“Are you crying?” he asked. “Over a little paint on the ceiling?”
“It’s just that the kids are coming home for spring break, and—”
“We’ll have everything done but the floor, girl. You don’t need to worry. This basement is going to look really nice, and you can show off your slipcovers and your crafts and all the amazing things you do. Those kids will be pleased as punch…you watch.”
She bent her head, pressed her lips together, and did her best to keep from bursting into tears again. Nick stood two steps in front of her and hooked his hands into his back pockets. She could see the paint-splattered toes of his work boots, and she wished he would just go back outside. Or paint the wall for her. Or something.
“Come here, girl,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m going to show you how to cut in a wall. Then you won’t have any more green paint where you don’t want it, and your kids will be so proud of you they’ll just about bust.”
At that, she nearly sobbed out loud. Who had ever been proud of her? All her adult life, Brenda had tried her best to be a good wife and mother and daughter, doing everything just right for her husband and children and parents. They had accepted her labors as her expected contribution to the family. Rightly so. But once—just once—couldn’t someone be proud of her?
When Brenda had been a child, her father was so cold and distant that she came to expect nothing but the gruffest of greetings from him. Her mother had found fault with almost everything Brenda did, no matter how hard she tried to please. Like her parents, Steve barely acknowledged the lifestyle his wife had created for him and their family, though she knew he had come to rely on her to keep things running at a high level. But proud of her? Never a word.
As Nick led her to the corner of the basement, Brenda brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. She couldn’t let him see her break down like this. He was just a hired handyman, after all—a remodeler, a simple craftsman. He didn’t owe her the slightest bit of kindness or sympathy.
“Now then,” he said, taking the brush to demonstrate, “you want to dip the tips of the bristles down into the paint. Not the whole brush—otherwise you’ll wind up with a mess clear onto the handle and all over your fingers. Okay, now take the brush and press it right up against the wall. See how it flattens out? The bristles make a clean line that’s so pretty it looks like you used a ruler. Now, I’m going to paint a strip on the wall, and then I want you to do the same thing.”
Sniffling, she watched as he dragged the damp bristles down the wall in a perfectly straight stroke. He gave her the brush. “Your turn, Miz Brenda.”
She glanced into his eyes and saw deep caring written in the pools of blue. “I’ll try,” she said softly. Following his instructions, she painted a second green swath on the wall.
“Perfect. Now then, move over into the corner and line those bristles up. There you go. That’s it.” He watched her paint for a moment, then put out his arm. “Now hold on a minute. When your brush starts to run dry, you need to slide the bristles up and away from the wall like this.”
Nick’s hand covered hers, and with gentle pressure he illustrated how to paint a corner, lift away the brush, dip it back into the paint, and then start again.
Brenda held her breath as his warm fingers gripped hers. She could feel the calluses on the inside of his palm grazing against her knuckles. He smelled like the outdoors, like paint, like freshly cut wood, like soda, hot dogs, and mustard. His flannel shirtsleeve touched the bare skin on her arm. She shivered.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Okay?” He didn’t move for a moment, standing behind her, his arm against hers, their hands entwined. She could hear his breath in her ear, slow and labored.
And then he released her, backed away, and stepped toward the sliding door. “I’d better get to building that potting bench,” he said.
As the door shut, Brenda closed her eyes and let out a breath. She realized she was trembling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That makes me as mad as a wet hen.” Esther Moore carried her purse from the cashier’s desk toward the tearoom alcove. “I won’t let it happen, and neither will Charlie.”
“Hold on, Esther,” Patsy said, following. “You jerked off your cape, and now you’ve got hair on the back of your shirt. Let me brush it off.” It was the day before Good Friday, and Patsy was glad she’d decided to close the shop tomorrow. She’d enjoy the break. “Oh, leave it be,” Esther said. “I’ll throw this blouse in the washer tonight anyhow. Look, there’s Ashley Hanes in the corner.” She paused and whispered to Patsy, “I bet Ashley didn’t sign it, did she? Young people today never do get involved with politics.”
