Hot Shot

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  "I never watch PBS. I can't stand foreign accents. It's your hair. I don't ever forget a hairstyle. Not too many women still wear it in a bun like that."

  Susannah felt vaguely apologetic. "I don't always wear it like this. Sometimes I wear it down."

  "I'd take some of that weight out of it if I were you. Cut it just below your jaw line. Soften it with long layers so it stays full but isn't fussy. You don't look like the fussy type."

  Her suggestions were delivered so good-naturedly, Susannah couldn't take offense. "I'll consider it."

  Angela's scrutiny continued. "What did you say your last name was again?"

  "Faulconer," she said hesitantly.

  Angela looked thoughtful for a moment and then she let out a squeal. "I don't believe it! I read a story about you in the newspaper, didn't I? You're the daughter of that big shot. You're the one who ran away from her wedding! Ohmygod! Sammy, do you know who this is? This is Susannah Faulconer. She was getting married to this guy, and then right in the middle of this swank society wedding this other guy shows up on a Harley and-" She stopped in mid-sentence. Her jaw dropped as her eyes flew from Susannah to Sam. "Oh my God," she said breathlessly. "Oh my God! It was you!"

  Without warning, she began to squeal in delight and pound her heels up and down on the concrete floor like a pint-sized flamenco dancer. "Sammy! I should have known. When I read that story, I got this shiver up my spine. I should have known right then. You're just like your old man! God, if he could only hear about this one."

  Sam stiffened. Then he stepped forward. "Susannah is staying with me for a while."

  "That's great! Oh, that's just great! If I'd known about this, I would have come back last week. Vegas was dead anyway. The town just isn't the same when Elvis isn't headlining. And then I had to listen to Audrey going on and on about how fat he's gotten. Fat or not, the King is still the King."

  Sam interrupted abruptly. "You feel like making some spaghetti or something? I know it's late, but we're all pretty hungry."

  Susannah looked at him curiously. She had just offered to make him something to eat, but he had refused.

  "Sure, baby." Angela gave him another slap on the jaw and hugged Susannah. "You stay as long as you like, honey. And if Sammy gives you any trouble, you tell me about it. Between the two of us, we'll keep him in line." She jingled-jangled as she left the garage.

  Susannah moved into Angela's sewing room that same night, despite the fact that Sam's mother had made it more than clear that she wasn't a prude. Susannah's desertion upset Sam, and he gave her another lecture about how uptight she was, but she was incapable of sharing his bed while his mother slept on the other side of the hall. They weren't married. They weren't engaged. They hadn't even discussed the possibility.

  The next morning Angela caught her in the kitchen before Sam was awake. "Come on, honey," she said. "We're going to do something about that bun."

  Ignoring Susannah's protests, Angela propelled her out to the garage and pushed her down in the shampoo chair.

  For the next twenty minutes, Angela chattered as her silver scissors snipped, snipped, snipped. She cut Susannah's hair in long, fluffy layers, lifting the length so that the ends no longer quite touched her shoulders. She could still put her hair in a French twist or pile it on top of her head, but now feathery tendrils softened the angular lines of her face and curled along her neck. The style wasn't so different that she felt uncomfortable, but much looser and more untidy than anything she had ever worn. She knew that Cal Theroux wouldn't have approved of the change, but she felt as if she had been freed from an old, burdensome weight.

  Sam rolled over in bed and reached out for Susannah. He frowned as he realized she wasn't there. He didn't like it when she slipped out of bed before he got up, before he could enjoy the feeling of her bottom pressed into his stomach and inhale the light floral scent of her hair. Sometimes he propped himself next to her and watched her sleep. She was always tightly curled, with her knees drawn up and her clasped hands pressed beneath her chin. There was something sad about the way she slept, as if she were trying to compress herself into a target so small that the demons of the world would fail to notice her.

  He got out of bed and, after a quick shower, went to the garage, where he found her in the beauty shop with his mother. Both were so engrossed in studying Susannah's new hairstyle in the mirror that they didn't see him standing in the doorway. As he watched them, he wished that some of Susannah's class would rub off on his mother.

