Praise for
KATHRYN SPRINGER
and her novels

Picket Fence Promises

“Springer’s second book set in Pritchett, Wis., is as enchanting as the first. A sprinkling of comedy adds exactly the right touch.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Front Porch Princess

“Kathryn Springer’s refreshing writing style and sense of humor make this story sing!”

—Neta Jackson, bestselling author of The Yada Yada Prayer Group

“A delightful package of humor and gentle truths, Front Porch Princess is poignant and honest, a compelling, well-written story that will find the nooks and crannies of your heart and linger long after the book is done. Highly recommended!”

—Susan May Warren, bestselling author of Chill Out, Josey!

“Springer’s combination of humor, family values and longing will reach out from the pages and touch readers’ hearts.”

—Romantic Times BOOKReviews, Top Pick!

The Prince Charming List

Kathryn Springer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Each one should use whatever

gift he has received to serve others,

faithfully administering God’s grace

in its various forms.

—1 Peter 4:10

To Kayla,

Who proves that a girl can wear really

cute shoes while walking with God!

Your enthusiasm and encouragement during

the writing of this book were blessings—

and so are you!

THE Prince CHARMING LIST

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Chapter One

it feels like everyone is watchng me. Im so paranoid. (Text message from Heather Lowell to Bree Penny)

u r not paranoid. they r watchng u. welcome to prichett. (Text message from Bree Penny to Heather Lowell)

I caught the bridal bouquet.

This happened exactly thirty seconds after I told God that all I wanted to do was fade into the beautiful woodwork of Faith Community Church for the rest of the day.

I’m sure He was laughing when I walked out of the bathroom after a quick lipstick check and was swept into the center of a cluster of women whose eyes reflected deadly intent. Kind of like Mom’s koi when they saw the mysterious hand poised above them, ready to drop food pellets into the water.

I looked in the direction of whatever it was everyone was fixated on—just in time to see a floral missile hurtling our way. What happened next was something I’d only experienced in the mosh pit at a Christian rock concert the summer before. But this time everyone was wearing pastels.

Candy Lane, Prichett’s mayor, was short but agile, judging from the way she vaulted out of the pack toward the ceiling.

Someone stepped on my toe and I bounced to the left, putting myself between Bree, who could have unwound the ribbon from her hair and lassoed the thing, and Prichett’s very own resident artist, Marissa Maribeau, who looked as confused as I did that she’d been caught up in this weird ritual.

As luck would have it, the bouquet rocketed right to Marissa like it was on a programmed course, but she decided to change the rules. As soon as it touched her hands, she popped it back into the air like we were playing hot potato. If she’d been a Green Bay Packer quarterback, she wouldn’t have been signed on for the second season.

Gravity did its duty and when the bouquet returned to earth, it ricocheted off Bree and landed with a fragrant thump against my arm, then spiraled toward the floor. The competitive instinct—the one that drove me to set my sights on Boardwalk and Park Place when I played Monopoly—kicked in and I grabbed it. Now I was in the crosshairs. Panicked, I realized my only option was to imitate Marissa’s move, but just as I was about to launch it back into space, there was no one there to catch it. My former opponents suddenly muttered their congratulations and shape-shifted from future bride-zillas to supportive, can-you-feel-the-love sisters. And they headed toward the cake table together.

“I think this belongs to you.” I snagged Marissa’s elbow before she escaped.

“Not a chance.” Marissa backed away, staring in horror at the flowers I grandly offered.

Future psychology majors take note. This would be a fascinating study. Why intelligent women who’ve grown up in the modern world react in unpredictable ways when the bridal bouquet is headed in their direction like a ribbon-trailing asteroid. It’s not like anyone really believes that the girl who catches it is going to be the next one to walk down the aisle. I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve already figured out that in the age group twenty to thirty, there’s a ratio of one Christian guy to a bazillion Christian women. Okay, a slight exaggeration. Then again, maybe not.

I buried my nose deep in the lilacs and white roses and when I emerged a few seconds later, at least a dozen disposable cameras were aimed in my direction.

“Say cheese.” Bree grinned.

For all I knew, the good old dairy state of Wisconsin had been the birthplace of the expression.

I silently pounded my head against my inner wailing wall.

“I wanted to fade into the woodwork,” I muttered.

