The few times she had come face-to-face with Pete Roberts since Rods-n-Ends opened, he had been standing behind the workbench in his shop. Furious as she was about the noise, she had hardly paid attention to how the man looked. But now, with both Kim Finley and Esther Moore whispering that the man was sweet on her, Patsy found it difficult to keep from giving him the once-over.
Truth to tell, Pete was not a bad-looking fellow. What had at first appeared to be an oversized middle now turned out to be something more like an extra-large, out-of-shape T-shirt hanging from a pair of massive shoulders. Maybe that beer belly wasn’t quite as pronounced as she had imagined.
Pete still carried the hulking demeanor of a grizzly bear. His dark brown hair needed a good cut and even some thinning. If he had a jawline or cheekbones at all, the beard ought to go. And that cap could use a run through a washing machine.
But he did have startlingly blue eyes, a genuine smile, and a deep voice that settled into Patsy’s bones like warm honey. Hitching up his baggy jeans, he plopped into one of the stylists’ large black chairs and leaned back comfortably, as though expecting to begin a nice little conversation.
“I’m shutting down for the week,” Patsy told him. “I hope you didn’t come over for a cut.”
“Nah. You go ahead and finish your sweeping.” He tapped his fingers on the vinyl arms of the chair. “I already locked up next door.”
“How’s business these days?” she asked.
“Picking up. You?”
“Busy all the time. Of course, I’ve been here in this same spot for years. People know me.”
“I don’t know you much at all. You still mad at me about the weed whacker?”
“Can’t say I’m happy. My tea area brings in a lot of customers, and they want to relax. The last thing any of us needs is one of your machines starting up.”
“I heard you lost a bunch of teacups.”
“Antiques. They fell off a shelf thanks to your chain saw.”
“Sorry about that. You want me to pay for ’em?”
“I can’t replace antiques at the dollar discount store, Pete. It took me several years to collect all those. One of them belonged to my grandmother.”
She glanced over and saw that he had hung his head and was staring glumly at his fingernails. Carrying the dustpan to a wastebasket, Patsy noticed the words she had painted behind the desk.
Just As I Am…
“Don’t worry about those cups,” she said, swallowing her frustration. “They were just for show anyhow. People use the ones on the table across the way for their tea. You want to try a cup? Earl Grey is relaxing at the end of a long day.”
He looked up, surprise lighting his eyes. “Me?”
“Men drink tea here all the time.”
Though Patsy’s voice had been light and welcoming, she couldn’t deny that she really didn’t want to serve this grizzly bear who had ruined her peaceful sanctuary. But…Just as I Am. That was how God accepted people. Jesus had died for folks just as they were. The Holy Spirit filled hearts that way too. If God did it, Patsy ought to at least try.
“Come on over to the tearoom,” she said. “I’ll fix us each a cup.” Pete pushed himself out of the chair and edged across the salon toward the lavender alcove as though entering forbidden territory. He perched on the first chair he came to and put his hands in his lap as though he was afraid to touch the lace tablecloth.
Patsy set two Earl Grey bags into cups and filled them with steaming water. “Milk and sugar?” she asked.
“Well…”
“It’s best that way. Might as well give it a try.”
She went ahead and fixed his cup. Then she set a shortbread cookie on his saucer and carried it over to him. As she settled down in the chair across from Pete, she decided this might be just the thing to ease the tension between them. He would see how special teatime could be, and then maybe he would quit revving up engines next door.
“I always say a teatime prayer,” Patsy told him. Without waiting for a response, she bowed her head. “Dear Lord, thank You for this Saturday evening when we can look forward to a day of worship and rest. And thank You for Pete Roberts, my next-door neighbor. In Jesus’ name we pray…amen.”
“Amen,” he intoned in his deep baritone. Stirring his tea, he cleared his throat. “Us being Christians and all…well, that leads me to the reason for my visit. The other day, Steve Hansen stopped by for gas. He mentioned a problem. A rumor.”
Patsy gave an involuntary gasp. “About Brenda?”
