by Kym Roberts
I shook my head, wishing her description of The Barn was true. “This store is hardly ‘rustic chic.’”
“You’re right,” Scarlet agreed. “It’s more teen boutique, but the tearoom is dead-on.”
I scrunched my nose and looked at it through the eyes of my teenage self. Everything in the store screamed of my youthful tastes. Everything except the tearoom, which I’d designed for my mom.
“I couldn’t possibly take that many pieces of art from you. We’d need way too much.”
“We’ll make a stall just for young girls and put most, if not all of the tween stuff in there, along with chapter books and young adult theme books. That will make room for the new merchandise.”
“Not all young girls like pink and delicate. A lot of girls like sports, vampires, and antiheroes.”
“We’ll add a little black for edginess and attract both.”
I was starting to like her ideas. An overhaul of the store was desperately needed. “What about the boys?”
“We’ll create a stall for them as well. Wrestling, horses, sports . . .”
I was pretty sure my male students back in Colorado didn’t want horses or baseball bats, but I was starting to get excited. “And for all the geeks in between, we can make a gender neutral room.”
I was beginning to see the big picture for The Barn’s future. A future I wouldn’t be a part of, but would help my dad once his name was cleared. “The rest of the store could look more adult.”
Scarlet was catching the fever and I wondered if she should be designing spaces instead of hair. “The rest of the store just needs a little whitewash and stain to tone down the bright shades and it will be transformed in no time.”
That’s when reality kind of hit me in the face and my heart sank. I didn’t have the funds to buy any supplies to redecorate. How could I possible get all of that done?
“Money is the game changer. You’re talking about adult-priced renovations on a teenager’s budget.”
Scarlet wasn’t swayed. “I’ve got leftover stain from my remodel, and I know your dad has some white paint stored in back.”
“But it would take me forever to get it done,” I insisted.
“The team is willing to help you. All you have to do is ask.”
I blinked. Ask the football team for help? “I couldn’t.”
“You could. The town owes you.”
The town did owe me. At least in my opinion. Although I wasn’t sure they’d agree.
“Call Coach.” Scarlet picked up the phone on the counter.
“I don’t have his number.”
She waggled the receiver in her hand. “It’s programmed into the phone. Coach helped create this monstrosity with your dad.”
I coughed, or gagged, I’m not sure which. “If he helped create it, why would I want him to do anything else? This is horrible.” I indicated the pink wall behind me.
I think Scarlet was getting a little frustrated with my resistance. Her shoulders lifted and then fell, and I’m pretty sure she was biting the inside of her cheek. “Because there’s a woman in charge now. A woman who knows what’s tasteful and what’s tacky. With your guidance, Coach will get it done.”
“But I can’t pay him.”
“You don’t need to pay him.”
“Of course I do.”
“He owes your dad.” Scarlet was worse than a rattlesnake in a bunny den.
“For what?” The only thing those two had in common was their age.
“Your dad is one of the major boosters for the team.”
My mouth could have hit the counter, it dropped so far. “Wait . . . what? How could my dad possibly boost anything financially?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“It’s the middle of football season,” I argued.
She punched in the number and I heard it ringing. “There’s no practice or game on Sunday. They can help tomorrow.”
The ringing stopped and a man’s voice said, “Hello.”
Scarlet’s eyebrows raised and I snatched the phone from her hand just as Coach said, “Hello?” for the second time.
“Coach. It’s Charli Rae Warren. I–I was wondering . . .” I rubbed my temple and scrunched my eyes closed. “Are you available to help do some remodeling at The Barn tomorrow? I know it’s last minute, and I can’t pay . . .”
“What time do you need us?”
“Us?” I squeaked.
“If you’ve got things to move, I’m bringing younger backs than mine to help out.”
“Oh . . . say eleven o’clock?”
“Make it nine. I’ll tell my players to go to the early service at church and be waiting outside the barn at nine a.m. . . . sharp.”
Still dazed, I said, “The front door is kind of blocked.”
“I understand. We’ll meet you next to the fountain at nine. You can let us in the side door.”
Somehow, despite the shock, I was able to end the conversation on a polite note. “Thank you, Coach.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
I hung up the phone, wondering what had just happened. Maybe I had jumped the gun a little too quickly at seventeen . . . or maybe people could change their stripes. There was also the possibility that the universe had been altered.
My money was on the universe.
Chapter Thirteen
Scarlet changed and came back looking like Ann-Margaret: tight white capris with a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt with navy blue tennis shoes straight out of a movie from the sixties. I wasn’t sure how she was going to keep her outfit clean but decided to let her worry about that. We spent the rest of the day and well into the night cleaning out three different stalls for our new tween sections. Despite my better judgment, I buckled to her idea of combining the self-help and relationship section with the religion section. She said if anyone asked, God was into people helping themselves and improving their relationships on Earth, as well as in heaven. It was a plan I thought I could sell.
Maybe.
The one new section I knew I could promote was the combination of diet, health, and fitness with cookbooks, food, and wine and the coveted sports section. For one, husbands and wives could shop together, and two, what better way to get into shape and eat right while preparing for the big game? Win-win. At least for the wives. I’d have to watch the guys’ reaction to the changes.