Bree’s blue eyes flashed in amused sympathy. “If you want to fade into the woodwork, go back to the Twin Cities. In Prichett you’ve got a starring role.”

A starring role.

Not quite what I had in mind, God.

Why was He so determined to shake up my life? There’s no doubt that what’s happened to me since last summer can only be the result of God’s intervention. Divine fingerprints. My life is full of them. Okay, confession. Maybe I had a hand in getting the whole thing started. Initially.

Dad insists that I can’t leave things alone. Supposedly this endearing characteristic can be traced to a package of Oreos and the VCR when I was four years old. Unfortunately, Mom has the pictures to prove it. Which leads me to ask a question—why are parents wired with a twisted sense of humor that drives them to take photos of their children’s most embarrassing moments when they are too young and helpless to prevent it? Those photos have an annoying habit of surfacing years down the road like the risqué, before-they-were-famous poses of models that the tabloids gleefully print. Case in point, the infamous Oreo-VCR photos have come back to haunt me at my sixteenth birthday party, high school graduation open house and my first (and only) date with Chad Benson. Although I don’t think there was a direct correlation. Really.

As if the Oreo photos and the accompanying script my mom loves to recite when she displays them aren’t enough, she’s put them in a special album, which I like to refer to as Heather Lowell’s Childhood Bloopers. Also included in my repertoire is the photo where I’m perched in Dad’s leather recliner, wearing nothing but a diaper and draped from head to toe in yards of shiny tape—which in a former life had been the movie E.T. Mom is convinced I thought he was trapped in there somewhere and it was up to me to save him.

As far as I’m concerned, all diaper and birthday-suit bathtub photos should be burned on a kid’s tenth birthday. Middle and high school are right around the corner. Think about it.

So maybe I can be forgiven for being a bit camera shy. For years I thought everyone’s parents came automatically equipped with a 35-millimeter and telephoto lens. I learned the sad truth at my kindergarten graduation, when my mother, armed with enough film to take a head shot of everyone in the Twin Cities, was besieged by mothers who’d (gasp) forgotten their cameras. My mother, being the good Christian woman that she is, cheerfully took pictures of my entire class. And the faculty.

I heard one of the moms whisper that after her fourth child, she was lucky she remembered to check to be sure both her shoes matched before she left the house, let alone remember to bring a camera. Mom had leaned over and whispered back that I was an only child and every precious moment needed to be recorded.

I may have been five years old, but that’s when I figured it out. The camera fixation and the bulging photo albums had something to do with my being adopted.

Mom and Dad were never secretive about it. I grew up being told that I was a special gift to them from God. That I was the child of their heart. I was so cocooned in love and attention that I never felt like I was lacking anything. Some of my closest friends were adopted, too, so I didn’t think there was anything strange about it at all. In fact—minus the never-ending photo sessions—it was kind of cool.

Until my freshman year of high school. On Career Day. A day that will go down in history as the day I started to wonder—for the first time—about my birth parents. Particularly my mother. I blame the guidance counselor and Rhianne Wilson: the guidance counselor for handing out the questionnaire that was designed to point kids who still watched Saturday morning cartoons in the direction of their future career; Rhianne Wilson for getting caught in a downpour on the way to school, which caused her to slink into the gymnasium through the side door and huddle between the rows of lockers, where I practically tripped over her.

The guidance counselor had decided that Career Day would be more fun if the students came to school dressed for their future career. If we had a clue what that was. Which I didn’t. I attended a private school called His Light Christian Academy, so even though I could’ve borrowed my dad’s scrubs and pretended I was thinking about following in his respected footsteps, it wouldn’t have been completely honest. And honesty is a big thing at a Christian school. Not to mention that everyone knew from an unfortunate incident in third grade that I faint at the sight of blood—whether it’s mine, a fellow classmate’s, the classroom hamster’s…

But that’s a different subject.

“I’m supposed to be a model,” Rhianne had wailed. “Look at me. Everyone is going to think I want to be a drowned rat when I grow up.”

“It’s not that bad.” I was an optimist, but I still felt the need to ask God to forgive me for stretching the truth.

I skipped algebra to put Rhianne back together. By the time she got to study hall, three boys had asked her out. By lunchtime, half the girls in the school were begging me to give them tips on makeup and hairstyles.

“I guess we know what you’ll be doing with your life,” Rhianne said, linking her arm through mine and forcing me to match her catwalk sashay—hip roll to hip roll—to history class.

