“It looks fine, girl.” Phil lifted his newspaper in front of his face and pretended to ignore her anxiety. “Put them out of their misery and let them in.”
Brit did, barely getting her feet out of the way of the walkers, canes and slip-on sneakers that marched inside. The throng cooed over the changes Brit had made and the uniqueness of Keira.
Brit was stumped. “Why are there so many of you? I only have one appointment at nine.”
“That’s me. Sandra.” A woman with frizzy, gray, shoulder-length hair raised her hand.
Brit invited Sandra to sit in her chair. “For the rest of you, I’m sorry. My appointment book is filled.”
“We know.” A woman with shoe-polish-black hair and a widow’s peak poured herself a cup of coffee. “I’m your ten forty-five.”
“Eleven thirty,” said another, selecting a cookie.
Two other women sat in the waiting area chairs, mentioning afternoon times.
“Why are you all here so early?”
Phil lowered his paper. “Polly and Dierdre don’t have cars. Georgia and Violet don’t drive.” He shook his paper more violently than usual.
“So you carpooled with Sandra?”
“We don’t mind waiting.” The black-haired woman poured an unhealthy dose of creamer into her coffee.
And they didn’t. They talked at a volume louder than the music Brit played.
Rose stopped by for her nine-thirty hair color. She sidled up to Brit, frowning. “I need some privacy for my color.”
“We can reschedule.” Brit was relieved Rose was canceling. There were plenty of women willing to fill Rose’s spot.
“Good. Mildred wants to get started on car identification right away.” Rose glided out.
Brit was hopeful they’d find the BMW’s owner. Then she could buy the grille outright and be done with it.
A young woman entered holding a sheet of paper. “I’m Becca Harris. I run a caregiver service in town. I have a list of clients who’d like appointments.”
A list? Brit tried not to cringe. How many women lived in Harmony Valley? “I’m busy until next Tuesday.”
Phil opened Brit’s appointment book and flipped a page, looking startled. “She is.”
“I only have one hair emergency.” Becca smiled hopefully. “Mary is going in for a hip replacement and wants to look good for her surgery. It’s next Wednesday.”
“I could do her hair,” Phil said hopefully. “It’s not like I haven’t done it before.”
“The last time Phil cut a woman’s hair,” Sandra said in a sharp tone, “he tried for a wedge and it looked like a Mohawk.”
Phil’s cheeks got some much-needed color for all the wrong reasons.
“I guess that means she gets an early slot on Tuesday.” Brit rubbed Phil’s shoulder. It wasn’t bad enough that Leona was tough on him, but the rest of the women in town were, too? “Give me your number, Becca, and I can call you back tonight for the rest.”
“I can book your appointments.” Phil picked up her pencil, regaining his paleness. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
“Thank you, Grandpa.” Brit placed Sandra’s final pin curl and stretched on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll cook dinner tonight.”
Sandra went under the good chair dryer with a book, a coffee and a cookie.
“I’m Georgia.” The woman with the black widow’s peak slid into Brit’s chair and Rose’s appointment. “I’m down for a haircut, but I need help with my color.”
Did she ever. Brit ran her fingers through Georgia’s hair. It was overprocessed and brittle. “How often do you color?”
“Every other week. I have so much gray.”
Brit suspected she was coloring every week. There wasn’t a gray hair on the woman’s head. “I have a product that will strip a lot of the color away, but your hair is fragile. I’m afraid we’ll do more damage to it than good.” Brit splayed her hand so Georgia could see the amount of hair that had broken off. “I can cut it today and send you home with some natural hair lightener products.”
“But then I’ll be gray.” She cast a sideways glance at Phil and lowered her voice. “I can’t go gray. I just can’t.”
“I understand. But once you go black or dark red, you can’t make a color correction. You have to let it grow out. If I apply color to your hair today, I can’t guarantee your hair won’t fall out tomorrow.”
Georgia jerked upright. “How about highlights at the roots?”