The kids’ stalls were awesome. Although all the shelves were white, my dad had painted the interior of every other stall bright pink, so we chose one of the pink rooms for the girls’ section and brought every piece of pink froufrou gobbledygook we could find into the space—fuzzy tiaras and pens, along with journals and phone cases blinged out with crystals.
Scarlet grabbed a stack of book bags that we’d piled up on the floor near the girls’ stall. “We need to make hooks out of old books to hang these bags on the outside of the stalls.”
I stretched out my back. “Are you trying to write a Dr. Seuss story?”
Scarlet laughed with a little snort. “No, I’ve made a few for my trailer. They’re hanging in my bedroom. You just attach a hook to a couple books that are stacked caddywhompus by screwing through them and into the wall of the stall.”
I smiled. “Hooks on books on the walls of the stalls. I’m sure there’s a kids’ story in that somewhere.”
Scarlet shook her head, her red hair glinting with strands of gold in the fluorescent light. “I saw a bunch of old doorknobs in a box in the tearoom. We could use those.”
“Why don’t we save that for tomorrow?” I suggested.
“It’s a plan. It will be easier with the extra help.” Scarlet nodded and wiped her hands on a dish towel she’d thrown over her shoulder. She was as clean as she’d been when she’d arrived.
I looked as if I’d taken a trip to the backyard with my dad’s rodent and dug for grubs all night. And we weren’t even close to being done.
We brought all the young girl magazines into the stall, leaving the display as i
s. It was the one thing my dad got right; every magazine was hung over a louver on a pair of old shutters. They were even separated by genre.
We finished up by adding the rest of the books. From Nancy Drew to a best-selling series about vampires and werewolves, monster princesses and utopian worlds. The stall was all about girl power—and it rocked.
Next, we moved on to the geek section. The white door turned into a stormtrooper thanks to Scarlet’s artistic genius and a little bit of black paint. We left everything white on the inside of the stall and put a long bench down the middle of it with plans to have it painted black the next day. Once we poked holes into the paper shade on the black lamp sitting on a table, it would make the coolest Darth Vader.
My students would love it. I loved it. I was pretty sure Scarlet loved it by the way she kept eyeing it.
I marked three large rocks out back behind The Barn for the guys to move inside the geek stall the next day for additional seating. Then I moved on to the boys’ stall—which was pink.
Scarlet disappeared for a short time and came back with a can of red paint.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Don’t ask and I won’t tell.”
I took her advice and got busy painting the walls red, the whole time wondering if stolen red paint was better than pink. After the walls were done, I retreated to the apartment and got down my old baseball bat while Scarlet painted a baseball on the exterior of the stall door that had a cowboy hat tilted off to one side. We argued over putting half the sports magazines in with the boys’ books, but in the end Scarlet won. The dads could spend time with their sons, and if girls wanted to look at them, they’d probably want to look at those books as well.
Scarlet donated a couple of black beanbag chairs she kept in the back of the salon. I secretly think she used them as her bed because there was no floor space in her trailer, but I appreciated it and vowed to make it all up to her someday.
By the time we’d finished the last kids’ stall, we were exhausted. Scarlet’s hair still looked perfect. Mine looked as if I’d painted the tips white. It was the story of my life.
We did have something in common—we were beyond starving.
“My mom sent Joellen to the beauty shop with a pan of lasagna this morning. Want to come over? I’ll heat it up and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster,” Scarlet suggested.
My stomach growled. “That sounds awesome.” We made our way out into the dark night. The town was quiet except for the low rumble of music and voices from the Tool Shed Tavern at the end of the block. Pickup trucks and muscle cars were parked out front and I had no doubt they filled the lot on the side of the building as well. Hazel Rock went from the family-friendly Hazel Rock Diner on one end of town to the Wild West bar at the other. Growing up in the middle of town, I could have embraced either side of the tracks. I’d ultimately chosen the diner side but had a few memories of the Tool Shed Tavern I wanted to forget.
“It’s not as bad as our parents made it out to be,” Scarlet said, glancing over at the bar.
I snorted. “Nothing ever is.” It was actually worse than our parents had warned us against. “I take it you’ve been there a few times?”
“It’s the only entertainment in town for the over–twenty-one crowd,” she explained. “And every weekend they have a band. What’s not to like?”
Smoke. Bad pickup lines. Spilled drinks. Lost souls . . .
The Tool Shed had been for the down and way out. It wasn’t a place any parent would find acceptable—no matter what your age. “Do your parents know?”
“I suspect they’ve heard. You can’t shake your hind end without the front end talking in Hazel Rock, but it’s different now.”
I raised a skeptical brow. “Is there dancing?” I hadn’t seen any dancing during my time there, but maybe things had changed.
“You could call it that.”
“What else would you call it?” I asked.
Scarlet grinned and did a hip swivel, followed up with a thrust. “Bump and grind.”
I laughed as we walked to the other side of the street. “You lie!”
