He sighed.
Keeping Daddy happy meant a lot more time in the kitchen.
CHAPTER 23
Tuesday afternoon, Missy clutched the magazine advertisement for Wella Shampoo in her left hand and took a seat in one of Penny’s Beauty Parlor chairs. She’d finally made it. Olya, one of the hair dressers, pumped the padded chair to a higher elevation. In the large, square mirror, Missy’s reflection stared back at her. Her ponytail didn’t look so bad.
Without asking, Olya took out her ponytail holder and, spreading out her fingers, ran them up through Missy’s hair. With her hair down, she didn’t look so bad. She actually looked pretty good. She should leave now before...
“What do you want me to do today?” Olya asked.
Missy slowly unfolded the ad that she’d hidden for weeks.
“I like her hair.”
“You and the rest of America.” Olya slid a comb into the crown of Missy’s hair and left it there while she studied the picture.
“Lots of layers. You’ll need lots of mousse and hairspray.”
Missy nodded. On her way to Bud’s Auto Parts, she could swing by Fred Meyer, a department store on Highway 99.
“You’ll need hot rollers and a curling iron.”
“Hmm . . .” The hairstyle was going to be more expensive than she’d thought.
“You want it exactly like this?” Olya pointed to Farrah’s feathered bangs and the way they swept across her forehead and billowed down into large curls framing her Ultra Brite smile.
Was Olya telling her that she was asking the impossible? Missy’s shoulders felt limp while Olya held up a swath of her hair in back and lifted it toward the fluorescent lights.
“Your top layer will be this short.” Olya held her other hand about four inches above Missy’s head. “Layers take a long time to grow out.”
Olya was giving her an out—a chance to run.
“I start. Okay?”
“Okay.” Missy’s heart pounded against her chest wall; she ignored the voice of reason that warned her to leave now.
The next twenty minutes passed slowly as long swaths of hair tumbled to the ground. The hairdresser’s soft touch made her feel sleepy.
“I did not cut exactly like this.” Olya held up the picture and pointed to Farrah’s temple area.
Through the strands of hair in front of her face, Missy stared at the picture. Why in the world not? Maybe Olya was an imposter, filling in for the real beautician whose dog needed an emergency C-section or something.
“Are you sure you want these short layers here? We could bring the layers down lower.” She motioned to the middle section of Missy’s cheek.
“I want my hair to look like that.” Missy blew hair out of her eyes.
“I’ll cut again.” Olya started on the top layers and snipped two inches off. Another ten minutes clicked slowly by. Olya blew only the bang area dry, and then she aimed the blow dryer on Missy’s plastic cape, sending hair flying to the checkered floor. Lastly, she spun Missy’s chair to face the mirror.
Missy stared. She hadn’t had bangs since she was eight. She looked shorter. What had she done?
“Now you go home and curl, okay?”
Missy turned side to side, and studied the cut in the mirror. It looked choppy, not at all like the picture. The crown area looked like Olya had started on a page boy, and then chickened out and left the rest long. She’d have to wear a baseball cap for years—maybe a decade.
Olya untied Missy’s plastic cape and lowered the chair. Missy grabbed the magazine clipping off the counter and glanced back and forth from Farrah to her own reflection. How in the world was she ever going to make her hair look like that?
“Go home and curl.” Olya fluttered a hand above her own head. “Farrah would look just like you without hot rollers.”
Was that encouragement? She wasn’t convinced.
“You have mousse? We sell very nice Paul Mitchell mousse.”
“No, thank you.” Missy didn’t need mousse. She needed a baseball cap. She scanned the front display; they didn’t sell them.
Tears gathered in her throat as she plunked twelve dollars on the counter. She looked worse leaving than she did coming in. What had she been thinking?
Olya quietly took her money.
“Have a nice day.”
“You, too,” Missy managed to say.
As she walked across the parking lot, she pulled her longest layers into a ponytail in the back. In the driver’s side window, she peered at her reflection. Short, boyish layers hung in her face. A baseball hat was a must.
Between the hairspray, the mousse, a curling iron, and Clairol hot rollers, her new haircut cost over sixty dollars. What had she been thinking?
