Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  Conversation died almost the same time as the door swung closed behind them.

  The familiar feeling of his youth, of not belonging, prickled Joe’s skin and tensed his shoulders. He longed to hide behind a motorcycle jacket and a sneer.

  “Dad.” Sam edged closer to him. “Why are they all...”

  He thought Sam was going to say staring.

  “...so old?”

  Someone chuckled. The crowd released a collective sigh. The young woman behind the counter waved them over with a sunny, welcoming smile. Joe’s sense of déjà vu receded.

  Now was the perfect time to announce the garage was back in business, before conversations resumed.

  Words stuck in the back of Joe’s throat.

  He’d never been much good at public speaking or composing smooth sentences. Joe and his brothers had grown up on the wrong side of the river. Their parents weren’t perfect or even well liked. Dad had mental-health issues that made him unpredictable and volatile. Mom liked to argue with anyone about anything. Their parents and status in life made the boys self-conscious, but had also given them a tough core that held up the chip Uncle Turo later placed on their shoulders.

  When Turo came to town, he’d given them an outlet for their resentment—motorcycles—and, not being a fan of mama’s boys, he’d encouraged their rebellious attitude. Not exactly the best way to help them fit into small, sleepy Harmony Valley, but a blessing to three teens longing for a guiding hand. Any guiding hand.

  But that was in the past. Joe was done with motorcycles and mischief. He was a single dad. A business owner. A responsible taxpaying citizen of Harmony Valley.

  Joe cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’m Joe Messina and this is Sam. We’re reopening the garage over by the highway.”

  “Messina?” A thin old man squinted at them. He wore a red tie-dyed T-shirt and had a gray ponytail hanging down his back. “One of Tony Messina’s boys?”

  Joe nodded.

  “I’m Mayor Larry.” The aging hippy eyed Joe as if unsure how to tally his vote. Perhaps assuming Joe’s opinion was favorable, he added with all the enthusiasm of a politician, “Welcome home.”

  “Are you the Joe Messina whose mother used to be in the quilt club?” A wrinkled woman with short purplish-gray hair sat in the window seat. She wore a hot-pink tracksuit and had a quilt square in her lap. She stared at them with kind curiosity. “Her pinwheel quilt blocks were exquisite.”

  Joe nodded, breathing easier.

  “The Joe Messina who was a lineman on the high school team?” asked an elderly Asian man with a walker next to his seat. The table in front of him held a checkerboard, pieces midgame. “The one who lost his temper and punched the other team’s quarterback?”

  The mayor wrinkled his brow.

  “Uh...” Joe barely dipped his head, very much aware of Sam at his side. This was like entering a room of talking elephants. They hadn’t forgotten anything. He hoped they didn’t mention his dad. But he prayed they didn’t mention Uncle Turo.

  “The Joe Messina who set fire to the gymnasium?” This from a beefy senior with what looked like orange cat hair on his red polo shirt. He sat across from the checker player and might have been the fire chief back in the day.

  “That fire was an accident.” Grabbing Sam’s arm, Joe moved toward the main counter. A large tablet above the cookies flashed a message: Read Today’s Blog (Zucchini and Jalapeño Cookies with Sweet Lime Glaze). “I think that’s enough reminiscing for one day.”

  A well-dressed brunette paying for her coffee turned to give him a teasing smile. “Man, it sucks to be you.” It was Regina, the B and B manager and would-be car-part thief. She was too pretty and high-maintenance-looking to pick auto parts regularly. No. It was Brittany who was the brains of that outfit. “Makes me glad I didn’t grow up here. My past remains in the past, if you know what I mean.”

  Regina didn’t seem the type to have a dark past. Her sister, on the other hand... He’d bet she and that wrench of hers were trouble.

  “Do you have fifty dollars now?” Sam said in a voice that was far too businesslike for a kid. She widened her eyes and her smile, having been taught how to work a crowd by one of the best crooks in the family tree. “I can sell the grille to you.”

  “Samantha Ellen,” Joe said sharply. Sometimes his daughter was too big for her coveralls.

  Regina stared at Sam as if working through a complicated math problem.