“That’s what I thought at first too. But that’s not it.”
“Wait a minute…what did you think at first?”
“That he wanted to talk about Brenda.”
“Oh.” Patsy clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t know what Pete had heard about the Hansens, but some unpleasant tidbits had drifted her way over the past few weeks. The last thing Patsy wanted to do was spread rumors, so she decided to take a sip of tea. “Steve told me the store next door has been rented,” Pete said. He paused a moment before adding, “To an adult-movie place.”
Patsy’s mouthful of tea went down the wrong pipe, and she began to cough. “You’re kidding! Here? Why would anyone want to put a place like that way out here in Tranquility?”
“Exactly because it’s way out here. People don’t want to be seen walking into an adult-movie store on the main street of Osage Beach or Camdenton. No, this is exactly the kind of spot that attracts that kind of business. It’s off the beaten path, and folks can keep their comings and goings private. Steve Hansen is opposed to the rental place moving in, and so am I. Dr. Hedges doesn’t want it anywhere near his chiropractic clinic. I don’t know about the tattoo folks. Where do you stand, Patsy?”
“Opposed, of course!” She took a big sip and managed to get it down right. “What’s next? We’ve had the bar for years. Someone put in a strip club down the road a while back. I think it got torched, but they rebuilt it anyhow. If we have to put up with an adult-movie place in our mall, it’ll start to give the whole place a reputation.”
“A tone. That’s what I told Steve Hansen. It would set a tone that we just don’t want. But since we’re renters, we don’t have any voice in the matter.”
“We most certainly do!” Patsy exclaimed. “If the owner wants his building rented out, he’ll have to listen to us. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that adult-movie place away from here.”
The corner of Pete’s mouth tilted up. “Now that’s exactly what I thought you’d say. You’re a fighter, Miss Patsy Pringle, and I like that.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, Patsy focused on the lace curtains and realized that she and Pete Roberts were all alone at the mall. Their cars were parked side by side, and no doubt people could see their silhouettes in the tearoom. She pursed her lips for a moment. “Listen, I need to get home. My sitcom is on in less than an hour, and I haven’t even finished cleaning up in here.”
“What about dinner?”
“I eat popcorn and carrots for supper. Healthy, you know.”
“No, I mean what about having dinner with me? Tonight?”
“I can’t,” she said before she even had time to think about it. “I’m busy.”
“Watching TV and eating carrots and popcorn?”
Patsy felt her cheeks grow warm. “Pete, you’re a nice man and a good neighbor…well, for the most part I’ve felt okay about you being next door. But I’m not interested in having dinner with you.”
“Tonight? Or ever?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Tonight. And you never told me what you’re going to do about the movie store.”
“Fight it, of course. I’m rounding up support from the other stores and the community.” He fished a sheet of folded paper from the back pocket of his jeans. “This is a petition I wrote up. I made copies. It kind of surprised me, but the guy who runs the tattoo parlor wants nothing to do with a place like that. And Dr. Hedges is about to have a fit over it moving in right next to his chiropractor join
t.” He paused for a moment. “That’s a little joke. Chiropractor joint…get it?”
Patsy rolled her eyes. “Let me take a look at that petition,” she said, taking the grease-stained document from his hand. After skimming it, she nodded. “I’d be happy to ask my clients to sign this. I’ll put it on the desk next to the cash register—right beside my Plan of Salvation pamphlets.”
Chuckling, Pete rose and returned his chair under the table. “That hit the spot. What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing. I’m glad you dropped by, Pete.” She began walking him toward the salon’s front door. “See how restful and rejuvenating a cup of tea can be?”
“I don’t know about that, but it tasted delicious.” He smiled at her. “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Patsy?”
She stiffened. “I guess not.”
“What color is your real hair?”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, what kind of a question is that?” She fingered the gelled auburn spikes she had worked into place that morning. “I don’t remember. Mousy brown or something. Who cares?”
“I do.”
“If appearance really mattered to you, Pete Roberts, you’d realize that you need to shave off that awful beard and get a decent haircut.”
