Heart Strings

by Lynne Waite Chapman

  Anita gathered our cups from the chair where I’d left them, and carried them to the kitchen. “They’ll catch those thieves soon, and everything will settle down. Evelynton will be back to the lovely little town it’s always been. Let’s have that coffee.”

  Anita retrieved her handbag and smiled. “So, what were we talking about? Oh yes, school. The reunion. You did get the invitation I left?”

  I scanned the room again and retrieved the beige envelope from the side table where I’d dropped it the day before. “I got it but didn’t know it was for me. As you know, I’ve lost touch.”

  “Well, now that you’re holding a personalized request, please say you’ll come.”

  I sank into my chair. “You recovered quickly from the shotgun blast.”

  Anita grinned. “I’m sure everything will be fine. We’ve never had trouble before, and our police force is on it. What do you say about the reunion?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll try to drop in for a little while. But I don’t know what I’ll wear, and my hair’s a wreck.” To emphasize my point, I shook hair out of my eyes, confident the action would make it worse and prove my point. “I need a haircut.”

  “Not a problem. I know the best hairdresser. You’ll love her.” Anita grabbed the invitation from me and wrote on the back of the envelope.

  “I can’t wait. You’ll have so much fun at the reunion.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I said maybe, Anita.” I might have emphasized the word maybe more than necessary.

  “Un-huh.” With a twinkle in her eye, and a lopsided smile, she slapped the invitation into my hand.

  Anita’s gaze darted to the mantle clock. “Look at the time. This is my day at the charity shop. Boy, will I have a story to tell today.” She gave me a quick hug and turned to leave. “Talk to you soon.”

  I watched her drive away before closing and locking the door.

  After proudly placing the flowers—my first housewarming gift—on the back porch, I returned to the kitchen and picked up the phone. Anita’s notation read “Rarity @ The Rare Curl.”

  Chapter Four

  T inkling chimes sounded as I pushed open the glass door of The Rare Curl and stepped into the reception area. Bright white side walls were covered with glass shelves stacked with bottles of shampoo, hairspray, and I couldn’t guess what else. I stick with simple when it comes to my hair.

  A curvy white desk occupied the center of the room, and there was a woman leaning over it, presumably the receptionist. Her face was concealed by a mass of curly red hair, but she swung the ringlets back when she looked up to greet me. I was startled by her bright green eyes surrounded by a maze of crinkly lines, and her enormous smile.

  She nearly sang out, “Welcome. How may I help you today?”

  “Hi, I’m Lauren Halloren. I called yesterday.”

  I realized I was still standing just inside the door, and forced myself to approach the desk.

  She straightened and reached across the desk to grab my hand, giving it a firm squeeze before releasing me. “I’m pleased to meet you, Lauren Halloren. I’m Rarity Peabody, proprietor. I’m betting you are Lauren Grace, Ruth James’s niece. Welcome home.”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  Everybody knows Aunt Ruth.

  “We heard you’d be living in Ruth’s old place. It’s such a nice house.” Her voice, through her constant smile, continued to resonate with musical notes. “My gentleman friend, Wallace Binion, is your neighbor on the south side, in the white house. How are you getting settled into your new home?”

  “I’m doing fine. I met Mr. Binion when I was moving in. He helped me unload.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad he’s being neighborly.”

  She beckoned me to a large arched doorway behind the desk. It opened to a room housing styling stations and chattering women.

  Rarity pointed toward the first styling chair in a row of three. “Let’s get you started. I’m right over here. Follow me.”

  I almost bumped into her when she stopped short and turned to face me. “Oh, dear, I heard you had some excitement in your neighborhood yesterday. Those thieves again. If it were me, I would have just let them run, but Clive is a hot-head. Imagine, shooting at them. But don’t worry about him. He and Murine usually keep to themselves.”

  “Hmm, about the prowlers, why don’t I ask Wallace to come over and make sure your house is secure? He’s a whiz at security. When we started keeping company, he insisted I replace my locks. And then he made me start using them.”

