Bridge to Haven

by Francine Rivers

  “I haven’t been very nice to you, have I?” Franklin had warned her not to trust anyone, but she found herself wanting to trust Murray. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted. It wasn’t my idea.”

  He didn’t pretend not to understand. “Franklin doesn’t want you to get personal.” He looked sad as he studied her. He seemed to be debating whether to break the rules. “I remember the first day I met you.” He shook his head. “All that beautiful red hair. I thought Franklin was crazy, wanting to change it.”

  She didn’t smile or play the usual flirtatious games Franklin told her to play with other men. “What do you think now?”

  “Hard to say. Red seemed to suit you, but then, how would I know? I don’t really know you at all, do I?”

  She felt the prick of hot tears again and swallowed. No one really knew her, Abra Matthews. She’d always kept the walls up, just the way Franklin told her. She was so tired of being Lena Scott all the time. Why couldn’t she be Abra for an hour or two now and then?

  Murray sat silent. She knew the course of their relationship was being left to her. She took a shaky breath and stepped over the line. “There’s not much to know. I met a bad boy and fell in love. He brought me south and moved me into a little bungalow in Beverly Hills. He did whatever he wanted with—or without—me. I guess you could call me his beck-and-call girl. When he got tired of me, he made a bet Franklin couldn’t refuse.”

  “What was that?”

  “Franklin said he could make a star out of anyone. My boyfriend said, ‘Try her.’ My life in a nutshell.”

  Murray didn’t look shocked or disgusted. Maybe a hairdresser was like a priest. They’d heard it all before.

  “He will make you a star, if that’s what you want to be.”

  “It never even occurred to me, until Franklin put the idea in my head.” She lifted her shoulders. “It would be nice to be somebody.”

  “You are somebody, Lena.”

  She shook her head and looked away.

  “Well, then, you’re on your way, aren’t you?”

  “Lena Scott is on her way.” She was sorry the moment she said it. She was sharing too much of herself. She put her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. Franklin wouldn’t be happy if he knew she was talking to Murray like this. She waited for him to pry. When he didn’t, she felt oddly bereft. Maybe he wasn’t interested. She opened her eyes and saw that he was. Blinded by tears, she told him what she’d wanted to say for a long time. “My real name is Abra.”

  “Abra.” Murray tested the name. “I like it.” His mouth curved. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For trusting me enough to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

  “You’re telling me now.”

  Her heart began to pound. “Don’t tell Franklin—”

  “You don’t have to say it, Abra. What you say to me stays with me.”

  The habitual caution still had a firm grip on her. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake trusting him. She changed the subject. “How did you end up in Hollywood?”

  “I was born in Burbank. My mother was a hairdresser. My father left when I was two. I spent most of my life in the salon where she worked.” He smiled. “At first, women were lifting me out of the playpen or sitting me on their laps while Mom worked on their hair. As I got older, they played board games with me or read me stories while they sat under a dryer. I had two dozen aunts, big sisters, and grannies.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It was. My mother had big dreams for me. She wanted me to go to college, become a doctor or a lawyer. Just like most mothers, I guess. I did well in school, but what I really enjoyed was watching my mother work and seeing the difference a couple of hours in a salon could make for a woman.” He shrugged. “My life was school, the salon, and church on Sunday morning. Until I hit high school. Then it was baseball and girls. I kept my grades up. Mom was tough and made sure of that. I hung out with friends, went to parties, necked with girls, but never went too far.”

  When Murray fell silent, emotion tightening his jaw, Abra waited, not pressing him. “I was a sophomore when my mother went through a radical double mastectomy and radiation for cancer. She didn’t even have enough energy to fix her hair.” He looked grim and angry. “She’d cry and say she didn’t feel like a woman anymore, as though breasts and perfect hair were all that mattered.”

  Aren’t they? Abra almost asked. She felt his pain and anger, was touched by his words. Would Franklin or anyone else in the world care about her if she didn’t have big breasts and raven hair?

