by Carolyn Zane
Whenever they argued about how little time and money he spent on his son, Bob Ray would claim that his body was his investment. Without it, how would he support her and the brat? He acted like his massive biceps were the gold that would someday get them out of the trailer park and into the good life.
“Morning.” She forced herself to smile at Bob Ray.
“Da-da!” Robbie shouted and smacked the tray with his spoon.
“Shut him up, will you?” Bob Ray grunted.
Heather touched Robbie’s lips with her fingertip. “Shushie, Robbie.” How typical. Bob Ray was not a morning person. And, since the baby had been born, he wasn’t an afternoon or evening person either. “Are you going to be around today?” Heather asked as she snapped the lid on her two-year-old’s sippy cup.
“No! I’m not going to be home today!” His tone had lost any pretense of civility about a year ago.
“Tonight?”
“No.”
Bob Ray spent every day down at The Pump where he served as a personal trainer to bored and lonely housewives and young singles in pursuit of a bikini bod. Heather knew the women who congregated there were young and slender and eager to steal her man.
“Da! Da! Da!” Robbie held his arms out and squirmed, anxious to be noticed by his father. But Bob Ray rarely touched the kid anymore.
“Here, honey.” She poured some Cheerios into a cup for Robbie to mangle. The blender screamed, and Bob Ray’s batch of miracle juice was born.
Heather knew that Bob Ray saw Robbie and her as an anchor around his finely sculpted neck. She had yet to lose the baby weight she’d gained with Robbie, and there never seemed to be enough money for her to go out and get some new clothes or a haircut. She was a mess—and she knew it—a mere shadow of the Rawston Rah-Rah who’d stood on the high school football field’s sidelines and cheered for Bob Ray only three short years ago.
Heather tried not to think about the pretty, starry-eyed, college-bound girl she’d been. The future had been filled with the thrill of untapped potential. That is, until junior year when the tiny plus sign appeared on the pregnancy test stick and life as she knew it changed forever. Within a month, she and Bob Ray had bowed to her daddy’s demands and married the day after Bob Ray’s graduation. Robbie had been born at Christmas. Seemed Bob Ray wasn’t wild about his gift.
Heather peeled and sliced a banana for Robbie, and he clutched a chunk of it until it squished out between his fingers. “Robbie gave the pastor a bloody nose last night at his dedication.”
Bob Ray snorted as he poured himself a drink. “That’s my boy.”
“I’m sorry you weren’t there. It was really very sweet.”
He slammed the glass blender pitcher on the counter, and Robbie jumped. “Climb off, will ya? You know I have to make a living, okay?”
Robbie’s face screwed up and his lower lip stuck out. He glanced at mama to make sure everything was okay.
Heather patted his slimy fist before she bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut. God, give me strength not to throw this butter knife at Bob Ray. Please love him for me. Please love him through me. Because I can’t stand him, and he’s the father of our son.
Bob Ray was even more miserable than she was, she figured, as she watched his Adam’s apple bob. They’d had to grow up so fast. The stress was horrible. But deep in her heart she believed that it didn’t have to be this way. They’d been happy once—best friends since she was in first and he was in second grade. With a little effort, she believed they could be again. She didn’t even want to think about trying to raise Robbie on her own. “Sorry. Anything you need at the grocery store? I thought I’d head out this afternoon. We’re low on milk.”
“Just don’t spend any money, okay?”
Heather frowned. What was she supposed to spend? A number of ludicrous ideas flitted through her mind: Dirty diapers? Bob Ray’s golden muscles? Rocks?
Moving to the sink, she rinsed and wrung out a cloth to mop up the mess under Robbie’s high chair.
Bob Ray finished chugging the magic elixir that kept him beautiful and then belched. He left the room without a word.
8:55 a.m.
“Remember to be thinking about that speed quilting idea for me,” Selma called as she left Abigail’s shop. “Something snappy, now!”
“Right,” Abigail called back. Not gonna happen. “See you at lunch.” She waved at her aunt, then scanned the business card that Isuzu had given her. Justin Girard, owner, J.G. Construction Company. But the address was Dan Strohacker’s Lumberyard. Must have an office there? She stabbed his phone number into her lobby’s desk phone and drummed her nails on the tabletop while she waited for him to pick up.
