by Susan Crosby
“She broke up with me a year ago.”
“That’s no reason not to care what happens to her.”
“I care,” he said angrily. He cared too much, in fact, and he was taking care of it, of her.
“Then act like it. Life’s short, Joe. Way too short.” She marched off.
She threw her head back and forced a smile as she approached the wandering customer.
He was supposed to leave town again on Sunday and be gone for at least a week, his first trip out of state, to Portland, Oregon. Several small towns in the area had come together as a group, looking for ways to be kinder to their landscape, to get people involved in doing more for the environment.
If this was a success, his world could open up beyond his expectations.
But first he had to know that Dixie would be all right.
He waited until it was dark, until he knew the downtown shops would be closing. Then he made his way to Dixie’s salon.
From across the street, he watched her through the window as she talked with his niece Caroline and Nana Mae, both of whom looked like they’d just had their hair done. Joe stayed in the shadows until they left, out the back door to the parking lot.
Dixie grabbed a broom and swept around her chair.
Joe opened the door.
She looked up, smiling, then went still. After a moment she straightened, leaning on the broom. “Is everything okay?”
“I need a haircut. I was hoping you’d do it.”
Chapter Nine
Dixie ignored the flash of heat that zapped her. Seeing him framed in the doorway, looking so familiar and yet…not, shook her up.
She was afraid to be alone with him. Afraid to touch him, which she would have to do, in order to cut his hair.
She grabbed the long-handled dustpan and swept the hair from Caroline’s cut into it. “Your mom always trims your hair for you.”
“I don’t want a trim. I want it cut short. Professional.”
Her mouth had to be hanging open. “Seriously?” He’d grown his hair long when he was fourteen, had kept it shoulder length, but always pulled back.
“Yeah. It’s time, don’t you think? Will you do it?”
“There’s another salon in town. Plus Ernie’s barbershop.”
“I’m aware of that.” He locked the door behind him and closed the blinds. “No one will know. I don’t trust anyone but you.”
“You shut the blinds.” What did that mean?
“For your sake, Dix. I don’t think you’d want to broadcast this.”
“I haven’t said I would do it.”
He smiled. “You will. You know why?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Because you wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it right. You’ve already got a picture in your head of what kind of cut I should have, and no one else will duplicate that.”
He hadn’t come any closer, and she knew he would take no for an answer. But he was so right about his hair. She didn’t want anyone else to be the one to give him a style all his own.
An even more important issue loomed, however. She didn’t think he just wanted to look more professional. This was his way of starting his new life. Of getting rid of the weight of the old life.
She could do that for him, wanted to help him start down that road.
“Where’d you park?” she asked.
“I walked.”
“You just missed your grandmother and niece.”
“I know. I waited.” He still hadn’t moved and stood very still, his arms crossed, but otherwise not looking defensive.
She turned and walked to her station. “Well, come on, then.”
He sat in the chair. She wrapped a towel around his neck, then a soft plastic cape.
“When will work start on the place?” he asked, looking around.
Nothing had changed yet. There were four stations, three dryers, three sinks and a reception desk, plus a rack of products for sale, but there was unused space, too, where she would expand.
“On Monday, I hope. The mobile salon is being delivered then, and Bruno’s supposed to start the demo.” She’d been cutting hair for years, had always been good at it, and was even better now with professional training, but she was scared to cut his hair. What if she goofed? Would he think she’d done it on purpose? She didn’t want to get into an argument with him. She was stressed enough already.
She considered options for his cut. Go short and stylish, something popular with guys his age today? Or a slightly longer businessman’s look? Or maybe a little longer than that, so that the transition after all these years would be easier for him?
She decided to take it short. He was only thirty, and his field was one in which people often wore Earth shoes and linen. He didn’t do that, but he could look current.
“I’ll do an initial cut first. Get rid of most of the length. There’s enough to donate, okay?” she asked, scissors in hand.
“Yeah.”
“Would you rather not face the mirror?”
He smiled slightly. “Would you call me a coward?”
“Never in a hundred years, Joe.”
The air crackled around them. She’d known it was a mistake for them to be alone, had known the tension would be unbearable. Add to that the fact she had to touch him, to run her fingers through his hair, which brought back a thousand memories—
“Then I’d rather not watch,” he said.
She made the first snip above the band. “No turning back now.”
“Just get it over with.”
He flinched with every cut. So did she. Nerves, she told herself. Just nerves. It was a lot of pressure cutting his hair.
Liar. The pressure came mostly from being this close, touching him, knowing he probably felt the same tension. Finally she laid aside the bundle of hair, not holding it for him to see. She took up the scissors again and worked methodically, precisely, her nerves sizzling, hands shaking.
He pointedly looked at them, then at her face.
“Harder than I thought,” she said.
“For me, too.” He took her hands in his, the point of the scissors dangerously close to his heart. “But not just because of my hair.”
“Me, too,” she whispered. He already looked so different, he could be someone else altogether.
“You haven’t cut off my strength, have you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling just a little, the Joe she remembered.