After she’d stopped at Bud’s Auto Parts and picked up all of the items on the list Daddy had given her, she headed home. She hated her hair. Whatever in the world had inspired her to do the unthinkable?
It was all Gary’s fault.
She’d wanted to look good for him, and now she looked worse than ever. Now he’d never look at her without laughing.
Maybe she should pull over and give in to a good cry. She couldn’t; Daddy was antsy about parts for the ’69 Impala he was working on. She had to get home, put stuff away, start dinner, and plug in her hot rollers.
Missy carried the Bud’s Auto Parts bag into the office. Daddy was on the phone.
“Wait a second, Steve.” Covering up the mouthpiece, he stared at her. “I almost liked it better before.”
“Well, it’s done.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I have to curl it, so don’t make another comment until I do.”
“When are you going to have time to do that?” Daddy frowned and shook his head. “I’m back, Steve. Where were we?”
Missy huffed and stormed into the house. She opened the fridge, and slid out the thirteen-by-nine glass pan of cabbage rolls that she’d prepared earlier in the day. She just needed to pop them in the oven for twenty minutes. She’d also pre-made the dough for Angel Biscuits. If she was lucky, they’d have leftovers for tomorrow night.
Robert carried a box of air filters into John’s office and set them on top of his desk. “There are nine more boxes of Havoline Supreme Motor Oil in the back of my car.”
“You won’t believe the dinner Missy made last night.” John grinned. “She got a cookbook from Bertha on Sunday and read it the whole way home.”
“That’s right. I saw Missy at church with it.” Robert nodded.
“Now is Bertha the heavy-set, elderly woman, who makes the best potato salad in Clark County?”
Robert nodded. “That’s Bertha.”
“From a distance, she reminds me of my mother.” John picked up the phone.
After three trips to the car, Robert set the boxes of oil on the office floor in a tidy stack; and then he handed John a three-part invoice which he’d filled out back at the office.
“You even brought your own pen.” John chuckled and pulled out a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses from the center drawer and slid them on. He signed his name and handed the invoice back to Robert.
“I could show you how to install a new carburetor in a ’69 Impala, and you could stay for dinner if you don’t have other plans.”
“Sounds great. Thank you,” Robert said, glad the earlier offer for dinner was still valid.
“Missy’s in the house. Tell her to cut you a check and set another plate for dinner. And whatever you do, don’t say anything about her hair.”
Robert waited for John to explain.
“Take my word for it. Don’t say a word.”
Missy checked on the cabbage rolls. The sauce still wasn’t bubbly. She set the timer for another ten minutes and glanced toward the window. Robert was walking toward the house. For a moment, she contemplated taking off Mama’s old calico apron that she’d pulled on over her blue coveralls. She must look ridiculous, but then she reminded herself it was only Jerry Boy.
He knocked on the screen door before stepping inside. At least he hadn’t barged in like everyone else did.
“Hello, Jerry.”
His eyes widened for a moment, and then he swallowed. If he so much as chuckled or said one thing about her hair, she’d throw the nearest hot pad at him.
“Hi, Missy. Your father said for you to cut a check, and he invited me to stay for dinner, too. Those smell good.” He nodded toward the counter where golden yeast rolls cooled on a wire rack.
She glanced at the invoice in his hand; Daddy had placed another order.
“Congratulations,” she said, flatly. “I’ll be a moment. I can bring your check out to the shop or—”
“I’ll wait here.”
Of course he’d wait here. She walked down the hallway to her small office, the second door on the right. Sunlight streamed through the dusty metal blinds. She plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk.
“Daddy,” she mumbled.
She entered Columbia Auto Parts into the account payables ledger, and shook her head. He was being so obvious about his matchmaking. Why couldn’t he pick somebody more like him—a big, strapping fellow who knew vehicle maintenance and what a coil wire was, for goodness sake.
Robert cleared his throat several times before he appeared in the doorway. Perhaps he’d been bored waiting in the kitchen.
“Would you mind if I swiped a roll? They smell awful good.”