Brit shook her head. “I know you prefer some hair to none.”
The peanut gallery laughed. The shop was too small for any type of privacy. Georgia pursed her lips. Embarrassing a customer wasn’t the way Brit wanted to start her time here.
“Ladies, I know you all have a lot of experience at salons.” Brit felt the need to make an announcement. “I’m afraid I’m not the kind of stylist who’ll lie to you about what style or color looks good on you. And I’ll be brutally honest about protecting the health of your hair.” She put her hands on Georgia’s shoulders. “I’ll understand if I’m not the stylist for you.”
“I’d color her hair,” Phil muttered, having finished setting up appointments with Becca. He lifted the newspaper in front of his face as if taking on a client was no big deal.
“Not without my permission,” Brit snapped, feeling as brittle as Georgia’s hair. “A bald client is bad for business.”
Phil closed his newspaper, which fought returning to its neat folds. “I know when I’m not appreciated.” He left.
His seat was quickly filled by a waiting client, but nothing was able to fill the void stretching between Brit and her grandfather.
“Given the alternative, a cut it is.” Georgia gave in graciously. “You should sell hats. I could wear one until my hair got healthier.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” She fastened a drape around Georgia’s neck and then directed her to the shampoo bowl a few steps away. “Does anyone have car trouble? Or know somebody who needs a tune-up? There’s a new garage in town.” She owed Joe a mention for his heroism.
She must have imagined the sudden silence. She couldn’t really tell above the hum of the hair dryer.
Georgia, her most captive audience, was also her least quiet customer. “The garage run by the Messina boy?”
“Yes. That’s the one.” Although Brit wouldn’t call the iceman a boy.
“I don’t feel comfortable taking my car there,” Sandra shouted above the dryer. “Tony Messina got in a fight with my son once.”
“He probably deserved it,” Georgia said for Brit’s ears only. “Her son is a drunk.”
“Tony was the dad or the uncle?” Brit rinsed the shampoo from Georgia’s hair.
“They were all bad seeds, just as likely to overcharge as to fix the problem,” a woman with an afternoon appointment said over her gossip magazine.
The need to defend Joe was as necessary to Brit as breathing. “Joe isn’t like that. He pulled me out of the river on Sunday when I would have drowned.”
“That really happened?” Georgia raised her brows.
“Yes.” Brit raised her voice. “Joe Messina saved my life.”
There were murmurs and whispered comments Brit couldn’t catch over the music, dryer and running water.
“And he has the sweetest little girl.” Might just as well play that card. Brit shut the water off and reached for a towel, beginning to understand the obstacles Joe faced while trying to open a business here. “He’s a single dad. A widower.”
That elicited lots of sympathy.
“I’ll wait to see what other people say about his service,” Sandra yelled to the room.
There was a consensus of head nods.
Before noon, Tracy dropped by with small bags of cookies,
scones and bread. She sold every bit of her inventory. “And, ladies. I know...once Brittany makes you beautiful. You won’t want to go home. Giordano’s is running a lunch special. Buy one entrée...get one half off. Tell them Tracy sent you.”
Four ladies decided lunch was in order. While they were gone, another carload of women arrived. The driver scraped bumpers with the Lincoln it was trying to park next to. Pandemonium erupted. Someone called the sheriff. The mayor made an appearance. Phil stood outside, complaining bitterly about poor drivers.
The day was crazy. Brit was ready to collapse as soon as she got home that night. She was now booked solid for the next three weeks. And the mantra of the day—I’m going to tell all my friends—was still ringing in her ears. She was too tired to go out to the garage and create some space to work in. She was too tired to think of anything other than the fact that at this pace, she’d never have the energy to do anything artistic.
“What’s for dinner?” Phil asked.
She made cereal and frozen burritos.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I TOLD YOU something would happen today,” Irwin said to Rex. They’d been playing gin rummy on the blue elephant plant stand.