“I’m not channeling Delilah, Samson.” She tried to smile back at him, but his hands tightened on hers, feeling warm and comfortable…and exciting. She felt her nipples tighten, saw him notice. “Let’s go to the shampoo bowl.”
She turned on the water, let it heat up. “Tell me if the water temperature is comfortable.”
“It feels good,” he said, closing his eyes.
She pumped shampoo into her palm and lathered his hair, taking her time. She glanced at his face, at his long, thick eyelashes that she’d often wished she had. Why did so many men have such gorgeous, long lashes, anyway?
Dixie shampooed his hair much longer than she did anyone else’s, enjoying the task, remembering the many times she’d washed his hair, and he had washed hers. And each other’s bodies. She recalled vividly how he felt under her soapy hands. They’d always ended up in bed after taking a shower together. Always.
“Are you okay?” he asked now, taking her out of the memory.
“Fine.” She wasn’t, of course, but neither was he. He’d started off relaxed. Now he wasn’t. She didn’t have to look at him to know, but she did, catching him looking at her, or rather, her breasts, which were in his direct line of vision.
Dixie wasn’t wearing anything she considered sexy, just a sage-green T-shirt with three-quarter sleeves—although it did hug her curves, which were more generous than average, something he’d always appreciated.
“Did you take this long shampooing Kincaid’s hair?” he asked, his voice taut.
“His hair is much
shorter.”
Their gazes met. He waited in silence. She knew her answer mattered to him, and recognized something had shifted between them.
“No,” she said finally, softly. “I didn’t.”
He closed his eyes again and relaxed, but she didn’t linger. She rinsed his hair and had him move to her chair again. Before she started cutting, she turned up the volume on the music playing through the speakers, tunes shuffling on her iPod.
“Don’t want to talk to me?” he asked as she combed his wet hair, his back still to the mirror.
She would. She just needed a minute, then she would keep the conversation focused on safe topics. Although nothing seemed safe at the moment.
She was completely aware of him. Of his tension, his awareness of her, even his breathing. She wanted to touch more than his hair. She wanted to climb into his chair, straddle his lap, kiss him. Oh, yeah, she wanted to kiss him, to feel the heat and wetness of his mouth.
She dropped her scissors onto the floor, took a step back, afraid to continue, afraid she would ruin his hair.
“Done?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not quite. I don’t want to mess up.”
“You won’t.” He ran his hands over his hair, then swallowed. “Short.”
His seeming acceptance steadied her. “It’ll look good. It already does,” she said. She picked up the scissors, traded them for a fresh pair, and started again, then used the clippers. A few minutes later she was done. She ran some gel through his hair, then played with it until she was satisfied with the look.
“Ready to see?” she asked, dragging the drape off him.
“Yes.”
She turned his chair. She waited for his reaction, but he didn’t say anything, just stared at his image, his hands folded in his lap. “It’ll take you a little while to get used to it,” she said, nerves making the words come out shaky. “Your neck will feel cold, too.”
His continued silence made her heart thump.
“Really, Joe, give it a few—”
“I like it.”
She almost deflated with relief. “I’ll give you some gel. You’ll need it if you want it to stand up like that in the front.”
“I feel up-to-date.”
“That was the point.” She grabbed the broom and started sweeping the floor around him. “And please don’t ask how much you owe me. It’s a gift.”
She just wanted him to leave, before it was too late. Every cell, every nerve ending, every hormone was dancing inside her, dizzying and reckless.
“Dix.”
It was his tone that did her in. He’d uttered one syllable, yet she heard need and desire and even a little desperation—everything she felt, too.
She finally looked him, at his tight jaw, hungry eyes, appealing mouth.
She dropped the broom, the stick clattering. Music filled the air, no lyrics, just a sultry sound. She started to move forward, then stopped. Took a step back, then another.
“You need to go,” she said, wishing otherwise, but knowing it would be a big mistake.
“Dixie—”
“I mean it, Joe.” She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to center her thoughts. “Look, I haven’t been with anyone else. I haven’t even touched anyone else. That makes me extremely vulnerable right now, because you’re familiar. And safe. But not emotionally. I can’t do it.”
“I haven’t been with anyone, either.” He got out of the chair and came toward her.
She didn’t question his honesty, and the truth of it tempted her in ways that stunned her. “You need to go,” she repeated. “Really. Right now.”
They stood facing each other like duelists, their weapons invisible, internal.
He reached for her. She had no fight in her. It was what she wanted.
Then his lips touched hers and everything spun. His lips, his tongue, the scent of his skin aroused her, excited her. His arms came around her, strong and steady, until they were body to body, and she could feel him shaking, too.
“Dixie,” he breathed. “Dixie.”
She’d been living for this moment, and now was dying in it. All they had to do was go upstairs. She would be happy again. He was everything—
A knock sounded. “Dix? Are you there?”
Shana. Dixie shoved away from him.
“Dix? I know you’re there. I hear music. It’s cold out here!”
“Go out the front door,” Dixie urged him.
He pointed to his head. “Thanks.”