“My beard is awful?”
“A bird could build a nest in there.”
He fell silent for a moment. “You’re a fighter, Patsy…and you’re honest, too. I like that a lot.” Shaking his head, he eyed her with a worried expression. “So, do you think something might be going on between Steve and Brenda Hansen? And maybe the handyman, too? Like folks are saying?”
“I don’t gossip,” Patsy said firmly.
“But you do pray.”
She nodded and spoke in a low voice. “I do. I’ve been praying for them.”
“Me too,” he said. “Well, good night, Patsy. I hope I see you in church tomorrow.”
She watched him walk out the door and went back to her cleaning. As Patsy sprayed the desktop with lemon wax and gave it a wipe, she saw Pete cross the sidewalk in front of the salon window. Now that she had gotten a closer perspective on the man, he didn’t look nearly as much like a grizzly bear as she had thought.
She glanced into a mirror and studied her auburn spikes. Maybe next week she would try a softer brown.
Brenda took a step backward, set her hands on her hips, and surveyed the basement. Her hope of spending hours sewing, painting, and decorating was about to come true. The dream that one day she might pursue work as an interior decorator seemed almost within reach.
She could hardly believe it was the same place. Everything that once said teenage rec room was gone. In place of the sectional sofa and big-screen television set stood a long worktable with Brenda’s sewing machine at one end and the cat curled up comfortably at the other. Over the table hung a Peg-Board with spools of thread, scissors, rotary cutters, seam rippers, and all her favorite tools. She had plenty of room to lay out a length of fabric, pin on a pattern, and cut the pieces. A set of open shelves beneath the table held multicolored fabrics and patterns she had gathered through the years. An overhead light fixture bathed the area in a bright glow that ensured her eyes would never get tired.
With the sewing zone completely outfitted, she could put together slipcovers, pillows, curtains, tablecloths, and place mats. If she chose, she could stitch dresses, mend torn jeans, or replace buttons. While her own children had outgrown the need for those things, there were plenty of kids in the cove whose busy moms might welcome such a service.
This afternoon, Nick was finishing up the crafts center. She watched him expertly attach a set of cabinets where once a shelf of Justin’s soccer and baseball trophies had sat. Pictures of Jennifer at homecoming and college graduation, Jessica dressed in an array of dance costumes, and Justin posing with various sports teams used to hang on that wall. Now the photographs awaited places in the scrapbooks Brenda was planning to create. The cabinets would hold glue sticks, fancy-edged scissors, photo corners, blank paper, stickers, beads, wire, pliers, tweezers, trims, tiny paint bottles, and every other implement and embellishment Brenda had gradually collected over the years while building dollhouses, creating necklaces and tiaras, or putting together the elaborate birthday parties her kids had always enjoyed.
Setting the last screw in place, Nick opened and closed each of the cabinet doors and then ran his hand over the desktop to sweep away the sawdust. “There you go,” he said, giving Brenda a broad smile. “Two down and one to go. I still think we should have painted the potting area when we did the other walls, but let’s see how that green looks now.”
As jovial as always, he hooked his tools into the sueded leather belt at his waist as he sauntered over to the two paint cans by the door. “I don’t think this shade you chose is going to be too dark, Miz Brenda,” he said. “I really don’t. Not with all the light coming in through that sliding door. Are you planning to hang curtains over it?”
“No, just blinds I can pull up.”
“That’s great. You can have the fresh air through the screen if you want it. And in the fall and winter, you’ll be able to get a nice view of the lake through the trees. I’m a summer man myself, but there’s something to be said for winter. Not so many leaves. You can see things better.”
He lifted a can of paint and turned to survey her. “Something wrong? You look wore out.”
Brenda smiled. “I’m not tired. I guess I’m just sorry to see this project come to an end. It’s been so much fun.”
“We’re not done yet, girl!” Nick held up the paint. “How about you do the cuttin’ in on that wall while I start the potting bench? When you told me you wanted a sink with running water, that threw me for a loop. I’ve got to figure out how to tie into your plumbing without tearing up the floor.”