“Hello?”
“Oh. Uh. Hello.” Now what. She hadn’t really thought out how she was going to express her dismay. Touching her tongue to her suddenly dry lips, she glanced at the card again. “Is this, uh . . . er . . . Justin Girard?”
“Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
Didn’t he just sound chipper? “This is Abigail Durham? You were in my hair salon a little while ago?”
“Right!”
“I understand that the food cart for the Quilt Fair’s Rawston Taste is not finished yet.”
“That’s right. There are some permit issues. In fact—”
“Why am I only just now hearing about this?” Her eyes narrowed at his business card.
“Beee-cause the county just told me?”
“Well,” the fact that he was innocent only exasperated her further. “How’m I supposed to get it to the field and set up on time if it’s not already done? The fair is in less than two weeks. We can get this permit thing squared away in two weeks, right?”
“Actually, no. The city planning commission is really cracking down on food carts lately. They have new, very particular ordinances and—”
“Excuse me?” Abigail wound the phone cord around her finger so tightly the tip began to turn blue. “What . . . ordinances?”
“As long as the awnings are supported by the cart, it’s fine. But, the minute the poles touch the ground, it becomes a structure. And, if it becomes a structure, you are looking at permits and other costs, and the permit process is . . . involved.”
“What? You have got to be kidding me! That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard! We are trying to raise money, here, not spend it. And we can’t wait around for some stupid awning thing to be . . . to be . . . approved! The booster club just spent their last dime on tortillas and frijoles. Plus, we have to use this thing for football and baseball games in the future. I don’t want some skimpy old shrimpy excuse for awnings! I want the big ones we planned for! Can’t you just build the thing the way we originally designed it, and I’ll deal with the commissioners when, and if, they catch us?”
“No can do. Besides, the fines would be more than the permit fees.”
A pang of guilt had her suddenly feeling less like a volunteer and more like a criminal. Her face flamed. “May I ask just what am I supposed to do with the wandering mariachi band and the tables and . . . and chairs and stuff? They’ll cook out there under the sun! We will fry like . . . like . . . something fried! And in the fall, we’ll get soaked! I don’t know if you’ve been down to the Rawston High Football field lately, but there is precious little shade, okay? And you know what, I—”
“Look, lady. I can see you’re getting a little hot under the collar.”
Lady? He’d interrupted her to call her . . . Lady? It might have been the humidity. It might have been a touch of sleep deprivation. Then again, it might have been a pinch of PMS. Whatever the cause, Abigail was in no mood for this clown. “You bet I am, buddy! This whole thing got dumped on me, and it’s been a pain in my neck since day one, okay? Last week, it was the salsa guy, recalling the salsa because of e-coli! Before that it was the price of—”
“Okay. I can see we’re not gonna get anywhere over the phone.”
Again, with the interrupting! Abigail’s lips scre
wed into a wad of agitation. Was he even listening to her? Shocking herself—as well as him, she suspected—Abigail slammed the phone down. She snatched her shears off the lobby table and welcomed Guadalupe Lopez to follow her back to her chair. Eyes wide, Guadalupe folded her magazine and stood. “You’re not going to take your frustration out on my hair, are you?”
“Phone ringing,” Isuzu called from where she bent over Kaylee Johnson’s bridal nails.
“Don’t answer it.” A glance at caller I.D. told Abigail it was one Mr. Justin Girard calling, and she was too embarrassed to pick up, so she smiled in the mirror at Guadalupe Lopez instead. “What are we doing for you today?”
“Something short, but stylish. My daughter, Elsa, wants you to make me look like a glamour puss, okay?”
Abigail gave her the thumbs up. This would be distracting. Guadalupe was short, stocky, middle-aged and just this side of frumpy. “You’ll be ready for your close-up.”
Guadalupe jiggled when she giggled. No wonder Aunt Selma loved working with her at Quilty Pleasure, Abigail mused. She had this wonderful, huge laugh that made Abigail smile. And today? That was saying something.