  As usual, being near Angela made him tense. Why couldn't she be like other mothers? Why did she have to dress like a hooker and decorate her house like the world's worst garage sale? When he was a teenager, she had flirted with all of his friends, humiliating him in a way that he still couldn't forgive. She had no taste, no class, and no interest in acquiring either one. On the other hand, she had been his relentless defender through all the battles of his childhood. When the world seemed to be crashing around him, she had stood up to his father, to school officials, and to anyone else she believed was harming her son.

  Susannah lifted her head and caught sight of him in the mirror. His chest expanded with pride. He had wanted this elegant woman, and now she was his. The thrill of conquest beat like a drum in his brain. She was going to make all the difference in his life. Her stillness would calm him and help him focus his energy. Her breeding would soften his rough edges. Her grace and timeless beauty would expand him in the eyes of others. With Susannah at his side, life no longer held any limits for him.

  Her eyebrows drew together, and he realized that she was waiting for his reaction to her new haircut. He loved the way his opinion mattered to her. Just as he opened his mouth to tell her how terrific she looked, Angela interrupted.

  "What do you think, Sammy? I haven't lost my touch, have I?"

  Without a word he turned away from his mother and went back into the garage. As he reached the workbench, Susannah came through the doorway, her gray eyes regarding him with solemn intensity. Jeezus, it was sweet to have a woman like her look at him that way.

  She frowned, and he realized that his failure to comment on her hair had made her mad. She pushed back her shoulders and set her jaw, practically daring him to make a derogatory remark. He almost laughed. She was learning. All he'd had to do was point the way, and she'd caught on real fast.

  He reached out and took her into his arms. "It looks great."

  Her annoyance fell away, and she beamed with pleasure. "You really like it?"

  "Yeah, I really do." He kissed her fiercely. She leaned into him just like always and moaned softly against his mouth. Reluctantly, he drew away.

  She sighed and looked over at the boxes of parts. "You're going to put me to work now, aren't you?"

  "I promise you can take a coffee break sometime next week."

  She laughed, and then, together, they settled down to begin the laborious process of assembling forty single-board computers.

  The task involved "stuffing" every one of the printed circuit boards by hand. Sam showed her how to insert the wires on each of the small components through tiny holes in the copper pathways that ran through the circuit board. After all the components were in position, each wire had to be permanently soldered to the board and clipped. The job was both monotonous and demanding. If everything wasn't done exactly to specifications, he made her do it again.

  When Susannah had finished assembling a board, Sam tested it and then put it in a long wooden "burn-in" box where it would be left on for forty-eight hours. Parts generally failed within a short period of time or not at all.

  Susannah's fingers were sore at the end of the first hour, but she didn't complain. She was too conscious of the ticking of the clock and the fact that they had only thirty days to repay Spectra Electronics.

  Joel dreamed that a dog was chewing on his shoulder. He was trying to get to Susannah, to save her from something horrible, but a wild dog had sunk its teeth into his shoulder and he couldn't move.
>
  He awoke with a gasp. The dream was so vivid that he could still feel the pain. And then he realized the pain was real. As he clumsily lifted his hand to his chest he felt his pajamas soaked with sweat.

  He would never forgive Susannah for doing this to him. He had given her everything, and look how she had repaid him.

  The pain in his shoulder began to ease and his breathing steadied. It wasn't the first time he had experienced this tight, cramping ache. Perhaps he should see a doctor, but the idea of revealing his personal problems to anyone, even a medical professional, repelled him. He simply needed to get a grip on himself. He hadn't worked out since all of this had happened. He should get back into his old routine, set up a golf game. There was nothing wrong with him that some old-fashioned self-discipline wouldn't fix. Self-discipline and getting his daughter back.

  Unaccountably, his heart began to pound again. Two weeks had passed. She should have returned long ago. The awful thought that she might not come back was never far from his mind. What would he do without her? She meant everything to him.

