by Ellen Dye
The idea zinged through me with the force of a lightning bolt. Our own shop. That would be incredible. Fantastic. I could be my own boss, set my own hours—match my schedule with Olivia’s. Deep yearning soon replaced the lightning bolt, and then a bucket of ice-cold reality poured down on my internal parade.
“I don’t have any money,” I said.
Val shot me a grin that said she had something up her sleeve but wasn’t telling. “Just think about it.” She turned to Mitzi. “Interested?”
Mitzi turned pale. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Mitzi trailed off, twisting her wedding rings. “Rich really likes me working here. He’s done so much for Jack and me. I just couldn’t upset him. He’s such a great guy.”
“How would you be upsetting him?” Val questioned. “If you work here or own a shop, you’ll still be earning an income. What’s the difference?”
“He’s a great guy. Really. I don’t know what I would have done without him…”
“Okay, we’ve established he’s a great guy. But what does that have to do with your choice of job?” Val pressed.
“It’s silly.” Mitzi gave a nervous laugh. “He doesn’t like me working in salons that have male customers.”
“Don’t they all?” I asked.
“Well, no. Not all. Back in Georgia, I worked in a shop that catered to the elderly. All female clientele. Mostly weekly shampoos and sets.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a real jealous guy on your hands,” Val commented.
“I guess he is. He did insist that I give up skin care and massage, even though I’m licensed in both. But it’s only that he’s really protective of me. Lots of men get the wrong idea about hairdressers. He’s only got my best interests at heart.” Mitzi’s tone and expression both echoed her desire that we not press further.
I knew we’d respect her wishes. And if Mitzi did need to talk, she knew Val and I would be there to listen. But I couldn’t help but sense there was much more going on in Mitzi’s marriage than she was admitting—and at least some of it was more than a little unpleasant.
I caught sight of something unusual peeking from Val’s notebook. Something I hadn’t thought about in years. Or more aptly, someone.
“Is that what I think it is?” I leaned closer.
“It surely is.” Val produced the drawing with a flourish.
The memories came rushing back as I looked at the drawing of a woman dressed in a shoulder-padded, belted skirt suit paired with high-heeled, ankle-strap shoes. She sported a frizzy, yellow halo of hair à la Farrah Fawcett, the popular icon of the seventies.
“Hairdresser Hattie!” I laughed. “Oh. My. God. I’d forgotten all about her.”
Mitzi leaned close, taking a look at the picture. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who is Hairdresser Hattie?”
“Our creation?” Val suggested, looking at me.
I shook my head. “More like our idol.”
“Yes,” Val agreed. “She was definitely a person to inspire. Or aspire to being.”
Mitzi looked baffled.
“It’s a long story. We’ll fill you in sometime,” Val said.
“Mind if I take this home?” I asked. “Olivia would get a real kick out of seeing it.”
“Be my guest.” Val extended the paper.
As I quietly tucked Hairdresser Hattie between the pages of my day planner, I realized I’d finally been given the sign I’d asked for in the ladies’ room before my first diner shift.
Yes, I’d made the right decision.
Chapter Eleven
“Oh, Wanda Jo,” Dottie gushed as she wiped away a tear with the corner of her apron and then continued to stare in wonder at the bright green flyer I’d given her moments earlier. “I just can’t believe all this trouble you went to for my Susie.”
“It was no trouble,” I replied as I stowed the remaining flyers beneath the counter along with my purse.
“Thank you so very much.” Dottie wrapped her thin arms around me in a bear hug.
“You’re most welcome.”
I allowed myself another quick moment to bask in the delightful warmth of a deed very well done. Assembling fundraisers had been a mainstay of my old life with Reed. The chores involved had become routine, almost boring. And I was sorry to admit it, but so had the results. This was the first time I’d ever really felt as though my efforts would make a difference in someone’s life.
It felt damned good.
