and with obvious enjoyment—a simple act that endeared me to him further.
“This is good,” I said, sipping the strong coffee.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin and grinned. “I’m not much of a cook, but I can manage breakfast.”
I saw my opportunity. “So…how do you make your gravy?”
He shrugged. “The usual way.”
Ah.
“So,” he said, “have you talked to your boss about her dog?”
I nodded. “She took it badly, but I promised to take one of the puppies and help find homes for the others.”
“Very commendable.”
I shrugged. “You inspired me.”
His eyebrows rose a fraction. “Thanks. And you inspired me.”
My heart bobbed in wonder. “I did?”
“To get organized.” He nodded toward the clinic. “The computer and whatever else you ordered were delivered this morning.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll help you set up everything today.”
He made a rueful noise. “It’ll have to wait until this afternoon. I need to drive to Syracuse to pick up some meds. And I still have to do that lice treatment. I should be back by noon.”
He didn’t want me to go.
“Unless you want to go,” he added.
Despite Helena’s edict for me to shadow him, I wasn’t about to force my company on him. Besides, he was probably safer if I didn’t go. “No, that’s okay—I was thinking I’d go into town and run a couple of errands.”
He nodded, then resumed eating. So did I, but tension had settled over the room, as thick as gravy. And just as baffling.
“So,” he said finally, “do you have enough material for your article?”
He was eager for me to go back to Manhattan. A bite of biscuit stuck in my throat. “Almost.”
He took a drink from his coffee cup and seemed to be weighing his words. “I was just wondering, since I won’t be spaying Angel, if you were planning to leave earlier than Sunday.”
I swallowed. “If you need for me to leave—”
“I don’t,” he cut in. “That’s not what I meant. You’re welcome to stay…as long as you need to.” He took another drink. “Or want to.”
My silly heart might have read something into that last remark except he was looking at his plate, talking to the sausages. He wanted me to leave and was too nice to say so. My appetite vanished, and I was tempted to go pack my empty suitcase and hit the road, cover curse be damned. Angel and I could hide out in my apartment until Sunday—Helena would never know we’d left early.
Unless she called.
I groaned inwardly. No, I had to stick it out, but at least I could help to get his office organized before I left. That might make me feel better about the pretense of my trip, and all the trouble I’d caused since arriving.
“I guess you’re missing the city, aren’t you?” he asked.
I looked up and nodded. “It’s my home. I guess a person misses what’s familiar.”
He nodded, then glanced at his watch. “I’d better get going if I’m going to make it back at a decent hour.” I helped him to clear the table, load the dishwasher, and wipe the wood counters. We moved with few words and in tandem, reaching around each other and picking up where the other person left off. Despite its pioneer appearance, the kitchen was stocked with state-of-the-art appliances, and the wood cabinets featured custom organizers, recycling bins, and storage racks. Perhaps he didn’t have Madison Avenue taste, but the man appreciated quality.
“Thanks for the help, partner,” he said, then winked and disappeared in the direction of his bedroom.
I stared after him, then took Angel for a walk, hoping the fresh air would help clear my head. But since the air was still tinged with the smell of smoke from my most recent disaster, the walk did little but remind me how much I didn’t belong here. And gave me a roaring headache.
Sam came out of the cabin carrying a travel mug as we were stepping upon the porch. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said, then hesitated.
For a few seconds, the scene felt…domestic and I had the crazy sensation that he was going to kiss me goodbye. I stepped backward, trouncing on Angel’s paw. She yelped and I apologized, then waved at Sam who’d resumed making his way toward the truck. “Be careful.” He nodded and I bit back a reminder to wear his seat belt. That was just too telltale—although I did stand there long enough to make sure he buckled himself in. He waved as he pulled away, and when his brake lights disappeared, I was overcome by a pressing sense of loneliness. The trees towered around me. The air echoed with quiet. I wondered if Sam ever felt lonely.