“What?”

She gave me a well, duh look. “Hair. Makeup.”

“No way.”

My parents weren’t snobs but I’m sure there was an unspoken agreement between them and God that He wouldn’t choose a path for me that involved anything less than four years at a Christian college and included at least two semesters of Bible study.

“You have talent. A gift.” Rhianne could be pretty dramatic when she was wearing the right shade of eye shadow. I hadn’t known that. “It’s in your genetic makeup. Wow. That was one of those…you know…”

“Puns?” Okay. I don’t mean to be uncharitable, but sometimes it’s a good thing a girl can go far on her looks.

“Right.” Rhianne had tossed her long blond hair with one of those graceful head rotations that only girls with long blond hair have perfected.

When we parted company, I sat through an hour of American history in a daze, remembering the Christmas I’d begged for one of those plastic mannequin heads topped with the glossy artificial hair you could style any way you wanted. I got a piano instead. Disjointed memories returned, of the times I coordinated Mom’s outfits when she had a women’s ministry luncheon, making sure she chose the right pair of shoes or insisting she surgically remove the shoulder pads from a blazer she’d bought on the same day there was a two-for-one special on leg warmers.

It wasn’t a talent, I told myself. And it certainly wasn’t infused into the strands of my DNA. That was impossible. I just had a…knack…that’s all.

But Rhianne had started me wondering. How much of who I was were pieces of two people I’d never met?

Suddenly I was noticing things I’d never paid much attention to before, like my green eyes (Mom and Dad’s were brown) and my perfectly straight nose (which I have to admit I was a trifle conceited about). And it wasn’t just the differences in my looks, either. Mom and Dad were quiet while I had a hard time not voicing my thoughts out loud. Every one of them. And I had that impulsive thing going.

Even as the questions about my background rushed into my mind, guilt rushed into my heart. Mom and Dad wouldn’t understand. I didn’t quite understand it, either, so I ignored it. But sometimes over the next few years the wondering would return and take me by surprise. When I laughed, was it the echo of someone else’s laughter? As a senior in high school, when the mailbox was crammed with college catalogs, why did I dump them all in the trash one day and take a year to travel around Europe? And when I got home, why did I walk away from a full scholarship at the University of Minnesota and sign up for cosmetology school?

Who was responsible for my quirks? I needed someone to blame!

That’s how I ended up in Prichett, Wisconsin.

“Wait! I want a picture, too.” Bernice Strum-Scott hurried over. She owns the Cut and Curl Beauty Shop on Main Street and even a photophobe like myself couldn’t refuse to pose for her. She was the bride, after all. Obediently, Bree and I put our faces together—cheek to cheek—and I could smell Bree’s cinnamon gum. I’m pretty sure she chewed it in her sleep.

“Here, let me. It’s nice to be on this end of a camera for a change.” Alex Scott took the camera from Bernice and winked at me.

Alex Scott was a real live movie star and he looked every inch of it today in his black tux. There were no helicopters flying over the church, though, because Alex confided to me that he’d spent years cultivating a life apart from Hollywood and it was finally paying off. Just in time. He could get married without ending up on the cover of People magazine. I did see Sally Repinski from the café take some discreet snapshots that would probably be on the Prichett Pride and Joy Wall by morning. I’d heard all about the Pride and Joy Wall from Bree’s mom, Elise. She’d won the Proverbs 31 pageant and only Annie Carpenter’s twins had finally displaced her from the wall—but that had taken almost a year. Bree told me her mom has been trying to keep a low profile since then.

Just as the flash went off, Bree and I stuck out our tongues. Bernice laughed and Alex shook his head.

“That’s one for the mantel,” he said. “Now let’s get one for this year’s Christmas card. No tongues, please.”

“Killjoy,” I mumbled. The flash went off and I reached for the camera. “My turn.”

Bernice and Alex leaned against each other. Her veil drifted toward his face and he batted it away. Just as I pressed the button, they both stuck their tongues out at me.

I scowled but I guess I wasn’t very convincing, because they started to laugh. And in Bernice’s laughter, I heard a deeper, a richer, echo of my own. Because even though I initially came to Prichett to find the source of my quirks, the bride and groom—my birth parents—were the reason I came back.