  The darkness in the room grew oppressive. His hand trembled as he reached out for the lamp at the side of his bed. He bumped against a vase of garden flowers that Paige had left on the table and knocked it over. He swore as he flipped on the light. Dirty flower water had soaked his papers as well as the cookies that had been lying on a china plate next to the vase. Every night Paige left a snack by his bedside, like a child putting out a treat for Santa Claus. He never ate the snack-food before bedtime didn't agree with him-but still she put it out.

  Joel stared down at the sodden cookies and wondered why he couldn't love the child of his own flesh as much as he loved his adopted daughter. But emotional introspection made him uncomfortable, so he got out of bed and crossed the floor to the window. Facts were all that mattered, and he acknowledged the simple, indisputable fact that Susannah had long ago become the most important person in the world to him. He had to get her back.

  As he gazed out into the darkness, he chided himself for not having taken her last telephone call. She must have realized by now what a horrible mistake she had made, and he should have given her the opportunity to beg his forgiveness.

  His hand closed over the edge of the windowsill. He had always been a man of action, and it wasn't in his nature to let events slip so far from his control. He had been patient long enough. Tomorrow he was going to see her. He would point out how reprehensibly she had behaved, and after he had laid out a few conditions of his own, he would relent and let her come back to Falcon Hill.

  For the first time since the afternoon of her wedding, some of the darkness inside him lifted. He walked from one window to the next, envisioning their meeting. She would cry, of course, but he mustn't give into any emotional manipulation on her part. After everything she had put him through, he wouldn't make it easy for her. He would be tough, but he wouldn't be unreasonable. Eventually, Susannah would thank him for treating her so compassionately. Years from now they might even be able to smile about what had happened.

  Feeling much more like himself, Joel returned to his bed. As he sank back into his pillow, a sigh of satisfaction slipped from his lips. He had been too emotional about all of this.

  By this time tomorrow night, he would have his daughter back. And then everything would be all right.

  The afternoon was unusually hot for Northern California. Susannah had propped the garage door open, but only an occasional breeze managed to make its way inside. Even though she had pulled her shorter hair into a ponytail with a red rubber band from the morning newspaper, her neck was damp. She looked up from the board she was stuffing to study Sam. He had a bandanna wrapped around his forehead so he didn't drip sweat onto the boards. For a moment she let her gaze linger on the muscles bunched beneath his T-shirt.

  "I sure as hell hope Pinky doesn't decide to renege on the deal," he said abruptly. "I've met guys like him before. They're hardware freaks-seduced by the last piece of equipment they set eyes on. Half the guys in Homebrew must have discovered his place by now, and I'll bet some of them are trying to sell him their boards. If we don't get ours to him fast, he might strike a deal with someone else and then back out on us."

  Susannah rubbed the small of her back where it was aching from having been bent over the assembly table for so long. "It seems to me that we have enough real problems without inventing unlikely ones." She stretched, trying to work out the kinks. "Remember that we have a contract and the others don't."

  The muscles she had been admiring beneath his T-shirt grew unnaturally still. Slowly, she laid down her soldering iron. "Sam?"

  He didn't say anything.

  A warning bell went off in the corners of her mind, and she pushed herself up from the table. "Sam, you do have a written contract with the man, don't you?"

  He became unbelievably busy with the board he was putting into the burn-in box.

  "Sam?"

  He turned on her belligerently. "I didn't think about it, all right? I was excited. I just didn't think about it."

  She pulled off her reading glasses and rubbed her temples.

  Suddenly she felt very tired. Her love for him kept blinding her to the fact that he was only a kid. A wild kid with a silver tongue. And she was an uptight socialite, and Yank was a hopeless nerd, and none of them knew what they were doing. They were goofing around, playing at being grownups. Why was she even surprised that he hadn't thought to draw up a contract? At that moment, she realized how insurmountable their problems really were. They were deeply in debt. It was only a matter of time before this house of cards they were building came crashing down around them.