She came out of her stupor when he opened the door. “Hang on.” She grabbed a tube of hair gel and tossed it to him.
He caught it on the fly, shoved it in his back pocket.
Dixie waited for the door to shut then went to the back door and let Shana and Emma in.
“What took you so long?” Shana asked.
“I’d gone upstairs to get…something.” She grabbed the broom and started sweeping up.
“You worked late,” Shana said, coming closer.
“Sometimes I have to, you know. For people who work out of town.”
Shana picked up Joe’s ponytail, dangled it from her fingers. “Or someone who wants a confidential appointment.”
Dixie looked at the floor, then she carefully took the bundle away from her sister. “Keep it to yourself, please. He wanted it done and wouldn’t trust anyone else.”
Shana zipped her lips.
“If you’d like to be helpful, I could use another hand or two helping me set up for Bitty’s farewell party tomorrow. A lot of people will be in and out all day to say goodbye. I’d like this place to sparkle, plus I’ve got decorations to hang and cookies to bake, although I made the dough last night. What would you like to tackle?”
“Let’s work together. The time will fly by. But please, can we turn on some different music? This stuff is going to put me to sleep.”
Dixie smiled. “That’s salon music.” She tapped the screen on her iPod until she found the Black Eyed Peas playlist.
The sisters danced while they decorated, singing loudly, although not exactly on key. Shana suggested Dixie put up a poster of the renovation plans to start drumming up business for the spa services.
An hour later the salon was ready. Soon after, the scent of oatmeal cookies filled Dixie’s apartment. She gave Emma a bottle while Shana baked, offering to take over.
Emma fell asleep in Dixie’s arms. She’d borrowed the porta-crib from Joe, so Emma would have a place to sleep other than in her carrier, but for now Dixie put the baby on her shoulder and rubbed her back as she walked up to the breakfast bar and watched Shana heap dough onto a cookie sheet.
“Last batch,” she said. “Emma adores you.”
“It’s mutual.”
“Is the clock ticking for you, Dix?”
“I don’t feel desperate yet, but I don’t want to wait until I’m almost forty, like Mom was. How’d the job go today?” Dixie asked, changing the subject. She bounced a little as Emma stirred.
“It was fun. I saw a lot of people I remember. Guess it’s a good thing that Mom and Dad aren’t checking in with friends and neighbors or they would’ve been home by now.”
“I think you’re right.”
“You’ll be in trouble for not telling them, won’t you? And especially for letting me stay at the house.”
“They’ll get over it.” Eventually. “If they want to keep on RV-ing, they need me. Leverage? It’s priceless.” Dixie wiggled her brows, making Shana laugh.
“Maybe Emma will be my leverage. She is their only grandchild.” She slid the tray of cookies into the oven and set the timer, then passed Dixie a cooled cookie from an earlier batch, taking one for herself.
If their parents had been the nurturing kind, Dixie might agree with her sister. “I guess that means you plan to stay for a while.”
Shana shrugged. “No place better to go.”
Dixie didn’t buy it. Shana had come home for a reason. She just wasn’t sharing that reason yet. “Does Emma
have other grandparents?”
Shana bit off a piece of cookie and stared at Dixie as she chewed. “Yes,” she said finally.
“Yet you didn’t go to them. Even knowing Mom and Dad wouldn’t welcome you with open arms, you didn’t go to anyone else.”
“I came to you. And Joe, or so I thought, not knowing about your split. Or maybe that’s not the case anymore?”
“Nothing’s changed, Shana.” Which was a lie. She’d been numb for a year. Now everything in her and around her crackled with energy.
Shana took Emma when her fussing increased, swaddled her, then sat in the rocking chair that had been moved from Joe’s house. “I still can’t believe you let him go. You even said you still love him.”
“It isn’t enough.” She had to remind herself of that a lot these days so that she stayed on track.
“Love is everything, Dixie. Everything.” She wasn’t looking at Dixie, but at Emma. “I loved her father with all my heart, and I would give anything for one more day with him. We didn’t get to say goodbye. I needed to say goodbye. It’s like, I don’t know, an unfinished symphony.”
Dixie sat on the sofa, close to Shana. “Was he—”
“No questions. Please.” Her voice quavered. Tears filled her eyes. “I’m just trying to get you to open your eyes. See what’s in front of you. Who is in front of you. You should be doing everything you can to keep him. Or you should tell him goodbye and move on.”
“I’ve already moved on. So has he.”
“No, you haven’t. If you had, you would be dating, and seeing him wouldn’t be so obviously painful to you. You wouldn’t have cut his hair for him—or looked so guilty when I came in.”
Shana gave Dixie one long look, then stood. “I need to get the munchkin home. The car ride will soothe her, and I’m ready for bed, too.”
The timer went off. Dixie went into the kitchen and pulled out the cookie sheet. “Thank you for all your help. I really do appreciate it.”
Shana settled Emma in her carrier. “You know, Dix. You are the worst person on the planet when it comes to asking for help. Plenty of us would pitch in, but first we have to know you need us to. Nobody likes a martyr.”