Chapter Two

Supper 2 nite? 2 celebrate frst day on the job? (Bree)

If no 1 runs me out of town. B there at six. (Me)

Whoever described small towns as sleepy had never been to Prichett. Tiny as it was, Prichett packed the energy of a double shot of espresso. I’d finally fallen asleep about four in the morning and that was only because Snap, Bernice’s cat, suddenly decided to live up to her name and hissed at me when I rolled onto her tail. Apparently my restlessness was the only thing keeping her from her beauty sleep. I settled down out of embarrassment and the next thing I knew it was six o’clock and the sound of voices was tapping against my dreams.

Wrapping an afghan around my shoulders, I scuttled over to the window to check out the early birds. The recycling truck was idling on the street right below and one of the guys started to whistle an upbeat version of “Going to the Chapel.” I recognized him from the reception. The ceremony had been small, but the guest list for the reception afterward must have included most of the town.

Bernice and Alex had left for their European honeymoon just a few hours after the gift opening the day before, leaving me to take up Bernice’s exalted scissors and run the Cut and Curl for the next eight weeks. Being a Minnesota girl myself, I knew that eight weeks was all the summer a person could hope to squeeze out of this part of Wisconsin.

One glance at the clock on the wall and I should have been sprinting toward the shower. Instead, I leaped back into bed and dove under the covers. What had I been thinking? All I had was a certificate from cosmetology school in my suitcase and four—count them—encouraging parents who didn’t seem to have a doubt that I could manage the salon. Manage.

Bernice had planned to close the salon for the summer until I’d blithely told her that I didn’t have any plans yet (translation: no job) and if she wanted to keep the salon open, I could run it for her. It had seemed so doable. Then. Now, I was in a panic. Curse my impulsive tendencies. No wonder Mom and Dad had to put me on one of those wrist tethers when we went to Disney World (yet another unforgettable photo in my Blooper album) when I was two.

I did a quick search above the comforter and my fingers brushed against Snap’s silky ear. Aha. Animals were therapeutic. A warm, seven-pound stress reliever. The next best thing to chocolate chip cookie dough. I wrapped my hand around her belly and pulled her under the covers, into the tunnel of denial. She must have sensed my distress because instead of signing her name on my face with her claws, she burrowed closer and hiccupped. Which jump-started a soothing, uneven purr.

Lord, I am absolutely crazy. Mama B has a ton of loyal customers and please, just please, let them hang in there until she gets back….

Bernice hadn’t even given me a list of things to do at the salon. Since she wasn’t just the owner of the Cut and Curl but also the only employee, she said it really wasn’t that complicated. There were no internal struggles, either, unless a person counted the battle between her and her self-control over the candy drawer in the back room. Which she’d stocked before she left. I’d checked. She’d given me a turbo-lesson in how to do the banking and assured me the “regulars” would fill me in if I had any questions. And I could call her anytime—day or night—if I needed anything.

When I’d looked over her shoulder at the appointment book, I noticed the month of June was already booked solid. That would make it easy. Then Bernice had mentioned she’d deliberately penciled in the low-maintenance customers after one o’clock so I’d end the day on a good note. I was pretty sure that low maintenance had nothing to do with their hairstyle.

The memory opened up a hole that my stomach dropped through.

“We can do this, can’t we, Snap?”

Her eyes narrowed in kitty amusement.

“Everyone else believes in me.” I felt the need to remind her. “And if this isn’t going to be a relationship based on mutual encouragement, I’m going to bring Colonel Mustard to live with us for the next two months.”

Colonel Mustard was a basset hound everyone thought Alex had taken in out of the goodness of his heart, but he’d told me, when Bernice wasn’t around, it had really been a pathetic need to win friends and influence people in Prichett. When I persuaded them to let me move into Bernice’s apartment above the Cut and Curl instead of her and Alex’s house just outside of town, Bree had told me the Colonel could bunk with Clancy, their golden retriever, for the summer. So far, the dogs were doing fine, but if Snap needed empathy lessons, I was sure I could get him back.

Alex and Bernice had planned to fix up the apartment and rent it out when they got back from their honeymoon. Bernice’s snow globe collection had been carefully transported to the new house, but she’d left most of her furniture behind. It was perfect.

