At Odds with the Midwife

by Patricia Forsythe

  A day late. That should have been the title of her life story.

  “Let me handle this,” Reggie said, half under her breath. She waded through the tall grass toward trouble. In her tight jeans and off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, she looked like she was walking across a catwalk, not the junkyard. “I’m Regina. I manage the B and B in town.” An overstatement. Their grandmother owned the modest B and B that Reggie hoped to buy. “And this is my twin, Brittany. She uses junk for her arts and crafts projects.”

  Arts and crafts?

  Brit bristled. How was she ever going to be taken seriously in the art world if her own family dismissed her efforts? “Upcycle artist,” she muttered, although based on the iceman’s smirk, the damage was already done.

  “I’m Joe Messina. That’s Sam.” Joe didn’t come forward to meet Reggie. He didn’t even remove his hands from his hips. He held his frown and his ground, not being the type to shake hands with trespassers or fawn over beautiful women.

  Couldn’t Reggie see that?

  Apparently not. Reggie cast a confused look over her shoulder. Being the twin who’d gotten all the good bone structure, Reggie wasn’t used to being overlooked, trespassing or not.

  A breeze blew the wild grass and Joe’s unruly hair. The wind swirled and tugged and then, when neither Joe nor the grass bent, it died out.

  Brit’s hopes of free materials for the gate ornament she’d been commissioned to create nearly died along with the breeze. Nearly. “This grille is doing nothing for you. It’s just sitting here.”

  “I’m not parting the car out.” Joe stepped around Reggie to better glare at Brit.

  “Here it comes,” the boy said quietly, rubbing at the unruly hair at his neck.

  “I’m going to get that car running and sell it.” The determination in Joe’s words would have had Brit believing him if it hadn’t been for the age of Joe’s clothing and the dismissive tone of the boy’s comment.

  She turned to the forty-year-old BMW. The faded paint and oxidized patina were nearly a work of art in themselves. But the tires had sunk into the soft dirt so deeply the sedan sat on its axles; the wheel wells were rusted nearly clear through; and the interior looked as if something furry had taken up residence. “Have you gotten a good look at this car? You’ll need several years and several miracles to restore it.” Brit swallowed her pride and lifted her voice. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for the front grille.”

  His jaw worked. He half glanced at the boy and then back to her. “Do you have the cash on you?”

  Knowing the answer, Reggie headed toward Brit’s small beat-up gray truck.

  Brit barely had fifty dollars in her bank account, which was one reason she’d moved to Harmony Valley in the first place. Creating upcycle art wasn’t cheap. Nor was living in San Francisco. “Well...”

  “Then it’s not for sale.” Joe closed the distance between them and slammed the hood. His gaze drifted to the BMW’s interior and the frost in his icy eyes thawed a smidge. He may have high hopes for the cars in this field, but he’d learn soon enough that building castles in the clouds would be easier than fixing anything here for resale.

  Brit loaded her tools into her toolbox and followed Reggie.

  She’d wait a week, let reality set in and make Joe a second offer.

  Maybe then he’d take twenty-five.

  * * *

  “GRANDPA PHIL IS a simple man. Cold cuts and white bread. Bills paid by check and sent via the post office.” Reggie was in glass-half-empty mode now. “He’s going to fire you for this.”

  Her sister didn’t have to sound so gleeful.

  “Technically, he can’t fire me if I’m renting a station from him. But if he does—” Brit unlocked the door to her grandfather’s barbershop and propped it open “—you can say I told you so.”

  “Hurry up, then. I’d rather be in and out before he gets here.” Reggie picked up the back of the rust-speckled antique bicycle and the metal mermaid rider Brit had welded to its frame. “What did you think of Joe?”

  Brit hefted the heavy end of her sculpture and backed into the shop. “I think he’ll give me that grille for five dollars by Memorial Day.” In her dreams, maybe. But she always dreamed big. At least she had until Dad died.

  “I meant...” Reggie waddled in with her end. The rear wheel spun between Reggie’s legs and the green aluminum mermaid tail swam over her shoulder. “What did you think of tall, dark and frowning?”

  “He could use a haircut.” Just a trim. A crisp cut would imply he’d been tamed. Who tamed a raging storm? “Set it down here.” When the bike rims rested on the ground, Brit soaked in the familiar ambience of the place. It may only be a two-person barbershop, but it had the stations and the shampoo sink of a salon, much like the places Mom had once worked in.

