Marrying the Single Dad

by Melinda Curtis

  She sat up, wrapping her arms around her chest, staring at him with huge emotionless eyes.

  Dead eyes.

  Athena’s eyes.

  Anger had to be blazing in his. “That was stupid. You should have thought it through. You should have slowed down. You should have remembered who you’d leave behind.”

  Brittany’s expression returned to normal and she blinked, seemingly surprised. “Who’d. I. Leave. Behind?” She croaked, louder than any bullfrog he’d heard the last couple of nights.

  His mouth snapped shut and his brain fog suddenly cleared. “Athena.” Oh, God. Athena.

  “It’s. Brittany.” Her teeth chattered around the syllables like maracas. “And. I. Did. Think.” She got to her feet, as unsteady as Phil.

  Joe stood with her, balancing on the rocks, grabbing hold of her arm, which was just as cold as his hand.

  She stared at their clammy flesh and shivered. “I need...my clothes.”

  “You need to go to a doctor.”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “If you say psychiatrist, I may have to push you in the river.” Her words were coming smoother now. Her shivers more like small tremors. She stepped away from him toward the bush a few feet above them where she’d left her clothes, but her foot slipped.

  He stopped her downward slide by placing his palm on the delicate pearls that made up her spine. “Slow down. I just fished you half dead out of the river.”

  “I wasn’t in that long. And I wasn’t dead.” She scrambled behind the bush, pulled on her shirt and stepped into her coveralls. A lock of purple-tinted hair inches shorter than the rest swung past her chin. “I saw you swim toward me and then everything went kind of...”

  “Black? That’s death.” He crossed his arms over his chest, not feeling as cold as he should have. She’d triggered his anger once more.

  “I didn’t see a light. I didn’t see my departed great-aunt Edna.” She zipped the coveralls. They were thin and instantly soaked. “I saw you.” And then softer. “I saw you.”

  Now he was cold.

  “I was never so grateful to see anyone in my life,” Brittany said in her softest voice yet.

  Joe contemplated the watery depths that had almost been her grave. Algae floated like supple green fingers from the tire where he’d gripped it as he’d cut her free. His pocket knife was swinging at his side. He snapped the blade closed and returned it to his wet jeans pocket.

  “Who’s Athena?”

  He glanced at Brittany over his shoulder, staring into eyes that were warm and alive. “My wife. She died in a motorcycle accident after we had an argument.”

  “‘She should have slowed down,’” Brittany murmured, repeating his words. “Thank you for saving me. I’ll make sure I braid my hair when I come back for it.”

  “Back?” The misstep was all but forgotten. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I can.” She twisted her hair and wrung it out. The snap was back in her whiskey-brown eyes. “Upcycle artist, remember? I’ll get a hook and a rope, and bring my sister.” She began the steep climb to the top of the bank on all fours.

  “If you couldn’t drag it out, there’s a reason.” Dead bodies and cement shoes came to mind, but he’d always liked those mobster shows. That is, until recently.

  “Years of mud. That’s the reason.” She’d almost made it to the safety of the upper bank, but she was just as reckless as Athena had been. She’d never learn from this.

  He scaled the slope on two feet after Brittany. “There could be something you can’t see down there. Something keeping the bike where it is.”

  “Shaggy Joe.” That tone. So like Athena’s. It said she was pretending everything was all right.

  In addition to being a beautician-artist-trespasser-thief, she was a stubborn-scavenging-risk-taker. Defeat wouldn’t stop her.

  She was the same as Athena and Uncle Turo.

  The anger was gone, and with it the guilt. In its place was pure sweat-popping dread. The kind he’d felt when he’d gone after Athena because he’d known she was too angry to drive safely. The kind he’d felt when Uncle Turo made a joke about the law in the hours before his arrest.

  He’d tried to be there for those he loved when he saw trouble ahead. It hadn’t protected them from slick turns or sharp FBI agents. It hadn’t saved them at all. He couldn’t stand by and watch this time. He couldn’t, even if it was a beautician-artist-trespassing-thief.