Brenda shook her head. “Nick, you know I can’t cut in. You’ll have to brush next to the ceiling and the doorframe; then I’ll roll on the rest of the paint—like always. I know we’re going to lay down a vinyl floor, but I don’t even trust myself with the baseboard.”
“For an artist of your caliber, cuttin’ in is like shooting fish in a barrel,” he said. “Come over here and stir up this paint. When you get ready to start, use my good brush. You’ve got everything taped off anyhow. There’s no way you’ll mess it up.”
Squaring her shoulders, Brenda took the paint can and knelt near the stirring sticks. Nick exited through the sliding doors into the backyard as she used a flathead screwdriver to pry off the paint lid. Why did the man never have a negative thing to say about her? To Nick LeClair, she was an artist. She had chosen the perfect paint colors for the walls. She could sew like Betsy Ross. Her garden beds looked as neat as a new pin. Her chocolate cake was delicious. He enjoyed hearing her sing along with the country songs on his radio. Lately, Nick had even started complimenting her looks—saying how much he preferred a blonde to a brunette and that he had always liked short hair on a woman.
With Nick around, Brenda felt like she could do anything. He treated her with respect and admiration. And he made her feel pretty. He never spoke of his wife, so she had no idea how he felt about the second woman he had married. But Nick loved his grandkids, and Brenda enjoyed hearing his stories of their antics. In fact, there was hardly a minute of the day that she didn’t feel upbeat and excited.
Except at night. That’s when Steve trudged into the house after dark, spoke a couple of words of greeting to his wife, and turned on the television. As usual, he rarely ate dinner at home and offered up not one interesting piece of information about his own life or kind query about hers. In fact, Brenda doubted that Steve had seen the basement since the day she proposed the remodeling project. He never asked her about it. If they spoke at all, it was to discuss the kids—which one had called or e-mailed, what time of day they planned to arrive for spring break—that sort of thing.
As she poured paint into a smaller bowl, Brenda thought back over the years of her marriage. How few couples h
ad stayed together as long as she and Steve had—nearly twenty-five years! For the most part, their life together had been good. Sure, they had weathered some rough spells when Steve’s income didn’t quite match their needs or when one child or another was ill. Brenda’s mother had been sick for three years before finally dying, and Justin got kicked off the baseball team his senior year for drinking at a party down by the lake. If she really worked at it, Brenda could dredge up plenty of problems that she and Steve had endured. But through it all, they had been loyal to each other, honored their faith, adored the children, and enjoyed a lot of happy times.
Nick LeClair had told Brenda he liked winter because the trees shed their leaves and the view was better. As she climbed onto a ladder to start painting the corner next to the ceiling, Brenda decided she could not agree with him on that. Life with Steve had come to feel like an endless winter. Bitterness and hurt filled her heart every time she thought of the way her husband had rejected her in favor of his work.
Drawing the paintbrush along the line of tape protecting the ceiling, she tried to find reasons for hope, joy, and optimism. The last thing she wanted was to leave the man who had fathered her children and built a marriage with her. But how much more of this discouraging emptiness and cold climate could she take?
At the thought of the chilly atmosphere her children might observe between their parents when they came home for spring break, Brenda’s hand clenched, and the paintbrush veered upward.
“Oh no!” she cried out. A blotch of green marred the white ceiling. “I knew I couldn’t do this! I just can’t seem to…to do anything right….”
Tears sprang to her eyes as Nick slid open the glass door and leaned into the basement. “Whoa, Nellie! What’s going on in here?”
“Look what I did to the ceiling! It’s green. I never should have tried—”
“I thought you’d fallen off the ladder, girl. That paint is nothing to worry about. Come on down, and let me take care of it for you.”
He tugged a damp rag from the back pocket of his jeans and took Brenda’s place on the ladder. In moments, the blob of latex paint had vanished, and the white ceiling looked as good as ever. Brushing away tears, Brenda sniffled as he climbed back down and handed her the brush.
It Happens Every Spring Page 9