  Brit eyed the large framed mirror hanging over the chairs in the waiting area. A beer brand was stenciled in block letters in the middle of the glass, rendering it useless in a beauty shop. Looking at it made her feel uninspired to do hair or art. “I can’t work with that hanging behind me all day.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You thought Joe was cute, too.” Reggie smoothed her hair using her limited reflection in the mirror. “Admit it.”

  “That man is not cute.” Snowflakes were cute. Kittens were cute. Snow tigers were lethal. “Focus, Reggie. Mirror down. Mermaid bicycle up.” Brit tried not to look in the mirror. She really did, but it was impossible not to. Not to look, not to compare.

  Two women. Sisters. Anyone could see they were cut from the same cloth. Long, dark brown hair. Mahogany eyes. Wide smiles beneath pert noses—granted, Brit’s wasn’t as pert and she could mention more differences than similarities. For years, Brit hadn’t realized she was any different from Reggie. Not when they were five and enrolled in Miss Deborah’s School of Dance, where Reggie was placed front row, center stage, and Brit was relegated to the back row with the other gigglers. Not when they were eight and they’d sung in the school’s holiday choir, where Reggie sang front and center, while Brit was assigned to the end of the middle riser next to Olivia Paige, who blew the biggest gum bubbles Brit had ever seen.

  No. It wasn’t until they were twelve that Brit’s averageness relative to Reggie’s beauty sank in. That year, they’d been allowed to wear make-up when they’d gone to the sixth-grade Promotion Dance. Reggie had put on war paint like a professional model, while Brit had declined. Reggie had danced to every song, each one with a different boy. And Brit? She’d sat on a bench against the wall with Margaret Hilden, whose leg was in a cast. Brit had held back her tears until they’d returned home. And then she’d cried on Mom’s shoulder, on Dad’s shoulder, even on Reggie’s shoulder.

  Later, she’d fought the hiccups while Mom tucked her in bed. She’d kissed Brit’s forehead and whispered, “You have an inner beauty, honey. You’ll always look better and be more popular if you wear makeup and cute clothes.”

  Even at twelve Brit had understood what her mother was telling her: you’re the ugly duckling who’ll never be a swan.

  Mom loved her, but Mom was in the beauty business, which was all about appearances.

  Brit and Reggie had shared the same womb. The same bedroom. The same beat-up pickup their father used to drive. But they weren’t identical. Reggie had won more points in the gene pool. Reggie looked like she hadn’t ingested a carb in years, while Brit looked like she and carbs were on a first-name basis. And from the day of the Promotion Dance, they’d begun to go their separate ways. Reggie ascended to the throne of mama’s girl, while Brit became Dad’s sidekick. He was a metalworker and liked to tinker on cars.

  The summer after the Promotion Dance, the neighbors had met to discuss turning their street into Christmas Tree Lane with lots of lights and decorations. Mom proclaimed they had to do it, but since she was always busy working or being a dance
mom, and Dad hated yard duty—he’d taken out their front garden years ago and replaced it with rock and cacti—he had decided to create a metal forest for Santa.

  He brought home his welding equipment, along with scraps from the metal fabrication company where he worked. Brit watched him lay out sheets of metal on the garage floor like mismatched puzzle pieces. But when he welded them together, they created the most amazing seven-foot-tall trees. At her suggestion, they took old car parts and a muffler he hadn’t yet hauled to the salvage yard and welded them into woodland animals—birds, bunnies, reindeer. Having learned nail art from Mom, Brit painted each creation, adding to the impression of whimsy and movement. They’d highlighted everything with lights. The lawn was unique and beautiful. Brit was hooked.

  She quit Miss Deborah’s dance studio, much to Reggie and their mother’s dismay. She quit spending so much time on what she wore, although she still didn’t go anywhere without makeup. She quit worrying so much about things that she couldn’t control, like whether or not a boy liked her.

  Despite this split, the twins remained close. But they went to different colleges—Reggie to study business, Brit to study art. In a reversal of Mom’s expectations, Reggie had supported herself by working in a hotel, while Brit had supported herself by working in a beauty salon. Did Brit miss sparkly costumes, fancy hair and dance recitals? Sometimes. Did she miss propping up the wall at all those school dances she refused to go to? Not at all.