“Go ahead. Margarine’s in the fridge.”
At least he’d asked. Daddy, Douglas, Baker, and even Gary would have just grabbed. She remembered Daddy’s words: You’re not used to being around a gentleman.
Robert Schoening was such a gentleman that it annoyed her at times.
When Missy returned to the kitchen, he was leaning back against the counter, one polished leather shoe crossed over the other. He popped the remnant of her first try at Angel Rolls into his mouth and tucked the check she handed him into the bill section of his wallet.
He chewed and swallowed before speaking. “Those are good. My mom’s friend Peg from Elderly Angels, makes rolls just like these.”
Missy’s new cookbook lay open on the counter to Bertha’s Blue Ribbon Cabbage Rolls recipe. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed; she wanted it to be a surprise. She flipped to the middle of the book to the chapter on Breads and found the recipe for Angel Rolls.
“Peg Blastic?” She read the contributor’s name aloud.
“That’s her.” Robert’s gaze traveled to Missy’s hair.
“Don’t look at it. I still have to curl it. I know it looks awful, but don’t you dare say a word.”
“My sister’s hair looks like yours before she curls it.”
“How does it look after it’s curled?” She studied his face for any sign that he was avoiding the truth.
“Looks real pretty.” He lifted his dark brows and nodded.
“I thought the beautician was going to show me how to curl it, you know.” With one hand halfway to the upper cupboard, she froze as she heard the all too familiar rev of Gary’s muffler entering the drive.
“Crab!” She bit her lower lip.
“Crab!” Martha said.
“Sh! Martha, you didn’t hear me say that.”
Missy untied the knot in the back of her apron, flung it over a chair, and glanced toward the window.
“Go look for me, Bobby. Go check if Gary’s got rid of the bumper sticker.”
Instead, he crossed his arms, and remained frozen in the middle of the kitchen in between her and the window. “Not unless you call me Robert.”
Now was not a time to play games. Gary was in the driveway Hopefully, he was staying for dinner, and she still had to do her hair!
“Please... Robert.” She stared at him.
He strolled to the sink and with his back to her, peered out the window.
“I’m sorry, Missy; both bumper stickers are still there.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I have twenty-twenty vision.”
“I could have sworn something’s been different about him.” Her voice trailed off. “He’s hardly mentioned Trudy Tibbits at all.” She glanced at Robert. “The waitress from Spudder’s.”
Robert’s brows knit together as he nodded. “The other night when you were in your room—the night you made stir-fry…”
Narrowing her eyes, Missy nodded.
“Gary said Trudy got married.”
“Huh? What? What did you just say?” The kitchen blurred around her.
“I said, the other night when you were in your room—the night you made stir-fry—Gary said that Trudy got married. She up and eloped with her new college beau. I thought you knew.”
Missy stared at Robert’s paisley print tie. Trudy Tibbits was married? She shook her head. It was wrong to be happy for herself when Gary...
“Poor Gary.”
“Now, be good,” Martha squawked in the background and two-stepped on the bar of her cage.
“What a shocker!” Missy mumbled. In front of Robert, she needed to pull herself out of this mental quandary.
“Wonder if he’s staying for dinner?” Robert said.
“If he does, can you sit there?” Missy pointed to the end of the table.
“If he’s sitting right next to you—” Robert gripped the padded backs of the chrome chairs that sat side-by-side, “he’ll have to turn in his chair to see you.”
“Can you just sit there at the end for me, please?”
“He won’t be able to see you.”
“Maybe I don’t want him to see me tonight.”
“Liars never prosper.” Robert walked toward the entry.
Was he calling her a liar?
“Whatever it is you’re baking, it smells delicious.” Robert quietly closed the screen door behind him.
Missy suppressed a giggle. What smelled so delicious was the cabbage rolls. She’d made them in his honor.
Missy stepped close to Martha’s cage. “Trudy’s married. Can you believe it? Trudy Tibbits is married. Why didn’t Gary or Douglas tell me?”
Balanced on the wood bar, Martha leaned her head to one side, looking at her.