There were three reasons I wanted to live in the apartment but only two I was willing to share if anyone asked me why I preferred a cramped apartment with no shower to an adorable remodeled house in the country. The first two were easy—the apartment was convenient and it was so unique I’d fallen in love with it. The plaster ceilings were high, and the walls in the living room were the original brick. The polish on the hardwood floor had been scuffed to the bare wood in places. The wall-to-wall row of windows that overlooked Main Street welcomed the sunlight all day and I’d already decided to fill the space with plants.

The third reason—the one only my journal knew about—was harder to put into words. Even for me. Bernice and I had only met the summer before and had slowly been getting to know each other through long-distance telephone calls and e-mails. I thought that by living in her apartment, I might get to soak in a bit more of who she was. She’d welcomed me with open arms when I’d shown up unexpectedly at the Cut and Curl one day. She was a new believer—God’s timing is always amazing—and she told me she was happy to have a chance to know me, but she’d let me set the boundaries of our relationship. Which was easy because I couldn’t think of any.

The alarm went off, rudely reminding me that I was a working girl now. Not that I hadn’t held a job before, but this couldn’t compare to making smoothies at the Fun Fruit Factory.

On my way to the kitchen, I passed the black-and-white movie posters that Bernice had left on the wall. Giant. Camelot. To Catch A Thief. You’ve Got Mail. Even though I loved movies, I’d only seen the last one. Bree didn’t know it yet, but I planned to lure her to the apartment with M&M’s for a movie marathon some weekend.

I popped a bagel into the toaster. Now it was time to face the big question. What to wear on my first day of work? Dressy or casual? If I went too dressy, I could be labeled a snob. Too casual and it would look like I didn’t care. Again being labeled a snob.

There was a knock on the door and I squeaked in surprise. It was only seven o’clock in the morning. I had an hour before the Cut and Curl opened. Maybe it was Bree bearing cinnamon rolls. Yum.

“Hey!” I swung the door open. “You’re a—”

A strange guy.

I slammed the door and put my shoulder against it, my fingers fumbling against the frame for a row of locks that didn’t exist. My mother had taught me well.

There was a few seconds of silence and then another hesitant tap on the door.

“Who is it?” I winced. What a dumb question. He could make up any name he wanted and, being the new kid on the block, I wouldn’t recognize it.

Bernice’s door was oak and I could barely make out the muffled mutterings of Strange Guy. I opened it a crack, glad that Dad had insisted I take self-defense classes in high school.

I have a brown belt, buddy. And, according to the Psalms, a few angels camped around me.

Strange Guy stood on the top step and, from what I could see of him through the few inches that separated us, he looked pretty harmless. He was tall but more lanky than muscular.

“Heather, right?”

“Yes.” I drew the word out, not sure how much info to give him as my brain quickly downloaded the Stranger Danger curriculum I’d learned in second grade.

“I’m Ian Dexter.” And you must be paranoid.

I could read it in his eyes. Eyes that were centered behind thick black frames.

“Didn’t Mr. Scott mention I’d be stopping over?”

The handyman. Heather thy name is Stupid. Alex had mentioned that he’d hired Pastor Charles’s nephew, who was staying with them for the summer, to do some general fixer-up type of stuff while I was at the salon during the day. I just didn’t think he’d show up at seven in the morning. And I assumed it would be a teenager, not someone close to my age.

“I guess so. He just forgot to mention you’d be here so early.” Or that you’d be here today.

“I wanted to talk to you before you left for work,” Ian said, injecting a tiny pause between each word in the same tone a person might use if they were talking someone down from a ledge. “If I know your schedule, I won’t get in your way.”

Too late!

I sucked in my bottom lip. “Can you come back in fifteen minutes? I got up late and I’m not exactly…ready for company.”

He stared at me, puzzled. Right away I knew what box to put Ian Dexter in. I’d seen that expression before. He lived in an alternate universe. The alternate universe where moving to the next level is the reason for existence. The world of video games.

“I’m not dressed yet.” I’d learned with this type of guy you just have to spell things out. They were really good at defeating fire-breathing monsters but not so skilled at holding up their end of a conversation. Unless I was a two-dimensional fairy princess. Then maybe.

“Oh. Right.” Ian’s face turned the same shade of scarlet as Bree’s cowboy boots. “I’ll, um, come back then.”

“Ten minutes.”