Justin fumed as he spun the screwdriver in circles on his desktop and waited for the crazy Ms. Durham to pick up. He had no idea who this broad was, but she must have had a bowl of rusty nails for breakfast. “Hello, this is Abigail Durham at the Doo Drop-In Hair Salon. I’m with a customer right now, so if you’ll leave your name, number, and the best time to call, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
He hung up and hit redial. Message machine. Again. This was a business. She could hardly take her phone off the hook. So, fine. Two could play this game. He’d just keep calling until she went berserk. Or answered the phone. Either way was fine with him.
“Phone ringing.” There was irritation in Isuzu’s tone.
“Don’t answer it.”
“Okay.” Abigail could hear Isuzu’s heels tap in irritation across the room where she picked up the phone. “Doo Drop-In and Zu-Zu Nail. I help you?”
“Zuzu! I said don’t!” Abby hissed.
“Easy on the hair.” Guadalupe giggled. “My daughter just won concert tickets on the radio, and she’s taking me out next Saturday night. So . . . I’ll need hair.”
Isuzu’s voice took on a distinctive purr. “Oh, yes. I remember you. Yes. Yes, she very sorry and want to speak to you right now. Abby, Mr. Girard on line one.” The light on the phone in her hair cubicle began to flash. She’d kill Isuzu later. Finger aloft, Abigail smiled at Guadalupe. “One moment,” she whispered and winked.
Guadalupe held up both hands. “Take your time. All the time you need.”
Abigail snatched the phone from the cradle, and growled, “Hello?”
“So, I have about an hour this afternoon to sit down with you, show you what the inspector said, and give you some ideas I have for getting around the whole awnings issue.” The fact that she could tell he was grinning only served to agitate her more.
“Where?” she asked, tone clipped.
“Why don’t you meet me at Dan-the-Handyman? There is a little hardware store in front of the lumberyard?”
“I know where it is. What time?”
“I’ll be locking up for Dan Strohacker tonight. He’s got an ultrasound up near the hospital in Southshire with his wife after work tonight, so . . . six?”
“Fine.”
Justin smiled at his phone as he dropped it into the cradle. This town was filled with some pretty interesting women. He wondered what this one looked like.
“Abby? She’s cute. Kinda reminds me of a tall Tinker Bell.”
Justin laughed at Dan Strohacker’s description of Abigail Durham. They were outside in Dan’s lumberyard and had just finished loading Justin’s truck for a job he was starting today. If Justin trusted anybody’s take on another person, it was Dan’s. In the time he’d known him, Dan had never said a bad word about anybody. But he was a great judge of character. What he had to say about people went a long way toward helping you understand exactly who they were.
Dan was a great big teddy bear of a guy. An ex-marine, he was intimidating to look at with his meaty fists, barrel chest, silvery military buzz cut, and salt and pepper goatee, but on the inside? Dan was pudding. Rescue pet commercials on TV would regularly reduce him to tears, and if you were in need, you could always count on Dan to give you not only the shirt off his back but also the rest of the outfit, including his shoes.
“Tinker Bell, huh? You sure you don’t mean pit-bull? She doesn’t bite, does she?”
Dan rested his forearms on Justin’s tailgate and squinted. “Not that I know of. Why?”
Justin dabbed at his temples with his wrist. Man, it was hot. He couldn’t understand how a big guy like Danny could look so cool. Must be the fact that he grew up in this sauna. As he squinted off in the distance behind the lumberyard, the panorama was so flat, Justin thought he could see the earth’s curve in the horizon. Spring wheat crops were just beginning to fuzz the ground and irrigation sprinklers shot water in an arc like the swish, swish, swishing tail of a horse. Cicadas whined in a high-pitched drone the way electricity charged across power lines, and overhead the sky that had been so blue only an hour ago, had taken on a hazy quality.
Turning his attention back to Danny, Justin gave his shoulders a jerk. “We had a little tiff on the phone today. She wasn’t happy about the new awning codes for the food cart. I don’t think I can get her permits in time for the Quilt Fair’s Rawston Taste, and she was bent out of shape. Sounds like the boosters are low on dough.”