Patsy sighed as Esther marched over to the table where Ashley was reading the latest hair magazine. One of her friends was getting married in two months, she had told Patsy. Ashley wanted her long red tresses styled into a fancy updo. As matron of honor, she would get to wear a different color gown than the other bridesmaids, and she wanted to look extra special.
“Ashley, did you sign the petition on Patsy’s desk?” Esther demanded. “We don’t have even half the signatures we need to keep that place from moving in next door. They’re going to carry adult movies, Charlie tells me, and those awful magazines.”
Looking up, Ashley glanced at Patsy and then back at Esther. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Moore.”
“About the new store! Patsy, bring that petition over here, and let’s get this young lady to sign it.”
Patsy knew Esther meant well, but she sure could get bossy. Ever since Pete Roberts’s visit to the salon the other evening, it seemed to Patsy like the video-rental store was all anyone could talk about. Not a single person who entered Just As I Am had a positive word for the prospects of a place like that in Tranquility. It would drive down property values. It would ruin the area’s quaint, peaceful reputation. It would bring in all kinds of unwanted strangers.
The men who sat in Patsy’s chair to get their hair trimmed remained mostly taciturn on the subject. They thought it was a bad idea, most of them muttered, but America was a free country after all. You ought to have the right to start up a business if you could afford to, no matter what. That’s what made this nation great—free enterprise. Of course, none of them would patronize a store like that, they insisted. Still, you couldn’t deny that a successful business of any sort helped the tax base.
“Now then,” Esther said, snatching the petition from Patsy and slapping it down on the tea table in front of Ashley. “You just sign that right this instant, sweetie. We’re trying to keep an X-rated movie-rental store out of the strip mall, and we need all the help we can get. You ought to bring your friends in here and have them put their signatures on this petition. Pete Roberts wrote it out, and I never saw a better one. As soon as we get enough names to make our point, he and Charlie are taking it to the mall’s landlord. And if that doesn’t work, they’ll go straight to the county commission!”
Ashley set aside her hairstyle magazine and studied the paper. “Brad told me about this,” she said in a low voice. “He’s not opposed to the store, Mrs. Moore. My husband thinks people ought to be able to do whatever they want in the privacy of their own home.”
“That store won’t be private!” Esther exclaimed. “It’ll be right smack-dab next door to Patsy’s!”
“Well…” Ashley looked down the list of names. “Brad and I are…we’re trying to see eye to eye on things, you know? Last weekend we took our boat out on the lake and talked a lot. We want to support each other. I trust Brad, and I know how much he loves me, so a store like this wouldn’t be a problem for us. We just want to do all we can to keep from getting into any disagreements. I’d hate to do something if we weren’t of the same mind about it.”
“Now you listen to me, Mrs. Bradley Hanes. You two might be as chirpy as a pair of nesting robins in the springtime, but there are other people at this lake who need to be protected from temptation. Do you want
your husband’s friends to sneak over to Tranquility and rent those movies? Or buy those trashy magazines?”
Ashley paled. “I guess not.”
“Then sign!” Esther presented the younger woman with a pen. “Hurry up. Here comes Kim Finley. I bet she’s waiting for her kids to get off the school bus. We’ll have to get her name on here too.”
As Patsy watched, Ashley scribbled her signature at the bottom of the list. Esther set her purse down on top of Ashley’s magazine and beckoned to Kim. As the three women settled in together and began to carry cups of tea and orange–poppy seed muffins to the table, Patsy returned to her station.
Her next client, a regular cut and perm, was coming through the front door, and she couldn’t keep from worrying that Pete would start up some kind of engine in the adjoining room at Rods-n-Ends. It seemed like every time the alcove filled with people chatting and sipping afternoon tea, a thunderous buzz suddenly shattered the mood, drowned the music on the sound system, and rattled the cups on the counter.