Ian’s unexpected appearance shaved precious minutes off my dressy versus casual quandary. By the time I remembered my bagel, I found it lodged in the bottom of the toaster, resembling a charred hockey puck. No time for breakfast. No time to linger over the contents of my closet now.

When in doubt, upgrade to suede. In questionable weather, go with leather.

They weren’t exactly pearls of wisdom for modern man, but they had the potential to solve a possible wardrobe malfunction. I decided on a cute skirt—suede, of course—a shirt with a geometric print I’d bought when I was in Paris and a comfortable pair of shoes because I’d be on my feet all day.

The butterflies in my stomach, which had settled briefly while I decided what to wear, came to life and began to perform impressive loops and dives. Maybe it was a blessing I hadn’t eaten that bagel.

Snap wound herself around my feet as I poured myself a glass of juice. “At least one of us has time for breakfast,” I muttered, serving her a dish of fish-shaped kibbles and replenishing her water bowl.

My Bible was on the counter and, while I rummaged in the drawer for a granola bar, I leaned over to skim the page in a search for spiritual sustenance. As devotional times went, this was pretty sad. Especially when I needed God’s strength more than ever to get me through my first day at the Cut and Curl. For some reason, my Bible was open to Haggai, which consisted of a whopping two chapters, easily overlooked between the two Z’s—Zephaniah and Zechariah.

In the interest of time, I couldn’t turn to the Psalms, my devotional favorite. Haggai would have to be it. I skimmed through the verses until one jumped out at me.

Then Haggai, the Lord’s messenger, gave this message of the Lord to the people: “I am with you,” declares the Lord.

I am with you.

Just the reminder I needed. And humbling. Like going to a potluck dinner empty-handed and leaving with a full tummy. I’d offered God the crumbs of my chaotic morning and He responded with a banquet…

Ian Dexter was at the door again. I studied him without making it obvious I was studying him. Looks-wise, he fell into the same category as my brown leather purse. Not attractive enough to gush over and show off to your friends but not stash-in-the-closet unattractive, either. His short hair was dark brown; his nose was straight and narrow and clearly not up to the task of supporting those heavy glasses. His eyebrows were full but at least there were two of them. He was wearing a pair of paint-spattered blue jeans straight out of a bin from a discount store and a sweatshirt with a faded, peeling logo that I couldn’t decipher. School of Zelda perhaps?

“What did Alex hire you to do?” I didn’t want him changing things too much. As far as I was concerned, the apartment was as close to perfect as you could get.

Instead of answering my question, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. Cheat sheets. Why wasn’t I surprised?

“Paint bathroom. Replace faucet in tub and sink. Cabinets in kitchen—rip out and replace or paint. Heather’s choice.” I smiled when I read that. “Varnish floor in living room. Pantry needs shelves. Wow, you’re going to be pretty busy, Ian.”

“Everyone calls me Dex.” He refolded the list carefully and tucked it back into his pocket. “What time are you done with work?”

“Five o’clock on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Seven o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Three o’clock on Saturday. Closed on Sunday.” I recited Bernice’s standard hours. She’d told me I could close at five on Tuesdays and Thursdays, too, but I didn’t want to test anyone’s loyalty. My goal was to gain a few new clients by the time Bernice got back from Europe, not lose any of her regulars.

“I’ll make sure I’m gone by then,” Dex said. He wouldn’t look at me. Probably because I wasn’t spinning like a tornado or wielding a sword.

“The cat’s name is Snap.” I grabbed my purse and headed toward the door. “Make sure she doesn’t sneak out on you, okay?”

“Okay.” I could see him process the information. Cat. Outside. No. The tension that had cinched my stomach into a knot when I’d wondered if Alex’s handyman was going to disrupt my peaceful abode unraveled. Unless he was battling for control of the golden key, Dex would simply do the job he was hired to do. No threat. No drama. On the quiet side but seemed like an okay guy.

I sent up a quick prayer that the rest of my day would be as easy as handling Ian Dexter.

Chapter Three

What about womn? (Text message from Tony

Gillespie to Ian Dexter)

Been here 48 hrs. (Dex)

So? Has 2 b grls there. (Tony)

Havent seen any. (Dex)

All work and no play…(Tony)

Gets me to S America fastr. (Dex)

I started brewing the coffee as soon as I let myself in. Bernice had mentioned that people stopped by the Cut and Curl at various times during the day just to grab a free cup of coffee so she always kept the pot full.