“It’s that time once again,” Uncle Jimmy announced as he strolled through the kitchen door, two white envelopes in his hand. “One for you.” He delivered Dottie’s and then turned toward me. “And one for you, baby girl.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” he advised me with a wink.
“I’ll just get that kitchen cleaned up, Mr. Donald,” Dottie said with a smile, holding her envelope closely.
“There’s a good girl,” Jimmy commented as Dottie hurried through the swinging door. He turned to me. “You sure did a good deed for the Dew Drop by suggesting we hire her. Don’t remember the last time we had such a good cook. And I’m enjoying this extra bit of time off more than I can say.” He gave an exaggerated yawn. “Didn’t know how bad I was needing a rest.”
I smiled, but managed to suppress the giggle swelling up inside. Jimmy’s idea of a rest had been staying up all hours renewing his formerly deep acquaintance with his favorite early-seventies detective show reruns.
Jimmy grinned. “I think I’ll take these old bones home, since the two of you have the situation under control,” he said, giving the nearly empty dining room a glance. “Yep, I’m surely enjoying this rest.”
This was in sharp contrast to Jamie Sue, who had accepted Dottie’s position but certainly hadn’t embraced it. And she steadfastly refused to enjoy a bit of the time off, choosing instead to grouse constantly about an extra mouth to feed, as she called it.
I gave Jimmy’s shoulder a pat. “Give my regards to Baretta.”
With a quick wink over one shoulder, he made his exit, and I ripped open my pay envelope with all the glee of a child at Christmas.
When I looked at the amount and mentally added in the night’s tips, I grinned. Not that the total wages earned were much to get excited about, but the feeling it gave me certainly was. And there was enough to get those matching cell phones, just as I’d promised.
“How about one more for the road?” Mr. Robertson called, raising his mug slightly from the booth nearest the front door.
“Be right there,” I answered, hastily returning my check to its envelope and sticking it in a pocket before grabbing the coffeepot.
“Sure is nice to have you back home, Wanda Jo,” Mrs. Robertson said as I topped off her mug.
“Thanks,” I returned with a genuine smile. “It’s good to be back.”
Once again I’d surprised myself with a comment and even more so with my feelings. It did feel good to be home. Since I’d returned to diner service everyone had been so friendly, so warm and welcoming. It seemed odd at times, nothing like I’d remembered.
After I saw the Robertsons out the door, my body set about the mechanical motions of closing while my mind wondered what had changed.
And then with a start I realized it was me. Not them at all. I’d thought of little except leaving when I’d been a teenager. My all-consuming thought had been escaping West Virginia before I was irrevocably sucked into the family minimum-wage pit of exhaustion.
My every thought, every action, had centered on bettering myself so I could be worthy of a better life. A life that didn’t leave me bitter, as Mama’s had left her. A life truly rich in both love and laughter.
Could I have found that here?
Had there really been so many dreadful things wrong with me that I didn’t deserve happiness?
“I’m all set in the back.” Dottie peeked around the swinging door before I could turn the questions over in my mind. �
��Need some help out here?”
“No. I’ve pretty much got everything covered. Why don’t you go on home?”
“Are you sure?” Dottie nibbled on her lower lip in hesitation, but her right hand was already working the knot of her apron.
“Absolutely.” I hid my grin. Clearly Dottie was bursting to get home and share the news with Donnie.
In a flash Dottie was gone, and I was finishing up the last of the closing chores. I was just running through my final mental checklist, keys in hand, when I heard the back door open.
“Forget something?” I called.
“Nope. I’m pretty sure I’m loaded for bear.”
I laughed as I recognized Sam’s voice. “What brings you down on a Friday night?”
“Thought you could use a spot of company and a bite to eat that didn’t come off the home grill,” Sam announced as he came through the swinging door, once again hefting the large wicker picnic basket and a blue-and-green afghan slung over one arm.
I was coming to love that wonderful hamper. My mouth watered at the sight of it swinging from Sam’s large hand. Most nights when I’d closed Sam had appeared, hamper in hand, and I had to admit I was getting rather spoiled with the wonderful fare it produced. In fact, the hamper had taken on all the inherent magical qualities and delights of Mary Poppins’s carpetbag.