  “I bought Mom a wig and fixed it up for her. She looked and felt better. One of her clients came to visit and commented on how nice she looked. Mom sent me out to buy more wigs. Training me gave her something to think about other than cancer. She would be a blonde one day, a redhead the next, a brunette with hair down her back, or a platinum blonde with a bob.” He chuckled at the memories. “We had some great times together before she died.”

  “How old were you when she passed away?”

  “Seventeen. Still in high school. One of Mom’s older patrons took me in so I could finish. I quit baseball and got an after-school job at a hamburger joint. I saved money for beauty college. Not that I told anyone about my plans.” He laughed. “Most of my friends thought male hairdressers liked men better than women, if you get my drift. They were applying to colleges or trade schools, or enlisting in the Army or Navy.”

  Grinning, he shook his head, his expression wry. “I was one of four guys in beauty college, and the only one who loved women, which made me pretty popular. I might have given in to temptation. Fortunately, my future wife was one of my fellow students.”

  She stared in surprise. “You’re married?” He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and she’d always sensed he was available.

  “Widowed. I lost my wife the same way I lost my mother.”

  Abra caught her breath. “That’s not fair.”

  “Life never is.”

  “I’m so sorry, Murray.”

  “Yeah, so am I. Janey was . . .” He didn’t speak for a moment. “No word is good enough for what she was. I blamed God for a while, thought it was a bad joke He’d played on me.” He stood and turned Abra’s chair around, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “And then I remembered we had five wonderful years together. I’m thankful for the time I had with her.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No. The salon had only been open two years. We wanted to make sure the business was solid before starting a family. Logical choice when we thought we had years ahead of us, but one we both regretted later when we ran out of time.” He worked conditioner into her hair. “You reminded me of Janey the first time I saw you.”

  “How so?”

  “Red hair.” Murray smiled wistfully. His hands in her hair were strong, yet gentle. “Walls up like I was Casanova at her door. Little did she know, one look at her and I was a one-woman man. Still am.” He ran his fingers through Abra’s hair and looked into her eyes. “Don’t let Franklin remake you completely, Abra. And try to remember you’re more than a face and body. You are a soul.”

  “Hollywood says otherwise.”

  “Hollywood and Franklin Moss aren’t the whole world. They aren’t right about everything.” He turned on the water again, testing the temperature. “You are who you are, my young friend. And you were already beautiful.”

  “More so now, don’t you think?”

  “You’re Lena-Scott beautiful. Is Lena Scott who you want to be?”

  “Lena Scott is the one who’ll become a star.”

  Murray looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. He rinsed her hair, raised the back of her chair, and wrapped her head in a warm towel. He rubbed gently before removing it and letting her long, thick, damp hair lay against the cape covering her back. He dug his fingers in, lifting tresses, shaking them loose. He reached for the blow-dryer.

  Abra looked a
t him in the mirror. “How long have you known Franklin?”

  “Ten years.” He held the blow-dryer at his side, but didn’t turn it on. “He knows the business. He’s dedicated. I’ll give him that.”

  “You don’t like him, do you?”

  “I don’t dislike him. We just don’t agree on some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “My vision has always been to enhance who a woman is. Franklin . . .” He pressed his lips together and shrugged.

  She finished what he didn’t seem willing to say. “Franklin makes them someone else.”

  Murray turned on the blow-dryer and went to work on her hair. She couldn’t talk to him with the appliance going. She sat still, eyes downcast, wondering if he wanted to end the conversation. Maybe they shouldn’t have started it in the first place. She looked up at him. He didn’t meet her gaze this time. He looked grim with concentration, troubled. It always took a long time to dry her hair. When he finally turned off the blow-dryer, he tossed it carelessly on the counter.

  “Murray?” She waited until he looked at her in the mirror. “You told me once to be careful. What did you mean by that?”

  “Don’t lose yourself.”

  “And you think I have?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. You have to decide who you are, who you want to be.”

  “What if I don’t know?”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. “Try praying about it.”