“My momma didn’t raise me to lie.”
My mom hadn’t either, but that didn’t mean I didn’t embellish a tale or two along the way. “So everyone over twenty-one goes in there?” I couldn’t help myself, I thought of him.
“If you’re asking me if Cade bumps and grinds, the answer is no. Although I have seen him slow dance a time or two.”
I knew how Cade slow danced. The man had moves that were as sinful as a preacher in a strip club. “I was actually wondering if the sheriff ever spent any time there.” Which wasn’t exactly true but was close enough.
Scarlet grinned. “He breaks up fights and acts like a cab driver to anyone who’s dumb enough to walk out to their car after having a few too many.”
“He doesn’t wait to give them a DUI?” The old sheriff used to bring in a bunch of revenue for the town by arresting the Tool Shed’s patrons driving under the influence.
“Nope. He says the bar is providing entertainment. The last thing he wants to do is hurt it.”
“But people who drive drunk deserve a ticket.”
“No argument there. Mateo just thinks a little intervention goes a long way.”
I couldn’t argue. Saving a life had to be a better outcome in anyone’s book. “What about Oak Grove? With Country Mart moving there, the town must have developed a larger need for a police presence. Why is the sheriff hanging out in Hazel Rock?”
“There’re four deputies and a sergeant who work through the night in Oak Grove.” Scarlet unlocked the door of her salon and turned off the alarm. We walked through the back room, where she grabbed the pan of lasagna from the fridge, and we headed to her trailer out back. I was immediately caught off guard. I’d been expecting a mobile home, but this was different—and cute. Scarlet’s vintage silver Airstream trailer sparkled in the moonlight. A set of Adirondack chairs sat outside the door.
“That’s adorable.”
“Thank you. I think.” I caught her smile in the dim light from a bulb on the outside of the trailer.
We made our way down the back steps and across a dried-up lawn with pavers that looked like flip-flops.
We entered her trailer and I was immediately thankful that she hadn’t offered to let me stay with her. The two of us overwhelmed the space. I moved toward the end of the trailer, where a table stood surrounded by cushions fashioned after a 1970s Mexican fiesta. Decorated in bright oranges, yellows, and greens, the entire trailer was a blast from the past. The cabinetry was white with orange doors. The cushions on the couch and around the table were the same bright tangerine as the cabinets and had bright-colored paisley pillows neatly displayed across them. The windows were dressed in white curtains patterned with orange and yellow slices of fruit that made my mouth water.
“Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty rad. Tight on living quarters, but I like it. There’s wine, beer, or tea in the fridge. If you could get me a beer and help yourself, I’d appreciate it. I’ll throw the lasagna in the microwave and have it done in no time.”
I pulled out two beers and got napkins and silverware from the drawer she pointed to as she talked about how she’d acquired the trailer at an auction. She said it was her only hope of moving out of her parents’ house after remodeling the salon. For six months she’d literally slept on the couch in the workroom of her shop.
That had to have been miserable, yet I could feel myself becoming claustrophobic in the tight space of her trailer. This was definitely not my preferred style of living.
“How did you get the trailer here?”
Scarlet set our plates on the table and sat down across from me. “Your dad.”
“Really?” I took a big bite of the lasagna and instantly began fanning my mouth from the heat of the sauce.
“Yup. He heard I was looking for a trailer and took me to the auction. I bought it that day. He
hauled it here, helped me level the ground, and put it in place. My parents were out of town, and when they came back, I moved into the salon to watch over the renovations.”
“Who did the renovations?” I asked over another mouthful of delicious lasagna.
“Coach.” Scarlet gauged my reaction over the top of her bottle of beer.
My fork stopped midway to my mouth and I set it back down. “Shut the barn door.”
She laughed and took a drink of beer. “The man is a genius on and off the field. I told him what I wanted and he did the rest. Granted, I bought or made all the cushions and curtains, but the rest is all Coach Purcell.”
“But he’s responsible for The Book Barn Princess.”
“He’s color blind. He has no clue what it really looks like.”
That explained it. My dad wasn’t color blind, but he would wear a plaid shirt with plaid pants.
Scarlet and I talked for a while as we polished off the lasagna and finished our beer. I helped clean up the mess and then she walked me back through the salon. I hugged her good-bye and made my way across the street.
The noise from the Tool Shed Tavern was picking up, the bass was louder and the voices were more boisterous. A woman stumbled out of the bar and I realized it was Reba Sue. Dressed in a tight skirt with stilettos, she was having trouble maneuvering the wooden planks of the sidewalk.
A cowboy followed her out and immediately tried to put his arm around her, but she pushed him away. His voice was low, but there was a warning in it that pricked the hairs on the back of my neck. Reba Sue stumbled backward toward the door and almost made it back inside the bar when he yanked her toward him.
“Hey, leave her alone!” I yelled out without thinking.
The beyond-short cowboy wasn’t about to take Reba Sue’s rebuff or my intervention with a polite tip of his hat or say, Sorry to bother you, ma’am.
In fact, he did the opposite—without style. “Mind your own business—”