A faded green Buick had pulled into the parking lot.
Joe stopped playing solitaire on his phone and checked out the Buick in the hopes of a reversal of fortune. Good tires. No squeaking brakes. The engine sounded okay. Maybe an oil change?
Agnes got out from behind the driver’s seat. She hurried around to the trunk and removed a walker for Mildred, who had the shotgun door open. Rose had exited from the backseat and was walking toward the garage as if she was performing a tap routine from one of those black-and-white musical films his mother used to watch. Toe-heel, toe-heel. Arms swinging in tandem to her steps.
“Rose is coming this way,” Irwin said in a strangled voice. “How do I look?”
“You have a little powdered sugar here.” Rex tapped a finger to the corner of his mouth. “No. The other side. Here.” He reached out to take care of it, but Irwin brushed his hand aside.
“I can do it,” Irwin insisted. “Otherwise she’ll think I’m quirky.”
“I think Rose is quirky,” Joe said. In a good way. But Rex and Irwin hanging out all day was not as endearingly quirky.
Irwin ignored him, having closed his eyes. He began rocking back and forth and chanting under his breath, “Be cool. Be cool. Be cool.”
If Joe had been the eye-rolling type, now would be the time. “You didn’t date much before you got married, did you?”
“He married his elementary school sweetheart.” Rex winked. Or maybe he had something in his eye, because he blinked a couple of extra times.
“Good morning, Joe.” Rose entered with a grand stage voice and a hand flourish. She cast a gaze to Rex and Irwin. “Gentlemen.”
Irwin’s lips were moving: be cool. Be cool. Be cool.
“Brittany suggested we come by and attempt to solve the mystery of ownership regarding several cars on your property.” Rose turned to look out the window at the field spotted with vehicles. “I hadn’t realized there were so many. My apologies for my constituents. I think I see Lloyd Peterson’s minivan. His wife made him drive it even after their kids left for college. Such an emasculating vehicle for a man. I prefer a car with some power myself.”
“Wh-wh-what about a m-m-motorcycle?” Irwin asked, blushing like a fifth grader.
“Terrible things. Death traps.” Rose did a graceful pivot turn and smiled at Joe. “Do you perhaps have a clipboard, paper and a pen? We’ve come ill prepared.”
“I can do better than that. Sam and I started a list. I’ll bring it out and help you.”
“Wonderful.” Rose glided toward the door. “Catch up to us. We’re headed into the fray.”
Joe retrieved the list from a folder on his desk and put it on a clipboard.
Irwin had wilted in the plastic chair. “She doesn’t like motorcycles. What am I going to do?”
“Watch the shop while I’m inventorying cars?” Joe found a pen that worked and walked determinedly to the exit.
“Have another game of gin?” Rex patted his friend on his bent shoulders. “Maybe later you can come to my house and watch The Lords of Flatbush. You know that always cheers you up.”
“I like Oklahoma! too.” Irwin sniffed, picking up his cards.
The two began humming the famous song.
Joe hurried after the town council, feeling lighter than he had since yesterday when he’d been cutting those vines with Brittany.
“Joe.” Agnes waved him over. She’d stopped by the green MG Roadster. “Mildred is sure this one belonged to Hubert Sweeney. He died without any next of kin. His property is owned by the state.”
“Would the ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law’ rule apply?” It might be worth the trouble to find out. Other than the torn convertible top and the weather-beaten interior, the car was in fixable shape.
“You’d have to wrestle with the department of motor vehicles.” Mildred’s tone indicated she had no desire to do so.
Joe made a note on his inventory list. “What about the BMW?”
“That’s the one Brit was asking about?” Rose waded through the knee-high grass to the front fender. “It’s a brilliant piece of machinery. This grille will make a fine gate.”
At least Joe knew whose corner Rose was in.
Mildred shuffled slowly through the grass with her walker. “I can’t remember anyone driving a car like this. Is there a license plate frame? Sometimes it has the dealer’s name stamped on it.”