“That’s why you donate the labor and I donate the wood, my friend.”
“She didn’t exactly come across as grateful,” Justin grumbled and pulled off his leather gloves and slapped them on his thigh. “What’s her story, anyway?”
“Sorta hard to explain in just a few minutes, but she had it kind of rough, growing up. She was in my youth group at church. Always asked me a lot of the questions a kid would normally ask her dad.” Dan pushed away from the tailgate of the truck, pulled his own gloves off and tucked them into the back waistband of his jeans. “She was raised by a single mom. Karen Durham’s not that much older’n me. Late forties to early fifties. Lives in California now. Abby’s daddy left on her eleventh birthday, which I get the feeling she never got over. He sold TV’s and stereos out there at Dave’s World on Fisher’s Mill Road. Still lives on the other side of town, but as far as I know, Abigail never sees him. Even after all these years, she’s havin’ a hard time forgiving him.”
“What’d he do, tell her he couldn’t put an awning on her doll house?” Justin smirked.
Danny laughed as he plucked a red plastic flag from a cardboard box and tied it to the end of the longest board sticking out over Justin’s tailgate. “Wish it was that simple. Nah, I know Dave is the first one to admit he made mistakes. He’s been a guest speaker at our men’s Bible study more than once, so it’s pretty common knowledge that he used to be a bit of a player. Ran around on Karen and ended up fathering a child with the kid he hired to clean the stereo shop after school. Was quite a scandal.”
“Ouch. No wonder she’s mad.”
“I know this sounds nuts, but Dave’s a real good guy. He was another one with a rough childhood. Those things can be a generational coil. Old Dave started going to church and cleaned up his act, but Abby doesn’t trust him anymore.”
“Can’t blame her.”
“You ever hear the saying about not forgiving someone is like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die?”
Justin smiled and shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“That’s why Abigail can be a tad edgy sometimes. Dave has tried to mend the fence more than once, but she suffered because of him. Now, she wants him to suffer.”
“She’s good at what she does,” Justin said sardonically.
“Maybe, but I don’t think it gives her joy or peace, because she’s regularly in tears after
a good sermon on forgiveness, when she manages to show up at church. Give her a chance. She’s been a great friend to Jen over the years. She’s an amazing woman, and the good Lord isn’t done with her yet, I’m sure. Worked her way through beauty college. Built her business all by herself. Even bought the building and at only twenty-eight, that’s an accomplishment. She’s funny and creative and sharp as a whip. But there’s something else. When you meet her, you’ll notice it. She draws people to her. Even complete strangers. She’s a little like a flame that way. And the rest of us? Moths.”
“Just so I don’t end up on the grill of her rig.” Justin climbed in his truck, slammed the door, and left Danny standing in the parking lot laughing.
3
10:00 a.m.
Oh, thank heavens you’re here!” Abigail rushed to greet Jen Strohacker as she entered the salon.
Jen smiled in confusion as she waddled back to Abigail’s chair for some high and low lights and a good cut. Once the baby came, she’d told Abigail, the Lord only knew when she’d find time to get back. “Is my hair that bad?”
Abigail laughed. “No, no. I just have some stuff going on with the booster club’s food cart, and I need to pick your brain about something.”
“Oh. Sure. Shoot.” Jen grabbed the arms of the chair and, with some awkward maneuvers, lowered herself into the seat.
“Do you know somebody named Justin Girard?”
“Justin? Oh, yeah. He’s probably Danny’s closest friend.”
“Danny? Our Danny? Your Danny?”
Jen laughed at the sour expression on Abigail’s face. “You’ve met?”
“The food cart guy? No. And, I’m thinking I don’t want to.”
“Oh, then you’re missing out. He’s a great guy.” Jen was as easy-going as she was beautiful. She owned Tantastic, a tanning shop about a mile away in the strip mall, and they shared a lot of the same clients. Abigail set to work, digging Jen’s hair colors out of her cabinet. “So, he’s not one of those contractors who takes the money but doesn’t finish the job, huh?”