No matter how cordial Pete had been the other day, he didn’t take Patsy’s objections to his machine repairs seriously. She was glad she hadn’t gone out to dinner with him. That would have complicated everything and made it uncomfortable for her to protest the hullabaloo he caused. It was just about time for another confrontation. She could feel it building inside her.
As she worked with her customer—sliding small sheets of thin paper over clumps of hair, rolling each section onto a tiny plastic curler, and then wedging a strip of cotton around the woman’s face to protect her from the harsh chemicals in the perm solution—Patsy concentrated on the CD she had slipped into the sound system at lunchtime. It was the group Color of Mercy, three lake-area women with voices like angels. Their melodic music and Christian lyrics helped Patsy stay calm and keep her focus in the right place.
At this moment, her brain felt like a Missouri tornado whirling with sand, stones, and broken branches. All she could think about was pornography shops. Chain saws. Bossy women. Weed whackers. X-rated videos. Trouble. There was always something brewing at the lake, and it wasn’t necessarily Patsy’s chamomile tea.
Steve Hansen would be walking through the salon door in ten minutes. He had made an appointment to get a haircut right before his two college kids came home for spring break. Even though they had always been friendly, nowadays Patsy hardly knew how to talk to him.
Steve was as nice as nice could be, of course. Handsome too. Smart, funny, successful, determined. All the things that made a woman sit up and take notice of a man. But people never saw the Hansens together these days, not even at church. Steve still went every Sunday, but Brenda had stopped attending.
There was talk—terrible, gossipy, whispered talk—that Brenda was involved with Nick LeClair of A-1 Remodeling Services, the fellow working on the Hansens’ basement. Patsy didn’t believe it for a minute. Brenda had been too good a mother, too loyal a wife, too faithful a Christian to fall into a trap like that. But what was going on over there at the pretty house on Sunnyslope Lane in Deepwater Cove?
As she began coating her client’s curlers with perm solution, Patsy heard the bell over the front door jangle. Sure enough, in walked Steve Hansen, as professional, polite, and good-looking as if he’d just stepped in off a big-city street. A man like him could probably make a killing in New York or Chicago. People said Steve’s real-estate agency was raking in the dough. With a husband like that, what on earth would make Brenda look to a handyman for comfort?
“I’ll be with you in five minutes, Steve,” Patsy sang out, doing her best to keep the concern from her voice. “I’ve got to get Opal under the dryer, and then you can come on over.”
Steve nodded, making his way toward the row of seats against the wall in the waiting area. Men, Patsy had noticed, tended to sit on the edge of the chairs or pace back and forth while they waited their turn. Something about the smell of gels and mousses, the whirr of hair dryers, the rows of cosmetics, and the ladies’ magazines made them antsy.
Steve Hansen was no different. He picked up a magazine and then set it down again. He walked to the window and pretended to take interest in the goings-on in the strip mall’s parking lot.
And then Esther Moore corralled him. “Steve Hansen, the very fellow we’ve been talking about!” she exclaimed, slipping her arm through his. “You’re the man of the hour. Bet you didn’t know that! Come on over here and tell us what’s going on.”
Patsy watched as Steve mustered an uncomfortable grin. “Hey, Esther,” he greeted the white-haired woman. “I’ve got an appointment for a trim in just a minute.”
“Oh, Patsy will allow you time for a little visit with the girls. You know Kim Finley and Ashley Hanes, of course. We were discussing this petition that Pete Roberts has put out. Sit down here and give us an update.”
Steve perched on a chair and folded his hands on the tabletop. “Not much to report, ladies. We’ve got to get enough names on the petition to make the strip mall’s owner sit up and take notice. If he realizes how much opposition there is, maybe he’ll choose to rent out the space to someone else.”
“Who wants it? Have you got any nibbles?” Esther asked. “Charlie says nobody has even looked at the place in a couple of years.”
“I don’t handle any rentals, Esther,” Steve said. “But I think Charlie’s right. Tranquility is out of the way, and people tend to have a hard time making a business successful in such a small community.”