“No,” Joe said. “We checked. The plates are gone and the vehicle identification number is missing on the dash.” Along with half the car’s interior.
Agnes tilted her head this way and that, and then huffed in frustration. “No idea who drove that about town. But that Ford station wagon.” She marched toward the old beast. “That used to be Crandall’s.”
“He’s dead.” Rose made a neck-cutting motion. “His wife is still in town. Although I can’t imagine why Bev would leave his car here.”
Agnes peered in the window. “I believe she mentioned having trouble paying for her medicine last time I saw her. The canceled car insurance and licensing fees probably saved her much-needed money.”
“Why didn’t she sell it?” Joe asked.
“To who? There’s no market for an old car like that.” Rose crinkled her nose at Joe. “Is there?”
“There is.” If he ever got a steady stream of paying customers, he’d offer Crandall’s widow a fair price for the Ford.
“I had no idea there were so many cars out here,” Mildred said. “I suppose it makes sense. This location is a perfect dumping ground. No one lives out this way. Traffic only rarely goes by on the highway this far north.”
“What about this one?” Rose had moved on, uninterested in Mildred’s theories about the graveyard’s reason for being.
But Joe was interested. And as they went through the field, he looked back at the BMW more than once.
* * *
“SO YOU’RE GOING to ignore my calls?” Reggie swept into the barbershop with style, confidence and an air of outrage. “You weren’t even going to tell me you practically drowned?”
Brit closed the supply cabinet doors and met her twin’s glare with her chin up.
It was Thursday morning, day three of her part-time operation in Harmony Valley. Nothing was going as Brit wanted. Cutting hair wasn’t part-time. Her garage workspace had yet to be set up. And facing the person who was supposed to be the closet soul to her in life and reliving the river’s cold embrace made her throat want to close up. “Yes, I’m ignoring your calls. And you. Which means I choose not to share the accidents in my life either.”
Reggie held a thick stack o
f papers in her hand. Brit was glad to see the stack trembled. “I brought you the contract.”
“And...” Brit said, finding a bead of annoyance among the lumps in her throat, “I’m especially going to ignore any contract that legally binds me to working and paying money into a venture I’m not a part of.”
Reggie grimaced. “I’m not here for your signature.” Her sentence ended awkwardly, as if she’d bit back yet at the end.
“Then you won’t be disappointed when I don’t sign.” Finished with inventory, Brit moved on to making the first pot of coffee. Tracy would be arriving soon with the day’s complimentary treats. The small blonde had increased sales at the bakery and Giordano’s across the street. Was Tracy also drumming up business for Brit? She’d have to find a polite way to tell her not to. Otherwise she’d never get back to her art.
“It’s a draft.” Reggie continued to hold the contract out to her. “I thought you might want to read it.”
“Wrong again.” Brit wasn’t usually such a hard-liner. Blame it on her overbooked schedule.
“You want to know why I’m buying the B and B?” Reggie dropped the contract onto Phil’s chair and gripped the worn leather back.
“Yes.”
“It’s because of Dad.” Reggie’s words fell like a thick curtain between them. “Do you remember how Dad used to say he wanted to retire here and run a B and B?”
“Yes, but...” Brit shook her head and pressed the brew button on the coffeemaker. Reggie had no right to bring Dad into this. “Dad only said that to tease Mom, because he’d joke that they could never afford to retire, that she’d work here and he’d run the B and B until death forced their retirement.” A hairstylist who never retired. The words sent an extrasharp spike down Brit’s spine. “And you used to say you wanted to run it with him.”
“It wasn’t a joke. This was Dad’s dream,” Reggie said, firmer this time. “And I’m going to make it happen.”
All very noble, but... “He’s dead, Reggie. And Mom remarried.” Six months after they’d laid him to rest. Brit banged around the drawers beneath the coffeemaker, feeling for napkins. “You don’t want to run a B and B. You love big luxury hotels.”
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