  “It’s my property, too.” Sam jutted her delicate chin. “It’s the Messina Family Garage.”

  “Samantha?” Regina’s gaze flicked up to Joe’s hesitantly.

  What was there to be hesitant about?

  “Samantha,” Regina said again, firmly this time as she looked Sam in the eye. “You can ask Brit about the grille. She buys junk like I buy new clothes. All the time.” With a tug at her gray sweatshirt—which hadn’t been made for sweating—Regina took her coffee and left.

  “I remember you now,” the mayor said to Joe. “I was confused because all the Messina boys had long hair, drove fast and had a penchant for getting into scrapes.”

  “All in the past,” Joe assured him. Vince had a decent job on an oil rig in the Gulf Coast, Gabe was overseas with the military and Turo was behind bars.

  “You still have long hair.” The woman with purplish-gray curls didn’t sound reproachful. She sounded flirty. “I bet women love that rebellious scowl of yours.”

  “Eunice,” the blonde behind the counter scolded. She was in her twenties with a friendly face that was naggingly familiar.

  “Nine times out of ten,” the former fire chief said in a loud voice, suggesting either a need for hearing aids or a grudge against accidental arsonists, “long hair and getting into scrapes go hand in hand.”

  “Hey,” said the tie-dyed-T-shirt-wearing mayor as he flicked his long gray ponytail. “I resemble that remark.”

  While the fire chief apologized, Joe spied his reflection and overgrown hair in the glass bakery case. He knew he needed a haircut, but it’d been at the low end of his budget priorities.

  “Ignore them.” The woman behind the counter grinned. “They’re...a conservative bunch. But harmless.” Her bright smile, short blond hair and lack of a history with the Messinas should have soothed him. “I’m Tracy. I think...you went to school...with my older brother. Will Jackson?”

  So much for a lack of shared history.

  “I remember Will,” Joe said tightly. Mr. Golden Boy. Mr. All-American. Mr. Could-Do-No-Wrong.

  “Now, Will,” the former fire chief boomed. “There was a boy who turned out right.”

  Joe’s shoulders locked as tight as the old BMW’s carburetor was sure to be. He’d been hoping for a new start. For anonymity. Maybe some leftover goodwill from the past. The Messinas hadn’t been all bad...had they?

  Samantha took his hand. “My dad turned out all right.” So young to be his fiercest supporter.

  What did it say that she also defended Uncle Turo?

  Joe had to do right by her. He was doing right by her. He’d make the citizens in Harmony Valley see he was reformed.

  Look on the bright side, Athena would have said. A new start.

  Don’t apologize for who you are, Uncle Turo would have said. Stand tall.

  So he had long hair? At least it wasn’t winter and Joe wasn’t wearing his black leather jacket. And he hadn’t ridden into town on a Harley. Wouldn’t that have played to type?

  On the other hand...

  He brushed his fingers through his hair. A haircut to show the conventional crowd he was respectable wouldn’t hurt. The barbershop was down the street, and Phil Lambridge used to cut his hair. At least he had until Joe took Leona Lambridge’s new Cadillac for a midnight joyride on a dare from Vince and got caught.

 
CHAPTER THREE

  “DON’T CHANGE ANOTHER THING.”

  Brit pulled her head out of the supply cabinet filled with sixty years of barbershop supplies. She stared at Grandpa Phil, at his sweet lined face and his short-sleeve, wrinkled white button-down. He looked as outdated as the decades-old box of men’s hair color in her hand.

  That will not be me fifty years from now.

  “I’m not changing anything.” Brit added the box of hair color to the already full trash can. “I’m cleaning.”

  “Something’s changed.” Grandpa Phil’s hands shook as he held the open newspaper, but they didn’t shake with anger. His hands always trembled nowadays. “You hung an old bicycle on my wall. What will you dig out of the trash next? A pair of worn sneakers?”

  “It’s called upcycling. Repurposing things that have been thrown away. People like it. I like it.” She may be a beautician by trade, but in her heart she was an artist. An artist who’d been commissioned for her work.

  “People don’t like change,” Grandpa Phil said, raising his newspaper higher so she couldn’t see his face.