  Rarity stepped aside and put her hand on the back of the styling chair. I took a seat before cocking my head to look up at her. “I think my locks are good. But thanks.”

  “Knowing Wallace, he probably talked Ruth into better locks, too.”

  Rarity rested a hand on my shoulder. “I sure miss her. It was a sad day for this town when she passed. She was quite a lady. The dear spent her time helping people, right up until the Good Lord took her home.”

  “I hadn’t seen her in a long time.” It was getting embarrassing that everyone knew my aunt better than I ever did.

  I ran my hands through my hair. “Um…. I need a trim. It hasn’t been cut for a while.”

  “You are in the right place.” She whipped a cape into the air. It floated around me and gently settled into place.

  “I just want it shaped up a bit. Not too short.” A new hairdresser is enough to give me heart palpitations.

  Rarity shoved her fingers into my hair and pushed it from side to side. Then she examined my head from every angle. She held a strand and studied it, finally saying, “Oh sure, I could give it some shape and trim off the bad ends.”

  She stared intently at my reflection in the mirror. “Do you wear bangs? You would look great with some hair on your forehead. You know, soft shadow bangs, swept to the side?”

  “Do you think so?” I asked her reflection. “I haven’t worn any for a while, but that might be nice.”

  She answered my reflection. “Okay. Let’s do that. You can wear them down or brush them back out of the way. They’ll be great. Let’s get your hair washed.”

  I thought I might be lulled to sleep during the shampoo, but remained wide awake when we returned to the chair for the haircut. Scissors snipped wildly, and scraps of hair flew in all directions. All with Rarity talking nonstop.

  A moderately chubby hairdresser, who’d been working next to us, cashed-out her customer and returned to flop into her chair, instantly joining our conversation. Rarity introduced her as Stacy Lutz and pointed out Patsy Clooney, working toward the back of the salon. Patsy looked up and waved.

  The muscles of my face froze into what I hoped was a smile as I studied Stacy. Her hair had been clipped short in the back and over one ear, much longer on the other side. Long, spiky, pieces hung over one eye. I stared in horror at her reflection in the mirror. My pulse began to race and my breath came in short gasps. I couldn’t seem to look away, but when I forced a glance at my own more conservative style, my blood pressure dropped to a normal rhythm.

  “This is looking nice, Rarity.”

  Thank you God, it’s going to be okay.

  Rarity placed her scissors on the counter top and I relaxed. The scary part was over. She slopped on some mousse, grabbed a brush, and flipped on the blow dryer.

  “Rarity,” I raised my voice above the noise, “I wonder if you can recommend an antique dealer. There are a few items in the house I think may be worth something. I don’t know anything about antiques so I’d like to have them appraised.”

  “Yes, Ruth had some beautiful glassware and furniture. They’re family heirlooms. She treasured the memories they held. You’re wise to have them appraised. I don’t know anyone off-hand, but I’ll ask around for a recommendation.”

  Rarity stepped back, accidentally colliding with Patsy. “Oops excuse me, Patsy. I didn’t see you there.” Patsy, now finished with her customer, was working around my chair with the broom, sweeping up all the hair clippings. Sh
e finished there and moved over to sweep Stacy’s area as well.

  “Thank you, girlfriend.” Stacy lazily popped a piece of gum in her mouth.

  Once upon a time, Patsy must have been beautiful. Her prominent cheekbones and large eyes were evidence of that. Today, puffy, dark arcs hung beneath her eyes and her hair had the straw-like appearance of too much hair dye.

  Stacy eyed me. “Honey, did you see I Can Sing last night? My favorite TV show. I thought they were too hard on that Shaun. You know the little guy from Wisconsin?”

  “I don’t watch it.”

  Stacy went on as if I hadn’t said anything. “He’s so good. Has a beautiful voice. I vote for him every week. You know you can text your vote in.”

  Rarity joined the conversation, commenting on the other contestants as the blow dryer whirred.