“There’s the whole population on the west side of the lake,” Kim spoke up. “I can think of a lot of stores we need. Some fast-food places would help out a lot. With Derek and me both working, there’s not much time for us to sit down at a regular home-style restaurant.”
“And it’s such a pain to cook a whole meal, you know?” Ashley said, giving her long auburn hair a flip over her shoulder. “I get sick of trying to think of stuff to make, especially since I’ve usually gone to the country club by the time Brad gets home for supper. I’ll leave him a casserole in the refrigerator, and he’ll gripe because he has to heat it up. Brad burns everything—even in the microwave. And then I come home to an awful mess. If we had a fast-food restaurant here on the strip, then Brad and I could meet for a quick bite before I head for work.”
“I’m afraid it’s not as easy as you might think to attract a chain restaurant,” Steve told the women as Patsy stepped over to let him know her station was free. “The owners do all kinds of feasibility studies before they’ll license a franchise. They check out the population size, the busiest months and the most active times of day, the cost of transporting raw materials—the whole nine yards. Chances aren’t good that a small strip mall in a resort community this isolated is going to attract a fast-food place.”
“I just don’t think I can take it if that video store moves in,” Patsy said, sinking into a chair for a moment. It felt good to get off her feet, and even with a short break, she would still have enough time to cut Steve’s hair and finish the perm. “A town named Tranquility is supposed to be peaceful. Well, let me tell you, it’s getting to be a real nightmare around here. Kids race their cars ninety-to-nothing up and down the highway. The bar down the way makes me nervous to drive home at night. Pete Roberts is still raising a ruckus with his small-engine repairs next door. And the tattoo place brings in the motorcycle crowd and the Party Cove kids.”
“Oh, don’t get started on Party Cove,” Kim exclaimed, referring to a favorite hangout for young adults at the lake. “That’s about all Derek talks about when he gets home from work. The Water Patrol has their hands full every summer trying to control that place.”
On summer weekends, visitors drifted into Anderson Hollow and tethered hundreds of runabouts, pontoon boats, Jet Skis, and other craft together to form a several-acre patch that was nothing more than one huge party. The chosen playground was awash in alcohol, drugs, loud music, and anything else people could dream up as girls in bikinis crossed from boat to boat while young men ho
oted and whistled. Party Cove was a nightmare for the State Water Patrol and lake-area police and sheriff departments. But other than issuing countless citations for underage drinking, boating while intoxicated, and public indecency, once a group moved into a location, authorities could do little to dislodge them.
“An adult-video store would just ruin the atmosphere here at Tranquility,” Patsy continued, deciding to have her say. “I’ve done my best to draw a quiet, polite clientele to Just As I Am. The tearoom is a place where a person can relax and get her thoughts in order. I want to have a godly influence on people, Steve, and if my customers have to walk through a bunch of seedy, google-eyed pornography users, well, I’ll lose my business and my ministry.”
“I’m doing my best to keep the store out, Patsy,” he said gently. “But I don’t imagine their patrons will be as bad as you think. Folks don’t want to be seen at an adult-video place, so they’ll probably duck in and out as quickly as they can.”
“But my business is mostly women!” she said, heating up. “Most women want nothing to do with those kinds of videos and magazines. The girls who do that trashy stuff are airbrushed and implanted and liposuctioned and everything else to make them fit an image. Real women want to be loved and cherished, not treated like some kind of object.”
“Patsy is exactly right,” Esther spoke up. “We like to be listened to—not ogled. When I’m talking, Charlie knows he had better perk up and pay attention to me. Even if he disagrees with me, he takes the time to really hear what I’m telling him.”
“Are you ladies still talking about the video store, or is this Marriage 101?” Steve asked.
“Both!” Esther said. “You’re influential, and we want you to know how we women feel. I’ve been around a lot of years, most of them married. My husband has learned that he had better listen—and listen good—if he wants me to feel any affection for him. And that’s all I have to say on that subject.”
It Happens Every Spring Page 10