There was a loud thump above my head and the light fixture on the ceiling quivered. Great. What was Dex doing up there? Painting or replacing drywall?

“Where’s Bernice?”

I heard the voice and the bells above the door jingle at the same time. It was hard to believe the petite grandmotherly woman tottering toward me was one of Bernice’s high-maintenance clients. The circles of coral powder on her cheeks matched the lipstick that followed a crooked path across her lips. I glanced at the appointment book. “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Kirkwood.”

“No. I’m Lorelei Christy. Florence has a mission circle meeting this morning so we traded appointments. Where’s Bernice?”

Traded appointments. Was this allowed?

“Bernice is on her honeymoon.” I knew Bernice had told all her clients she’d be gone for the summer but if Mrs. Christy had forgotten, I wasn’t going to argue the point. “I’m Heather Lowell and I’m helping Bernice out this summer.”

I scanned the appointment book. Sure enough, Lorelei Christy was supposed to be my four o’clock. The last shall be first and the first shall be last. According to Bernice’s system, that meant she was a “low maintenance.” Which meant that Mrs. Kirkwood, my last appointment for the day…wasn’t.

“All right.” Lorelei slipped off her lavender cardigan and draped it across the back of a chair. “I’m sure if Bernice hired you, we’ll get along just fine. Right, dear?”

As far as I was concerned, Lorelei Christy was the dear.

“What would you like me to do today, Mrs. Christy?”

“Just a shampoo and set. The yellow rollers work the best. And I like the shampoo that smells like coconut. It reminds me of the cruise Edward and I took for our fiftieth wedding anniversary.”

By the time I was finished, I wanted to adopt Mrs. Christy and add her to my grandparent collection. She’d told me all about her family, recited her recipe for rhubarb pie, quizzed me afterward, and filled me in on her plans for the summer—which involved knitting slippers for the upcoming preschool class.

“Oh, I almost forgot your tip.” Mrs. Christy turned back to the counter and reached into her purse. “Here you go.” She handed me a neatly folded dishcloth.

If I shook it, would a five-dollar bill fall out?

“I crochet them myself. If you don’t like pink I have a green one in here somewhere—”

“No. Pink is fine. I love pink.”

“You’re a sweet girl. I’ll see you next week. Four o’clock.”

That wasn’t so bad. One down, four to go.

Five minutes after Mrs. Christy left, a harried-looking mom pulled four-year-old twin girls into the salon. I checked the appointment book. Natalie and Nicole. Adorable. They were even dressed alike. This was one of the times I got that wistful I-wish-I-had-a-sister feeling.

They each picked out a chair by the window but their sweet, identical smiles disappeared as soon as their mother announced she needed to run to the grocery store for a gallon of milk. Because she’d only be gone for a few minutes and the girls would be fine without her.

“Who’s first?” I patted the back of the chair.

The girls linked arms in a show of defiant solidarity. A scene from Lady and the Tramp—the one with the Siamese cats—came to mind. No one at cosmetology school had coached me through this scenario.

“One at a time.” Come on, Heather. Don’t let them get the best of you.

Natalie scowled at me. “Where’s the elephant chair?”

“I want the elephant chair, too,” Nicole whined.

Could four-year-olds smell fear?

“Can I have a sucker now?”

Aha. Leverage. “No suckers until after you get your hair cut.”

“Bernice lets us.”

I knew this was a big fat fib. Bernice would never let kids get sticky until they were about to go home. “I’ll get the elephant chair while you two decide who’s going to be first.” There you go, Heather. Pleasant but assertive. Fortunately, I’d paged through a few of Mom’s parenting books over the years!

While my back was turned, I heard their low, candy-sweet voices planning their next move.

Think fast, Heather.

“You girls are lucky today—you get the ten-o’clock special,” I said, pretending I didn’t see Nicole stick her tongue out at me as I turned around.

“What’s that?” Natalie tilted her head and Nicole elbowed her in the side.

“A manicure—and you even get to pick out the nail stickers.” I stared at the clock. “Oh, oh. Only ten minutes left…I don’t know if I’ll have time…”

“I’ll go first!” Natalie bounded over to the elephant chair while her sister crossed her arms and pouted.

Yes! Divide and conquer.