I left Angel in the guest room with food and water and drove the Volvo into town, keeping my eyes peeled for discount stores and hair salons. I pulled over at a dollar store and purchased a package of socks and one of underwear—not French, but sturdy and sufficient to get me through the weekend. I asked the clerk about a hair salon and she directed me to the Cut and Curl within walking distance.
It was a nice day for a walk, and the temperatures had warmed to the mid-sixties, according to the digital marquee on the Peoples’ Bank of Jar Hollow. Warm for spring in upstate New York. The street cleaners were out—not the huge raucous machines with spiraling brushes, but two old men with wide push brooms, making their way down the edge between the sidewalk and the street a few feet at a time. From my vantage point I could see the town square and the hustle and bustle there around the fountain. The hair salon was down a shady side street, between a video rental store (free popcorn) and a pizza parlor (free breadsticks). A pink awning marked the door of the salon, and the windows were dotted with taped-up pages from hairstyle books. I squinted—dated hair-salon books. I worked my mouth from side to side wondering if I should risk it. Next to the leader of the Free World, the person with the most power was a hairdresser. A hairdresser could make your day, or ruin your year.
Before I could make up my mind, the door opened and a plump woman with a helmet of jet-black curls smiled wide. “Come on in, honey. You look like you could use a friend.”
While I was thinking it was a bizarre thing for the woman to say, my feet moved forward and carried me into a long, aromatic beehive of a room full of women having their hair and nails done. Except for the country music playing in the background and the coffee pot in the corner instead of a bottled-water bar, the Cut and Curl could have been a salon in Manhattan.
“Now, what can I do for you, miss?” the woman asked me.
“I need a cut and blow-dry. Do you take walkins?”
“Sure do.” She consulted a pink appointment book, then patted my arm. “I’ll be right back.”
I realized that I was being checked out by every woman in the room and tried my best to look unaware. But I found it difficult to maintain my composure when I looked up to see the woman returning with Val Jessum in tow. Val Jessum wearing a pink smock. When she saw me, her step faltered, then she recovered.
The older woman smiled wide. “Val will be glad to take you, Miss—?” She held her pen over the appointment book.
“Mansfield,” Val and I said in unison. An awkward stare-down ensued, both of us weighing the implications of her cutting my hair.
“Look,” Val said, “if you don’t w
ant to do this, I can swap with another stylist.”
“No,” I said with more aplomb than I felt, then conjured up a smile. “Let’s do it.”
I followed Val, noticing that many women were reading the copy of Personality with Sam on the cover. When we reached Val’s station, the cover was taped up in the corner of the mirror. I climbed into the chair as if I were ascending to a guillotine. She and I both knew she could scalp me if she wanted to.
“How long have you been cutting hair?” I asked nervously.
She gave a short laugh. “All of my life.” She snapped open a pink plastic cape and fastened it around my neck, a tad too tight. “I left and worked for Sam for a year, then came back.” She sighed, as if she regretted the move.
“Sam said the paperwork is killing him, and from the look of his desk, I’d have to agree.”
“I thought he would replace me,” she said pointedly. “But he hasn’t.”
Point taken.
She averted her gaze. “Sam and I worked well together.”
“He mentioned that.” I opted not to mention that he’d insinuated they had worked together better than they’d played together.
The tight line of her mouth softened and she seemed to be contemplating…something—going back to work for Sam? He did appear to be holding a place for her. The fact that she was considering it gave me some idea of what Sam’s answer had been to the “Who is she to you?” question.
Val released my hair from the ponytail holder and turned me around to face the mirror. “What kind of cut would you like?”
I was silent for a few seconds, struck by the polar extremes in our reflection—her olive skin and glossy beauty next to my Milk of Magnesia complexion and limp, malodorous hair. “Urn…something rather short, I think.”
Her lovely brows arched. “Really?”
I lifted a longish lock ruefully. “I had a run-in with a skunk.”
She smiled as if she wished she’d seen that. “Can’t get the scent out?”
“Not completely.” I looked in the mirror and tossed my head, suddenly brave. “And I’m ready for a new look for spring.” I swallowed. “What would you suggest?”
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