  “Meaning you? Or your customers?” Few as they might be. “Or perhaps those retired friends of yours who like to gossip and play checkers all day at Martin’s Bakery?”

  “I’ll have you know that playing checkers keeps me mentally sharp.” Phil turned a page and rattled the newspaper. “I’m sharper than the reporter who wrote this article on local crime in Cloverdale. He said they arrested a catfish.”

  Brit didn’t bother explaining the social-media term that referred to taking on a false persona to scam someone. The fact that the reporter was accurate would only make Grandpa more upset. And given that Brit wasn’t exactly in a Zen mood, she didn’t need him wound up, too.

  “Now, don’t change anything else or you can go live with your grandmother like Regina did.”

  Brit contained a shudder. Grandmother Leona was the Captain Bligh of Harmony Valley. She ran a tight ship and just being around her made Brit want to mutiny.

  When Reggie announced she needed a break from corporate America and was moving to Harmony Valley to run a B and B—Leona’s B and B—Brit had been happy for her. And truth be told, she’d also been a tad envious. Had Brit taken a running leap toward her dreams of being an artist? Nope. There’d been too many excuses—Dad’s death, bills, the price of scrap and metal—and too much doubt—she’d talked through the logistics of almost every project with Dad. Could she create her art without him?

  If she wasn’t careful, she was going to be eighty and her only legacy worth noting would be Keira.

  So she’d followed Reggie to Harmony Valley. She’d convinced Grandpa Phil to rent her a station in the barbershop and a bedroom in his home for figures significantly below those she paid in San Francisco. She told Reggie she was moving to the small, remote town in the easternmost corner of Sonoma County to lend her support. And she’d told herself that she’d work half days at the shop and the rest of the time on her art.

  The barbershop door opened and the town council began to enter. The three elderly women had stopped by earlier to introduce themselves, and this time they’d brought gifts—cleaning supplies.

  Brit sighed with relief.

  “Here we go,” Phil muttered.

  “We thought you could use some help cleaning.” Agnes planted a bucket and a mop near Phil. Her stature—small and unassuming—was at odds with her nature—big and confident. Her pixie-cut hair was as dull gray as Phil’s, but her eyes were sharper than Brit’s thinning shears.

  Rose danced in, holding the broom like a waltz partner. She was as slender as a ballerina and her ivory chignon was just as tight as it would be if she was performing in a ballet. “Will you be coloring hair, Brittany?” Rose dipped her broom partner. “I’m thinking of becoming a redhead.”

  “The world isn’t ready for Redheaded Rose.” Mildred trundled in, a spray bottle of disinfectant hooked on her walker. Her snow-white curls stood stiffly. They’d been unrolled hastily and hadn’t been combed out. In a way, Mildred reminded Brit of Mrs. Claus...if Mrs. Claus wielded a walker and squinted from behind thick glasses, ready to review the unruly elf brigade. “Where are you putting the hair dryers? I don’t see any hair dryers.”

  “Ironic, Mildred.” Rose spun with the broom. “Since you don’t see.”

  Brit revised her assessment of Mildred’s hair from unrolled hastily to unrolled by feel.

  “My hearing is just fine, Rose,” Mildred said sternly, banging her walker around so she could use the built-in seat. “The hair dryers will be perfect underneath that thing on the wall.”

  Brit tried not to be upset by Mildred’s calling Keira a thing. She’d save her emotion for critics with better eyesight.

  “We aren’t getting hair dryers.” Phil rattled the paper more than usual. “This is a barbershop.”

  “Grandpa, I’m paying you rent so I have a spot to do women’s hair. I deserve half the space.” Especially since he wasn’t using any. He hadn’t cut one head of hair yesterday and based on the dust on his station, he hadn’t cut any hair in weeks.

  “The electrician I know said he’d be here Monday.” Agnes had wasted no time assessing Brit’s needs and wasn’t shy about pitching in. She poked around the supply cabinet and held up an inky black toupee with her thumb and forefinger. “Whose was this?”