  “Shaggy Joe,” Brittany said again.

  “Don’t call me that.” Don’t make a joke out of this.

  “Heroic Joe.” She gave him a crooked grin that acknowledged her mistake and her self-consciousness in thin, wet coveralls that clung to her curves. “Thank you again for saving me.” Her grin flatlined. “But I’m not Athena. I’ll go slow and figure this out. And I’ll be okay.” With a small wave, she headed off down the path.

  He reached the top of the bank, muttering, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JOE SLOGGED ACROSS the apartment’s living room in wet, muddy jeans.

  Sam sat up and set aside her out-of-date tablet. “What happened to you?”

  “Your friend Brittany nearly drowned in the river trying to salvage a bicycle.” He closed his bedroom door behind him and shucked off his jeans, grateful that the flooring in the entire apartment was linoleum. He rummaged through his drawers until he found his bathing suit.

  “She’s all right?” Sam’s voice sounded her age. “Dad? Say she’s all right.”

  In his haste to live up to Brittany’s nickname for him—Heroic Joe—he’d forgotten Sam was just a kid, one who’d lost a mother to a motorcycle accident. “She’s all right.” Nothing a hot shower and a stiff drink wouldn’t fix.

  “Oh. Okay.” She still sounded eleven and small for such a big, heartless world. She was standing on the other side of the door when he opened it.

  What if that had been Sam? What if she’d seen a bike and gone under, trying to help the sparkly, determined woman they both barely knew? He felt the cold of the river, the cold of the fear, all over again. He’d have wanted whoever rescued Sam to take her home, to make sure that when the shock wore off she was safe in her own bed surrounded by those who loved her. “I made a mistake.”

  “Dad?” Sam’s eyes were huge.

  “She’s fine. It’s not that.” He pulled Sam into his arms, hugging her tight. “In some ways, she reminds me of your mother—strong and brave. But she’s also human. Same as Mom. Same as me.” Same as Uncle Turo. “Brittany nearly drowned and I let her walk home alone. I should have followed her. I shouldn’t have left her until her grandfather or her sister was by her side.” There to soothe the horrifying what-ifs that would inevitably come after a brush with death.

  “Can we go see her?” Sam’s voice was muffled against his chest. “Maybe she’d like a hot chocolate from the bakery?”

  Joe swallowed back the need to preserve both his bank account and his defenses against Brittany’s appeal. “Sure we can, honey. But first, are you up for a salvage mission? I need someone to operate the winch on the tow truck.”

  Sam nodded, still not letting him go.

  Soon thereafter, Joe drove the tow truck off the highway on the north side of the river. He parked as close to the bend above the fishing hole as he could and then got out. “If we’re going to live with a river practically in our backyard, you need to know how dangerous it can be.” A memory returned. His father standing on the other side of the river, telling Joe about water safety. “Look at the bank. Here it’s steep and high, but that doesn’t mean the water is shallow. I’m over six feet tall and that bike is at least ten feet under.”

  Sam nodded. Not joking. Not making light of his lecture.

  “Look how smooth the river is on the s
urface. It looks slow-moving. But it’s not.” He gestured upstream to the bridge. “There’s a sharp bend before the river goes under that bridge. And another one right before this spot. Water moves faster downhill and after sharp turns.”

  “Just like cars,” she murmured.

  “Just like cars.” And motorcycles. Joe unhooked the winch. “I’m going to attach this to the bike tire. When I give you the signal, you turn on the winch and pull it out.”

  Sam was suddenly hugging him again. “You’re going to be okay, right?”

  “Right.” His throat felt as if King Kong was gripping it. “The bike is right there. And my cell phone...”

  His cell phone was wet and in his jeans pocket at the apartment. Ruined. He wouldn’t be getting any calls. Not from Agent Haas and not from Uncle Turo. There was gut-sinking relief in the thought. No calls.

  And then he realized there wouldn’t be calls from potential customers either.