  She gave him a bleak smile. “God wants nothing to do with me. He never did.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I prayed once. I put my whole heart and soul into it.” She shrugged. “He did the opposite of what I asked.”

  Murray took his hands away, unsnapped the cape, and removed it. “Maybe He has a better plan.”

  She got up without looking at the finished result in the mirror. Franklin said Murray was the best in the business, and she didn’t want to look at Lena Scott.

  “I’ll see you in two weeks . . . Abra.”

  She paused in the doorway and looked back at Murray. “Did you know Pamela Hudson?”

  “I still know her.”

  Franklin said Pamela Hudson had been a shooting star, gone and almost forgotten. “Is she sorry she left Franklin?”

  Murray looked at her, but didn’t answer. It took a moment to understand, and then she smiled. “Anything anyone says to you stays with you, right?”

  “Call me if you ever need a friend to talk to.”

  Abra went into the room where manicurists had stations. Her usual girl wasn’t there, and the receptionist apologized and led her to an attractive brunette in the salon uniform. “Miss Scott, this is Mary Ellen. Mary Ellen, Miss Scott.” Abra wondered if she could relax with yet another new person in her life. She’d gotten used to the innocuous Ellie, who was too enamored with her own life to ask prying questions about Abra’s.

  Mary Ellen looked straight into her eyes and shook hands with her. Most of the manicurists looked like fashion models, but Mary Ellen looked normal, her brown hair cut in a simple pageboy. Abra noticed her nails were cut short and squared off rather than rounded, the way she used to wear her nails when she played piano. Franklin said long nails were sexier, especially when painted red.

  Mary Ellen smiled and held out her hands. Ellie usually had a bowl of soapy water ready and talked while Abra soaked her fingertips. Mary Ellen studied Abra’s hands, turning them palms up and then over again. She massaged one hand and then the other. “You can tell a lot about a person from their hands. Your hands are cold.”

  Abra felt increasingly uncomfortable. “So I have a warm heart.”

  “Or poor circulation. Or you’re nervous.” She gave Abra a quick smile. “Or my hands are the cold ones because it’s my first day. Are they?”

  Abra didn’t answer. Mary Ellen set out a bowl of warm, sudsy water. Abra put one hand in while Mary Ellen removed nail polish from the other. She wore a simple gold wedding band. “You have beautiful hands, Miss Scott. If you played piano, you could stretch a full octave without a problem.”

  “I did.”

  Mary Ellen glanced up. “So did I.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Not very well, I’m afraid.” When she finished Abra’s right hand, she began on the left. “Music is good for the soul.” She glanced up again. “Did you play classics or popular songs?”

  “A little of everything. Mostly hymns.” She hadn’t meant to say that.

  “Did you play for church?”

  “A long time ago.”

  Mary Ellen’s brown eyes warmed with humor. “You’re not that old, Miss Scott. In fact, I think I’m probably a few years older than you.”

  Abra wanted to change the subject. “So this is your first day . . .”

  “It’s really by accident I’m here. As a matter of fact, it was going to church that got me this job. Or coming home from church. We saw a car parked alongside Arroyo Seco Parkway and a man trying to change a tire. Charles pulled over.” She gave a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry to admit I tried to talk him out of stopping. He was wearing a suit, and all I thought about was how much it’d cost to get it cleaned.” She gave Abra an amused look. “You’d have to know Charles to understand. If he sees someone in trouble, he wants to help. Anyway, it was Murray. The two men got to talking and Charles told him we were new to the area. We came because Charles was offered a better job, but we didn’t know anyone here. I had a list of clients in San Diego. Now, I’m starting over again. Murray said I should come in. He was one manicurist short. So here I am.” She finished cleaning and preparing Abra’s fingernails. “Clear or a color?”

  “Red.” Abra pointed out the one Franklin liked.

  Mary Ellen took it out and shook it. “It’s a beautiful shade.”

  “Like blood.” Abra spread her fingers on the rolled towel.

  “Or rubies.”