  “Crandall’s.” Grandpa Phil lowered his paper and his gray eyebrows. “His wife didn’t want him buried in it and thought someone else might use it someday. Why do we need an electrician?” He’d been at Martin’s Bakery when they’d stopped by the first time and wasn’t privy to their conversation.

  “I don’t want to blow a fuse and cut the electricity to the entire block when I plug in the hair dryers,” Brit said briskly. “Do you know how much electricity a chair with a hair dryer attached uses?”

  Before Grandpa could answer, a figure appeared in the barbershop’s window.

  Joe stood outside the glass, looking just as dangerously handsome as he had a few hours before. Dark hair, dark glare, dark outlook toward others. He reached for the door just as his ice-blue gaze connected with Brit’s. His hand paused in midair.

  “A customer’s gonna get away.” Grandpa Phil lurched out of his chair and shoved the door open. “Never mind the chitchat. The barber is in.” He stepped out on the sidewalk, letting the door shut behind him.

  “It’s one of those Messina boys.” There was awe in Agnes’s voice. “I recognize the long black hair. They were a handful—too much for Tony with his other challenges.”

  “They should have gone to prison.” Rose held the broom like a staff. “Painting the water tower green for St. Patrick’s Day. Racing those motorcycles up and down Parish Hill.” She pounded the broom bristles into the floor. “Why, one of them nearly burned the gymnasium down. It’s a miracle they didn’t kill themselves, much less anyone else.”

  “I always admired how they drove those motorcycles,” Mildred said, reminding Brit that someone had once told her Mildred raced cars back in the day. “Not everyone knows how to take a corner at speed.” She adjusted her thick glasses and blinked toward the doorway. “They used to be the most handsome young men in town. How does he look?”

  “Like he could charm you out of your car keys and you wouldn’t report him for stealing,” Rose begrudgingly admitted. “Long hair. Blue jeans. Boots. All he’s missing is a leather jacket and a motorcycle.”

  “There were more like him?” Brit was glad Reggie wasn’t around to hear the wonder in her voice.

  As one, the town council ladies nodded.

  Brit needed to regain her perspective, focus on the man’s flaws. “Did any of the Messina boys have a good haircut?”

  “Nope. Unkempt troublemakers. Every one,” Agnes said with a dreamy sigh.

  “I have to a
dmit.” Rose began sweeping, but it was more like a ballroom dance. “Messina men improve with age.”

  “Sam!” the object of the women’s infatuation called out loud enough they heard him through the glass. “I’m getting a haircut. Wait for me here.” Joe pointed to the curb.

  “Okay, Dad,” came a high-pitched prepubescent reply. A familiar figure—slight, in blue coveralls—appeared on the sidewalk. Sam plopped onto the curb, booted feet in the gutter, slouching and drinking from a Martin’s Bakery to-go cup.

  Phil ushered Joe inside and into his chair. “What are you looking for today? Trim? Buzz cut? Mohawk?”

  “Trim.” Joe spared Brit a look that was stay-away contemptuous.

  Lighten up, dude. It wasn’t as if I made away with anything this morning.

  Phil opened a drawer at his station. It took him several tries to clench a folded drape with his age-spotted fingers.

  The first inklings of apprehension worked their way through Brit. She’d noticed Phil’s tremulous hands for years, but hadn’t made the leap to what that meant in terms of him cutting hair. She couldn’t let him cut anyone’s hair. At least, not with scissors. “How about a buzz cut, Mr. Messina?”

  Phil’s head came up. “Messina?”

  “No, thanks.” Joe stared at Brit as if she’d teleported from another planet and offered him a ride on a unicorn.

  Phil was stuck on Joe’s last name. “You’re one of those Messina boys who used to live here?”

  Joe sighed, as if being recognized was the worst news of the day. “Yes.”

  “Is that...” Rose glided gracefully to the window with the broom, which took skill, considering she looked to be nearing eighty. “Is that a girl?”

  Brit’s attention turned to the child on the sidewalk. The child she’d assumed was a boy because of the shapeless, grimy coveralls and an equally grimy baseball cap. Brit had gone through a tomboy phase after the devastation of the Promotion Dance. She, of all people, should have recognized a girl beneath the trappings.