  "Look, don't worry, okay?" he said. "I told you the guy's a hardware freak, and we've got the best piece of hardware in the whole Valley."

  She wanted to yell at him and tell him that it was time to grow up. Instead, she said wearily, "No more oral agreements, Sam. From now on everything has to be in writing. We can't ever let this happen again."

  "Since when did you start giving orders?" he retorted. "You're sounding like a real bitch, you know that?"

  Perhaps it was the effect of the heat, or the ache in her muscles, but her customary patience deserted her. A surge of righteous anger swept through her, and she slapped the flat of her hand down on the table. The sound reverberated through the garage, startling her as much as it did Sam. For a few seconds she stared down at her hand as if it belonged to someone else, and then, incredibly, she found herself slapping it down again.

  "You're the one who made the mistake, Sam. Don't you dare attack me. You're the one who messed up! Not me."

  He looked at her for a moment and then wiped the back of his forearm over his sweat band. "Yeah, you're right. Okay."

  She stared at him. Was that all there was to it? Had she actually won an argument with him?

  He grinned at the expression of surprise on her face and began to amble toward her, running deliberately lecherous eyes over her body. Susannah experienced a moment of deep pleasure, a sense of the strength of her own womanhood that was new and wonderful. Without thinking about what she was doing, she hooked her index finger over the snap on his jeans and tugged. When he came up against her, she gave him a trashy kiss, open-mouthed and deep.

  "Would you be a doll baby and do a shampoo for me? I hate to interrupt, but I'm really backed up."

  Susannah pulled abruptly away as Angela came through the beauty shop door. Sam whirled around. "She's not your shampoo girl, for chrissake!"

  Susannah interceded. "My back hurts and I need to stretch for a few minutes. I don't mind. Yank will be here before long, and Roberta's coming over this evening to help."

  Sam's lips tightened at the mention of Roberta, but since he was the one who had called her and told her she had to help assemble the boards, he couldn't really protest. Susannah suspected he would have made the elderly women in Angela's beauty shop stuff boards if they had better eyesight.

  A blast of cool air from the window ai
r conditioner hit her as she stepped through the door of the beauty parlor. One elderly woman was under a hair dryer, and Angela was giving another a perm. Susannah ushered the third to the shampoo bowl and supported her as she leaned back. She didn't mind helping Angela. Sam's mother was so good-natured it was impossible not to like her. Besides, when Susannah was helping out, she felt less guilty about the fact that she wasn't contributing anything toward her room and board.

  As she gently worked the lather through the elderly woman's thin hair, she thought about how badly she needed money. All her life she had been dependent on her father, and now she was dependent on Sam and Angela. She had even been forced to ask Sam for money to buy a box of Tampax. He had given it to her without comment, but she still found the experience demeaning.

  "Well, h-e-l-l-o there." Angela's voice, flirtatious and sassy, rose over the sound of the water running in the shampoo basin. Susannah glanced up, then sucked in her breath as the walls of the small shop seemed to tilt in crazy directions.

  Joel Faulconer stood in the doorway, aloof and out of place in a hunter-green polo shirt and crisply creased khaki slacks. He had put on some unneeded weight since she had last seen him, and his golfer's tan had faded. It was probably only her imagination, but he seemed older than she remembered.

  He gazed around him without saying anything. In the past few weeks, Susannah had grown accustomed to her surroundings, but now she saw it all again through his eyes-the garish mirrored tiles, the plastic plants and ugly photographs of overly elaborate hairstyles. She saw herself-cheap and common in a man's T-shirt and a pair of threadbare slacks she had once worn for gardening. She could almost read his mind as he watched her shampoo the hair of a woman who was wearing blue bedroom slippers with slits cut in the sides to accommodate her bunions.

  Susannah heard a cry of pain and realized she had dug her fingers into the poor woman's scalp. "I'm sorry," she apologized, releasing her. Her hands shaking, she finished rinsing out the woman and wrapped her head in a towel. Then she went over to her father. Angela looked on, making no attempt to hide her curiosity.