  * * *

  “IS IT RAINING?” Grandpa Phil asked when Brit came in the front door, hair still dripping. “You’re wet, but...” He took in the wet patches and mud on her coveralls. “Did you go skinny-dipping in the river? Bad form, girlie. It’s too early in the season. The current can be strong this time of year.”

  “I fell in.” Kinda-sorta. “I’m going to shower and then I’ll make dinner.” Normalcy, that’s what she needed. And hot water. Lots of hot, healing water. Brit had to wash off the feeling of failure, wash away the memory of Joe’s strong touch and fight off the shuddering fear and sudden, sobbing bursts of panic that things could have gone much, much worse.

  Brit hurried down the hall.

  She remembered it all with breath-stopping clarity. She remembered the blackness. And then seeing Joe swim toward her with urgent strokes. She recalled his frantic efforts to cut her free, his strong arms around her, his big hands on her shoulder as she floated on his chest, and then his palm on her back when she slid going up the slope.

  She closed the bathroom door behind her and shivered.

  Joe was right. She’d been reckless. But she was no dummy. She’d learned her lesson.

  It was too bad she’d learned how deeply his wife’s death had hurt him, how passionately he could feel. Because now he was no longer a man she could make fun of with the moniker Shaggy Joe. Now he was a man with a heart and feelings, who’d loved deeply and suffered a profound loss, a brave man who’d risked his life for someone he barely knew and didn’t like.

  The loved-deeply part bothered her, because she doubted she’d ever experience such passion. She didn’t like the hurt part either, because she longed to have someone like Joe call her a friend.

  She curled into a crumpled heap in the tub-shower and let the fear come, the tears flow and the pity burn them away.

  Showered, warm and dry, equilibrium temporarily restored, she emerged from the bathroom with a section of hair snipped on the other side of her face so it matched the lock Joe had cut to set her free. She wore jeans and a pink sleeveless sweater.

  “Look, Brit,” Grandpa said unhappily. “We’ve got company.”

  It was the three ladies from the town council—Rose, Agnes and Mildred.

  Had they heard she’d nearly drowned? Brit froze, reliving the heart-pounding fear of being trapped, submerged, her lungs on fire.

  “We have something to show you.” Agnes dispelled her fears immediately. Her gray sweatshirt with its hand-painted Easter eggs comforted.

  “You’re going to love it,” Mildred said from her walker. The smooth state of her teased curls comforted.

  “It was my idea.” Rose sitting on the couch and tapping her feet heel-to-toe comforted.

  Brit drew a deep breath as the panic receded. “What is it?”

  “Get your shoes on and come with us.” Agnes waved her hand to Mildred, who pushed to standing and pointed her walker toward the front door.

  Rose bounced to her feet.

  “I think I know where this is heading.” Phil extended his long legs across the couch cushion Rose had vacated. “I’ve already collected your rent and let you hang a bicycle on my wall. Just remember that, girlie. You’re committed to operating your business at Phil’s.”

  His words stumped Brit. She resisted the tide of the town council as it moved toward the door. “What’s going on? Where are we going?”

  “To Minna’s.” Rose had a light dusting of flour on her cargo pants. “It’s just a few blocks over.”

  “The woman who used to have a hair salon?” At Rose’s nod, Brit added, “I thought she was dead.”

  “She is.” Agnes opened the door for Mildred. “But her family never cleared out her salon equipment.”

  “We think.” Mildred trundled over the threshold.

  Brit looked at her grandfather. How could Leona have left him? He was predictable and steady. He was the type of guy who’d jump in the river to save a stranger. “I’m not interested in renting other space.”

  Phil tipped his head in acknowledgment of her loyalty.

  “We’re not saying you should reopen Minna’s.” Agnes gave Brit’s shoulder a squeeze. “I talked to Minna’s son today and he said they never cleared out her equipment. He’ll accept whatever offer you think is fair for the dryers.”

  Equipment. Chair dryers. Something to accomplish that was safe. Brit eagerly slipped into a pair of tennis shoes she’d left by the door and told Phil she’d be right back.