  Patsy carried the broom to the back of the salon, and Stacy lowered her voice. “That Patsy is a gem. She’s been sweeping up my hair every day for the last two weeks, bless her heart. Too bad that husband of hers doesn’t appreciate what he’s got.”

  She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “He’s never home. Patsy says he works a lot, but I think he’s having an affair. She’s so gullible.”

  “Now Stacy, you don’t know that.” Rarity chided.

  “But Rarity, I’m pretty sure he’s seeing that woman, Helen. She works at the nursing home, a new customer of mine. You know. The one who insists on bleaching her hair herself. I could tone it down and make her look years younger. Anyway, she was telling me about Earl selling her insurance, but if you ask me, she knows entirely too much about Earl to be just a business acquaintance.”

  Patsy emerged from the back room, and Stacy instantly returned her conversation to a detailed rundown of I Can Sing contestants. I don’t think she paused to take a breath until Rarity finished my hair and removed the cape.

  Rarity and I walked to the reception desk. As I paid, she leaned toward me and looked into my eyes. “I apologize for the gossip. I don’t like unkind talk in the salon. It doesn’t do anybody any good.”

  She opened the cash register, and recited, “Think on such things that are true and noble. Think about what is pure, what is lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and praiseworthy.” It’s from Philippians 4:8. I can’t remember it word for word but I’m pretty sure it means don’t gossip.

  “Sounds like it to me. Thanks, Rarity. My hair is going to be great.”

  I left The Rare Curl thinking I looked kind of cute with the dubious bonus of knowing all about the I Can Sing contestants and the local gossip.

  Chapter Five

  T he old tin mailbox overflowed. While I pulled out a handful of junk mail, a whisper soft sound caught my attention.

  “Mew.”

  I scanned the area around the porch. Nothing. But there at my feet, a small, black and white cat looked up at me with huge golden eyes.

  How sweet.

  Then, in an instant, the cat’s mouth gaped open and released an ear-piercing screech.

  “Whoa, kitty. What a big voice you have. It’s nice of you to stop by, but go on home now.”

  With my luck, he belonged to Clive. I sneaked a look at the blue house to confirm no one was watching, before I nudged the animal with the toe of my shoe.

  “Shoo. Shoo.”

  He flattened himself on the concrete, becoming unmovable. With a little more pressure I rolled him over until there was enough space to open the door and squeeze through. I wasted no time pulling it closed.

  “Sorry cat, it’s time I get serious about writing. The move put me behind schedule. If I don’t finish and send off a couple of articles, I won’t be able to afford even this free house.” I looked around and snapped my mouth shut. I was speaking to a cat, through a closed door.

  Small town life had already muddled my mind.

  In the kitchen, I loaded the coffee pot, set it on brew, and then crept to the door to peek out. No sign of the cat.

  Coffee and writing consumed the remainder of the day. That and wishing I were more creative.

  Several hours after I’d turned on the lamps, wind-whipped rain tapped against the window panes. Lightning strobed outside and a clap of thunder shook the house. I couldn’t resist tiptoeing to the front window to scan the porch. Much to my dismay, a ball of black and white fur filled the corner beside the flower pot.

  Wet patches began to form on the porch and I called through the door. “Go home kitty. You’re going to get soaked.”

  The small head swiveled in my direction, ears turned down like a wide brimmed rain hat. There was no escaping the accusation in his golden eyes.

  Shoot.

  Why should I feel guilty because someone left their cat outside in the rain? It’s not my cat.

  “Dumb animal.” I stomped to the closet to retrieve an empty box and pulled a garbage bag over it to repel water. On my way to the door, I thought to grab an old towel from the linen closet and tucked it inside the box.

  Rain sprinkled my face as I pushed the cat out of the way and shoved the box between the flower pot and the house.

  The feline gazed up at me, then at the box, and then stretched his neck to peer through the open door.

  “Nope. No way. This is the best I can do for you. I can barely take care of myself. Get in the box or go back where you came from.”