  Mary Ellen hummed while she worked. Abra recognized the tune and remembered all the verses. “Fairest Lord Jesus” had been one of Mitzi’s favorites. Thinking of Mitzi brought Pastor Zeke to mind, and then Joshua. A wave of homesickness swept over her. Mary Ellen glanced up and apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit, humming all the time. That hymn has been stuck in my head since Sunday. I used to whistle, but Charles teased me about it all the time. ‘Whistling women and cackling hens always come to very bad ends.’”

  “It’s all right. It wasn’t you.”

  Mary Ellen bowed her head over the work again. “Where do you go to church?”

  “I don’t. Not anymore.”

  “Did you lose your faith?” Mary Ellen looked troubled.

  Abra gave a wistful smile. “I’m not sure I ever had any.” Afraid Mary Ellen might launch into a gospel message, she added, “And please don’t start quoting Bible verses.” She tried to keep her tone light. “I grew up on them.”

  Mary Ellen had clear brown eyes, like melting milk chocolate. “I’ll try not to hum.”

  “Hum all you want. It doesn’t bother me.”

  But it did. Hearing that one hymn brought a rush of others to her mind—and memories with them, pulling her into an undertow. Joshua taking her for a ride in his rusty truck, Pastor Zeke in the pulpit, Priscilla in the living room doorway inviting her to join them while they watched Life with Elizabeth, Joshua buying her a chocolate shake and fries, Peter watching Victory at Sea, Joshua taking her for a hike in the hills, Mitzi making cocoa in her kitchen, Penny sprawled on her bed poring over the latest movie magazines, and Joshua . . .

  Joshua.

  She closed her eyes. The last two times she’d seen him, they’d ended up fighting over Dylan. Sometimes she wanted to write to him and tell him she was sorry for the things she’d said in anger. She’d slammed the door in his face the last time she saw him. He was probably married to Lacey Glover by now, or some other girl. Why did that bring a sharp pain to her heart? Maybe she would write to him. She could swallow her pride and tell him he’d
been right about Dylan. He had every right to say, “I told you so.” She could also tell him she’d met someone a lot nicer who believed in her, someone who was going to make her into someone important, someone people would recognize and envy, someone people could love.

  But she knew she wouldn’t.

  What if he wrote back?

  The receptionist came to Mary Ellen’s station. “Mr. Moss called. He’s been delayed. A driver is waiting for you downstairs.” Abra thanked her.

  Mary Ellen had finished the final coat. “Shall I set up another appointment?” She looked so hopeful, Abra couldn’t say no. She’d need another, same time next week. Mary Ellen wrote it into her appointment book. She stood as Abra did and smiled warmly. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Scott.”

  “Call me Ab—” She blushed at the near mistake. “Lena.”

  Somewhere on the walk to the elevators, Abra gave in to impulse. Instead of meeting the driver out front, she stopped on the second floor, found the stairs, and left through the emergency exit. The alarm went off, and she ran to the end of the alley and looked out before walking quickly to the end of the block and around the corner. She knew she’d regret it, but she had to be alone for a little while. If she went back to the apartment, Franklin would be there.

  She slowed and wandered. All she had with her was a clutch bag with a handkerchief, lipstick, and a key to Franklin’s apartment. She didn’t even have a dime to make a telephone call, let alone enough money to hire a cab. Franklin said it wasn’t necessary for her to carry money around with her.

  The sun was bright and she put on her sunglasses. She didn’t have to worry about anyone recognizing her on the street. She doubted she’d be recognizable even after the premiere tomorrow. It was such a ridiculous movie. Another melodrama in black-and-white.

  After six blocks, her high heels made her feet ache. She could feel sweat trickling down her back and wondered if it was soaking through the white linen jacket. Desperate to get off her feet for a few minutes, she went into a department store and found the ladies’ room. After resting on the love seat for a while, she washed her hands and patted her cheeks with the cool water. Mary Ellen had done a beautiful job. Her fingertips looked dipped in blood. Franklin is going to kill me when I get home.