“Anything left?” Sam deposited the hamper on a table and busied himself spreading the afghan on the floor between Table Six and the booths along the wall.
“Nope. I think I’ve got it all covered.” I was already heading toward Sam and the magical hamper.
“You’re getting quick at this.”
“I’ve had lots of practice.” I reached out to raise the hamper’s lid.
“Don’t you dare.”
I huffed. “How did you know what I was doing?” I asked Sam’s back.
“When it comes to food”—Sam paused and turned, favoring me with a large grin—“I know everything.”
I laughed.
“Now, then.” Sam gestured toward the afghan with a wave. “If you’ll have a seat, we’ll just see what the Hamper of Delights has in store for our dining pleasure tonight.”
I sat on one end of the afghan, slightly beneath Table Six, and crossed my legs Indian style. I tried not to fidget.
“Atmosphere is everything where fine dining in concerned.” Sam pulled a fat cream-colored candle, complete with holder, from the hamper and quickly lit it. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“And since tonight is a celebration,” Sam paused, one hand in the hamper.
“It is?”
Sam quirked a brow.
“What are we celebrating?”
“This is your official two-week anniversary of double duty. Both school and diner. Or did I miscount?”
I did a quick mental calculation. “Nope. It’s been two weeks,” I answered, completely baffled that Sam would have noticed what I really hadn’t.
“Then this is very appropriate.” He handed me a bottle of chilled champagne. A very exclusive champagne, I realized as I glanced at the foil label.
Sam made quick work of popping the cork and filling two flutes, which had also been lurking in the depths of the magical hamper.
I took a sip. “This is really good.”
Sam agreed.
I watched in awe as he continued to pull goodies from the hamper. Ripe Mediterranean olives in oil preceded several crusty baguettes and a large round of Brie. I sighed as several other of my favorite cheeses and a wide selection of salads appeared from the hamper and took their places on the afghan.
“Dig in,” Sam announced, passing me a small china plate, its rim painted with delicate rosebuds.
“How did you know about all of this?” I asked, carefully surveying the cuisine, which contained more than a fair few of my favorites.
“Olivia filled me in on the Brie and baguettes. Oh, and the olives.” Sam placed hearty portions of each on his own plate. “But I pretty much guessed on the rest. I just figured if I liked it, well, you probably did too.”
I took a bite of Brie-slathered baguette and chewed appreciatively.
“Do you eat like this often?” I asked, feeling a bit puzzled at his last comment.
Sam shot me a look.
“Well, I seem to remember you as being a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”
He maintained the look. One brow rose slightly.
“You know, big on the country way of eating. Pintos? Greens?” He continued to stare; I continued to dig a hole. “Well, you do seem to enjoy Mama’s cooking,” I finally concluded.
The look intensified tenfold. “Do I look picky to you?”
Nope. Had to admit, he had me there. I suppose he didn’t maintain his impressive size subsisting on lettuce leaves alone—or as in the case of Buckston County, pintos cooked with a slab of bacon.
“Hell, if it’s food, I’m open to anything. Truth is, I got hooked on Verona when I was doing the cross-country run. Everything else”—he indicated the buffet before us with a wave of one large hand—“just sort of followed.”
I nodded. “So, what’s a swinging bachelor like you doing without a date on a Friday night?”
Sam blanched. Lord, when would I learn to keep my big yap shut?
“What gave you the idea I was a swinging bachelor?” He nearly gasped.
I shrugged. “Well, you’re still single. Unattached. No kids. I guess I just figured you liked the lifestyle.”
Sam raised one brow, looking at me as though I’d suddenly sprouted fuzzy ears atop my head.
“Well…I…ummm…” I trailed off as he continued to stare. I was tempted to glance behind to see if I’d acquired a tail to match.