  The cat stared at me, and I stared at him, neither one of us blinking until a gust of wind pelted us with rain drops. The cat wisely stepped inside the shelter of the box. I retreated into the house, turned off the lights, and took a book to bed.

  Sometime in the night the sound of thumping drug me out of a sound sleep. Straining to locate the source was useless. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart beating. Laying still and slowing my breathing helped to quiet my nerves.

  Thumping, scratching. Branches. Tree branches were being blown against the siding.

  It’s just the storm.

  Chapter Six

  S unrise turned the fading clouds to pale peach with the promise of a beautiful day. I surveyed the storm damage. A few leaves and broken branches littered the lawn. Water had blown onto the back porch leaving small puddles on the floor. The puddles were in an interesting pattern. Almost like footsteps, I thought. But I was being silly. It was the wind. I mopped up the water and went to my computer, determined to work.

  My day remained uninterrupted until the phone rang at five o’clock. Pushing away from the desk, it took me a minute to straighten up and limp to the phone. Sore, stiff muscles hindered movement.

  “Hello, Lauren?” The greeting came through the receiver so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “It’s Clair. How are you, girl? I couldn’t believe it when Anita told me you were back in town.”

  I carried the phone to the sofa and sat down. “Clair, it’s good to hear from you. I’m working on getting settled. What have you been up to? Anita told me you’re in real estate. With your energy, that sounds like the perfect career.”

  “We’ll catch up on everything soon. Watcha doin’ right now? Anita and I are on our way over with a bottle of wine, cheese, and a box of crackers. We should be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “No. What do you mean you’re on your way?”

  “We are. Can’t wait to see you. Don’t worry about cleaning up. It’s just us.”

  Eek.

  My heart sank as I scrutinized my cluttered living space. “I’ve been writing all day. There’s a deadline this week and ….”

  “Then, it’s about time you had a break. Gotta go, Anita took my keys and is already in the car. See you soon.”

  The phone went dead and I studied the living room. I hopped to my feet, picked up a magazine, and shoved it under some books on the shelf. I plucked my sweatshirt off the chair, ran it to the laundry basket, gathered and stacked stray papers on the desk, just in time to answer the door.

  That was a quick fifteen minutes.

  Clair hadn’t changed much si
nce high school. She still wore her hair darker than her natural light brown. It was still cut very short, but instead of curled, now stood out in pointy spikes. She was still slender, maybe even thinner than in school. Her flawless make-up, blazer, short skirt, and high heels revealed the business woman she’d become.

  Clair shrieked. “Lauren, look at you. You haven’t changed a bit. Still beautiful, even without make-up.”

  Have I combed my hair today? Had I showered?

  After a quick but firm hug, Clair stepped past me and teetered toward the kitchen, holding a wine bottle above her head. “Where are the glasses? Let’s get this party going.”

  Anita trailed in behind Clair, carrying a grocery bag. She leaned toward me and whispered. “Clair may have started without us, I’m driving. Sorry we’re invading your space, but I think the three of us need to catch up.” She winked and walked straight to the kitchen.

  I closed the door and watched Clair opening and shutting cupboard doors.

  When she sang out, “Ta-da.” I knew she’d found what she was looking for. She pulled out three glasses and pointed Anita to the plates.

  My space had not only been invaded, it had been taken captive and was about to be carried away. I threw my hands up in surrender and plopped down on the sofa while the two women carried in glasses filled to the brim and a plate piled with squares of cheese, and crackers.

  Before long, Clair had us laughing at memories of high-school. She stopped mid-laugh and creased her brow. “What am I sitting on?” Leaning to one side, she pulled my book from under her hip.

  “Oh. Sorry, I forgot that was there. I was reading it last night.”

  She made a face when she read the title. “Texas Greed and Murder. Isn’t this about the man who killed his wife for her inheritance?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I’m addicted to true crime novels. Love detective stuff, trying to figure who did it before the author tells me.”

  “Ick. Not me. Give me a good romance anytime.” Clair dropped the book on the side table and went back to her reminiscing.