  What she did miss was her dad. He’d died last year of heart disease after a series of heart attacks and surgeries that robbed him of his strength and spirit. It was a painful and scary end to a man she’d once thought would live forever. And his absence left a chasm between Brit’s artistic dreams and her ability to create art. In a word, she was blocked. She hoped this move was a new beginning.

  “She’s beautiful, Brit.” Reggie touched a spun, floating aluminum tress of red mermaid hair and then met Brit’s gaze in the beer mirror, a gentle smile on her face. “And so are you.”

  Brit’s throat crowded with love for her sister.

  “And don’t give me any of that ugly-duckling crap. Joe thought you were beautiful, too.” Reggie’s smile turned wicked. “He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

  Heat rushed to Brit’s cheeks. “From his perspective, I was trespassing and looting. He wanted to put the fear of God in me.” That wasn’t lust in those cold eyes of his.

  Brit gestured that they pick up the bike and lean it against the shampoo sink in the corner.

  “It ticked Joe off that he didn’t succeed in shaking you.” Reggie was still grinning. “Guys like a challenge.”

  “Correction.” Brit peeked behind the beer mirror to see how it was hung, glad to find a thick wire and two big hooks. “You like a guy who’s a challenge. I like nice guys.” Ones who didn’t suck the emotional energy—the lifeblood of Brit’s creativity—out of her. “Grab the other side of the mirror and lift.”

  “Hanging your sculpture here worries me.” Despite her reservations, Reggie did as asked and helped Brit store the mirror in the back room. She returned to stare at the mermaid. “Don’t put this up. It’s a barbershop, Brit. There’s no future for you here.”

  “Agreed. But that doesn’t mean I want to work in a plain box, or give up hair and go halfsies on the B and B with you.” Brit pulled two utility hooks from her coverall pockets and considered where to put them in the wall. “This is just to fill the gap until my art career takes off.”

  “Do you know how many artists are self-sufficient?” Reggie, being Miss Glass-Half-Empty, said. “You wouldn’t be on your feet all day if you owned half the B and B. You’d have plenty of energy and time to make more pieces like this.” Was that a hint of desperation in her voice?

  Impossible. Reggie had emotional shock absorbers to take life’s bumps in the road effortlessly. She planned her future like an airline pilot planned the route to his next destination. She’d never be desperate. Besides, she’d been talking about running the B and B for years. It had been her favorite topic with Dad.

  Brit studied Keira’s flowing lines. The effortless wave to her hair had taken days to achieve, with Dad on the sidelines cheering her on. She’d never sell Keira because she’d never create anything as perfect as the mermaid again. If she created anything ever again. Geez. Now, that’s maudlin. And Reggie was waiting for an answer. She tossed her a question instead. “Do you know how many B and Bs make a profit?”

  “Touché,” Reggie murmured. That didn’t stop her from presenting her case. “But owning the only rooms for rent in this town will be profitable when the winery becomes more popular.” Wine-thirsty tourists were already making the trek to this far-flung corner of Sonoma County. “Can’t you see that?”

  “The only thing I can see is a blank wall. You know white space bugs me.” Brit walked to the truck for a drill and a hammer.

  A few minutes later, Keira hung on the wall. Her aluminum hands held the handlebars and the rest of her swam whimsically above the bike as if she was riding underwater.

  Reggie stepped back to view the piece. “People will want their hair cut just to get a look at her.”

  “My wallet hopes you’re right.” Regardless, there was something about the mermaid’s balanced, carefree movement that made her breathe easier. “This sculpture... It’s the first one I’ve created that made me feel like a real artist.” One that other artists could respect. One that Dad could be proud of.

  Before Keira, people had looked at her creations and said, “How nice.” Which was their polite way of covering their real opinion: What is that supposed to be? Brit could always sense the truth by their carefully modulated tone of voice. Which made her resentful of their need to try to be kind. Which made her hate anything other than the truth in all aspects of her life.

  Reggie hugged her. “Leona wants you to come to dinner tonight. And I want you to be my partner in the bed-and-breakfast, but if you become the next art world sensation, I won’t complain.”

  “Much.” Brit smiled at her twin. “Lighten up. You’ll buy out Grandmother Leona and be a success without me.”

  Reggie didn’t look so sure.

  Copyright © 2016 by Melinda Wooten

  ISBN-13: 9781488009297

  At Odds with the Midwife

  Copyright © 2016 by Patricia Knoll

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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