“True enough about the wife and kids. Truth is, I don’t care much for the whole dating thing. Never did.” He shuddered. “I can honestly say I’ve never been a swinging anything.”
I supposed not. If ever there was a man who didn’t swing, it was Sam.
“What do you do with your time, then?” I grinned. “When you’re not rescuing starving waitresses or fixing front porches that have met with untimely demises, that is.”
Sam lifted one big shoulder slightly. “This and that. I read, mostly.” He took a sip of champagne and then refilled both our glasses. “Finished my degree last year. English Lit.”
“That is so great!” I squealed. “What are you going to do now?”
“You mean for a job?”
I nodded.
“Keep driving.” Sam grinned.
“Why?”
“I like my job. And I’m good at it.”
“Then why go to the trouble and expense of getting a degree?”
“I always felt like I missed out on something by not going to college. So I went.”
“It’s a great accomplishment,” I said with complete sincerity.
We continued to munch in companionable silence as I mulled this last over. I’d had no idea there was so much to Sam, so many layers to his personality. I’d always known how much he loved books—but I’d no idea he’d ever thought of college. And now he’d acquired a degree in English Literature. I was truly impressed. And more curious than ever.
“You know, I always thought you and Jamie Sue would eventually hook up,” I mused aloud.
Sam turned faintly green. “Oh, God,” he moaned.
Guess not.
Sam recovered. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great girl. But…”
I nodded, holding up one hand. “Say no more. Sorry for the embarrassing questions.”
“What are good friends for, right?” Sam gave a devilish grin. “And on that same note, what happened in California?”
I knew what he meant, and appreciated how he deliberately avoided using either the word “marriage” or Reed’s name.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.
And now I was fairly certain I never would. None of it made any more sense today than it had the afterno
on I’d seen the taped episode of Talk! Why would Reed throw away our family and his career after nearly twenty years of commitment?
I knew people—my family and Bitsy included—seemed to think Trixie Kilgreen and her amazing fortune were responsible. Even Olivia seemed to buy that explanation. But I didn’t.
Reed was a highly educated, extremely successful man. He’d spent years climbing rung after rung on the corporate ladder at Burn and Wainright. He didn’t lack the ability to earn a living. And not just a living, but a damned fine one.
No, money couldn’t have been his motive. And certainly love hadn’t been, either. Miss Kilgreen was simply some woman Reed had used, for reasons unknown, to get back at me for the ego damage my old book had caused.
This last was the only fact in the whole sordid mess I was completely positive about.
“I saw the show.” Sam squeezed my hand. “It’s a big hit on YouTube.”
I groaned, while my dislike of the Internet climbed a few notches despite the delicious fare it seemed to produce.
“He looked like an over-the-hill-porcupine.” Sam grinned. “He really should avoid those deep purples, too.”
I laughed, despite the situation.
“He didn’t deserve you and Olivia.”
I stayed silent, unsure where he was leading with the compliment. Sam turned my hand palm up and laced his fingers through mine, giving a squeeze.
“Olivia’s the best,” I whispered, wondering why my mouth was suddenly so dry.
“She’s a great kid. I miss her riding around with me.”
I noticed Sam was moving closer to me. And closer. But I didn’t care. Or rather I did. I cared much too much. His head dipped, and he came closer still. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of his scent—woodsy, masculine, and sexy as homemade sin. Seconds before his lips met mine I was thinking that I wanted this kiss more than I’d ever wanted anything.
Then his lips touched mine, and I stopped thinking altogether.
He was gentle at first, his lips caressing mine tenderly. I brought one hand to his neck; he ran the tip of his tongue across my bottom lip, and a fire started to burn low inside. More. I wanted more. And Sam, happy to oblige, deepened the kiss.
Suddenly the overhead lights flipped on and the dining room was flooded with the harsh glare of fluorescent light. I jumped back, breaking our kiss and feeling guilty as all get out. Then, as I tried to stand much too quickly, my head sharply connected to the underside of Table Six, and I just as quickly landed square on my rump.