  Minna’s house was a short drive away, a faded brown ranch home with hedges so high they blocked the front windows, tops nearly touching the rain gutters. The garage door had been replaced with a wall, and a regular door was smack-dab in the center.

  Agnes opened a lockbox, revealing a set of keys to the house. “We created a system so we could access the abandoned homes in town. That way, we can show them to potential buyers or renters more quickly.”

  “I’m not interested in buying or renting.” Brit felt the need to repeat herself as she followed the town council inside.

  There were posters of Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor on the pink walls. Two stations stood empty, waiting for stylists, mirrors streaked as if they’d been cleaned without enough water. A layer of dust covered the floor thick enough to show footprints.

  And there was Brit’s salvation. Two chair hair dryers stood ready for customers. Brit turned on the timer on the unit closest to her. Nothing happened. She tried the second unit. Also nothing.

  “I forgot there’s no electricity.” Agnes frowned.

  “I can’t make an offer until I know they work.” Which Brit couldn’t verify without electricity. And they weren’t exactly easy to lift.

  Unless you were Joe.

  He probably never wanted to see her again, much less come to her rescue once more.

  “Let me phone someone.” Agnes stepped outside.

  A few minutes later, the cavalry arrived—two broad-shouldered men in a blue truck with a star on it.

  “We heard there were damsels in distress at this location.” Sheriff Nate was tall, with a wry grin and matching tone of voice.

  He was handsome, but when Brit looked at him, all she could think of was how she preferred Joe’s stoic expression.

  “Welcome to Harmony Valley.” His passenger was one of the winery owners, Will Jackson. He was blond and clean-cut, definitely all-American in the looks department. “Call anyone at the winery if you need help.”

  He was handsome, too, but when Brit looked at him, all she could think of was Joe’s unruly midnight hair.

  Within thirty minutes, they had the chair units at the barbershop. Brit turned one on. It hummed steadily right away, blowing out lots of hot air, although it made the room smell like burning dust. She turned it off and tried the other one. It sounded as if it’d been wound too tight, it barely put out any he
at and it didn’t smell at all.

  The sheriff turned both on at the same time and everything in the shop shut off—the lights, the dryers, the barber pole out front. “I wouldn’t recommend having these run on the same wire.”

  Will found the fuse box. “It’s only flipped the circuit off. Nothing was blown.”

  “The electrician is coming on Monday,” Brit said, hoping he was willing to work on hair appliances.

  Used dryer units were hard to come by. Brit gave Agnes a figure to relay to Minna’s son. The pixie-sized town councilwoman stepped outside to do so just as Joe’s truck parked in front of the barbershop.

  Sam ran in carrying a hot to-go cup from the bakery. She snuggled against Brit’s side. “I brought you a hot chocolate. Dad says Mom used to drink it when something bad happened.”

  “Something bad happened?” Rose asked. And not of Brit.

  While Sam relayed the details of Brit’s near-death experience, Brit lifted her gaze to Joe’s. Two sheets of glass separated them—the barbershop window and his windshield. It didn’t matter. He cared. He cared enough to allow his daughter to bring her a hot chocolate. His caring eased the tightness in her chest, and partly erased the memories of deep water and death.

  She may have lost her twin to selfish ambition, but maybe—a slim maybe—there was a relationship to be had with Joe. Not an altar-heading relationship, but an understanding relationship, a friendship. One bound by her knowing the extent of his loss and him seeing her nearly dead.

  Brit lifted her cup in salute and took a sip. Joe gave a brief, simple nod in return and Brit felt the rich warmth of hot chocolate spread.

  The crowd in the barbershop hovered and fussed and marveled. Brit appreciated their friendship, but despite their help, she didn’t feel as connected to them as she did to Joe.

  Who’d probably regret telling anyone about his heroics come morning.

  He hit the horn once.

  Like a well-trained puppy, Sam dutifully sprinted toward the door. “Dad’s cell phone wasn’t as lucky as Brit. We’ve got to get a new one.” She skipped out the door and hopped into the pickup.