Since Robert had been the one to tell her, maybe she ought to feel a little guilty about serving cabbage rolls for dinner.
“Trudy’s married, Martha.” She sighed. “Can you believe it? Trudy Tibbits is married.”
“Trudy Tibbits. Trudy Tibbits.” Martha repeated.
Wide-eyed, Missy realized she should stop repeating this particular piece of news to a parrot. Giggling, she started down the hallway toward her room. She kicked off her steel toed boots and hopped between the tall boy dresser and her bed as she changed from coveralls to cutoffs. She settled on a teal blue tank top that brought out the cornflower blue of her eyes. Lastly, she pulled the Clairol hot rollers out of the Fred Meyer bag and skimmed the front of the box. Takes 12-minutes to heat up.
“Twelve minutes! I don’t have twelve minutes.” Missy plugged the hot rollers into the wall socket beside her dresser and glimpsed her reflection in the skinny wall mirror. It was official: to face Gary, she needed to wear a baseball hat. She plunked the nearest cap, a red one, on top of her head and tucked her short layers up inside. Good. She almost looked normal. Maybe Gary wouldn’t even notice during dinner.
CHAPTER 24
“You should’ve been here last night,” Daddy informed Robert and Gary as they washed up at the kitchen sink. “Missy cooked salmon cakes and oven fries. Best meal she’s ever made.” Daddy flung the dishtowel over Robert’s shoulder. “That cookbook she got at the church corn feed will change our lives forever. All those years, all she needed was some recipes and a couple more grandmas. Who would have known?”
“There’s a recipe for Chicken Divan,” Robert glanced over his shoulder at Missy, “that my mom contributed. It’s great.”
“Sounds good,” Missy said, and noted that Gary sat down right where she’d hoped he would at the table.
“What’s
with the hat, Missy?” Gary peered up at her.
“Nothing.” She shrugged.
“Mom used to make good fried chicken,” Douglas said.
Missy caught her breath. Was she imagining it, or were they all talking more and more about Mama?
“That she did.” Daddy nodded. “Yesterday, Missy cleaned the pantry from floor to ceiling; put a new light bulb in there, too. What smells so good, doll?”
“Cabbage rolls.” She tossed two hot pads on the table.
“I told Robert here...” Daddy leaned back in his chair, “that Tuesday’s the best dinner of the week, and you just went to town.”
“This is a blue ribbon recipe, Daddy.” Missy transferred the large, glass casserole dish to the center of the table. The cabbage rolls were smothered in a bubbling herb-flecked tomato sauce. The men immediately quieted. Next, she set down a bowl of warm green beans, a basketful of Angel Biscuits, and the tub of Margarine. It was then she noted that Robert wasn’t in his assigned seat at the end of the table. He’d deliberately sat next to Gary. With her jaw dropped almost to her tank top, she stared at Robert.
The nerve! And somebody had set ketchup on the table!
Robert stared solemnly at the cabbage roll centerpiece. Instead of sitting next to Gary, Missy sat down in the folding chair at the end of the table and fumed.
“A feast.” Daddy sat up taller in his chair. “You even made a cake; didn’t ya, honey?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“What kind?”
“It’s supposed to be a Chocolate Zucchini Cake, but zucchini’s not ripe yet.”
“I thought I saw a decent-sized one the other day,” Daddy said. “Hmm . . . maybe it was a cucumber.”
It had been a zucchini, but she wasn’t about to confess to a lie, not in front of Jerry Boy.
“What’d ya use then?” Douglas scratched behind one ear.
“It’s a Chocolate Cabbage Cake.” Missy’s face warmed as she gazed at her empty plate.
“Sounds awful!” Daddy held out his hands for prayer.
Now, if she’d been sitting where she was supposed to be sitting, she would have been able to hold Gary’s hand. She slid her right hand into Daddy’s and with a frown, her left into Robert’s. Once Daddy bowed his head for prayer, she jabbed her thumb nail into Robert’s palm. His grip tightened so she couldn’t move her fingers. Opening her eyes, she glared at him, but his head was bowed, and his eyes closed.
Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance Page 13