By the time their mother strolled in forty-five minutes later, holding a cup of coffee from Sally’s Café, I was just finishing up Nicole’s manicure. There’d been a tense moment when the girls had tried to talk me into letting them each take home an extra set of stickers but after I’d gently pointed out that other little girls might want them, too, they hadn’t pushed the issue.

I was going to be a wonderful mother someday, I just knew it….

“Look, Mommy! She painted my fingernails. And I have pony stickers.” Nicole spread out her fingers for her mom to admire.

Mom frowned.

“No charge,” I said quickly, and winked at the girls. “The ten-o’clock special.”

“My stickers are better,” Natalie announced. “Mine are kitties.”

“Purple kitties.” Nicole tossed her head. “Kitties aren’t really purple, so mine are better.”

Wait. What was happening here? My brilliant idea was being hijacked by a pair of three-foot-tall divas.

“You didn’t give them the same stickers?” Mom turned accusing eyes on me.

“Ah, I let them pick out the ones they wanted.” What kind of pre-parenting mistake had I just made? I was an only child. Was this something I was supposed to know?

The look she gave me was both pitying and resigned.

“How long do the stickers usually last?”

“About a week.”

She nodded. And sighed.

“You have a pink pony.” The war waged on around us. “There aren’t pink ponies, either!

“Duh! On the merry-go-round.”

“Girls!” In the time it took for Mom to put her cup down, Natalie had launched herself at her sister and they were locked in battle. In the elephant chair. Which began to teeter.

In slow motion, I saw the chair begin its downward descent and I managed to catch Nicole as she pitched out of it. Fortunately Mom must have been working out because she practically vaulted over the counter. It was her oversize purse—which I’d thought looked a bit outdated when I first saw it—that broke Natalie’s fall.

The elephant chair wasn’t as lucky. His trunk snapped off.

“You killed him!” Nicole shrieked.

Natalie burst into tears.

“Here. You can each have another set of stickers. How’s that?” The second the words were out of my mouth, the tears stopped and they politely opened their little palms.

After they left, I slumped in the chair and closed my eyes. I was so ready for lunch. Except I had a broken elephant and another little girl coming in for a first haircut…. But wait, I had a handyman right upstairs, didn’t I?

I collected elephant parts, locked the door and dashed up the back stairs.

“Dex?” I burst in, expecting to find him wrench-deep in home improvement.

He was asleep on the sofa. With Snap wrapped around his neck like a shawl. Was he hungover? And did I have the authority to fire Alex’s un-handyman?

“Rise and shine, you two.”

Dex opened his eyes—he was still wearing his glasses—and stared at me like he’d never seen me before.

“Come on. Wake up. Time to scale the reality wall,” I told him. I only had half an hour to eat lunch and get my elephant fixed and his nap was wasting precious seconds.

“I fell asleep.” He peeled Snap off his neck and sat up.

“Really?” I rolled my eyes. On the inside. I’d been well trained not to do it on the outside. It wasn’t polite. And it had been grounds for an hour of detention at His Light Christian Academy. “Do you think you can fix this?”

“What was it?”

“It is Bernice’s elephant chair. A booster for preschool kids.” I spread the pieces out on the coffee table to give him an idea how they fit together. “And I need it back by one o’clock. If you’re not too busy.”

I couldn’t prevent the tiny bit of sarcasm that oozed into my question. Sorry, Lord!

“Did you try it out or something?” He knelt down to examine the damage and I glowered down at him. Only a guy totally unaware of the statistics on eating disorders would make a comment like that!

“It will go down in history as the place where Nicole and Natalie fought a battle over nail stickers a few minutes ago.”

“You didn’t give both of them a set of stickers?” He picked up the elephant’s trunk and studied it. I couldn’t help but notice that almost every one of his fingers was wrapped in a colorful Band-Aid, like graffiti on an overpass.

“I did give them each a set of stickers but one of them said her ponies were better than kitties because the kitties were purple and everyone knows kitties aren’t really purple….”

Dex tilted his head. He had the same expression on his face that the girls’ mom had had. “You didn’t give them the same stickers?”

“One wanted ponies, the other wanted kitties. I thought I was being nice.”

“You thought you were being nice. What you really were being was deluded. Any bank teller at the drive-up window will tell you that you give a green sucker to every kid in the minivan. It’s known as the same game.” Dex picked up the hammer he must have dropped when he fell asleep and tapped in a loose nail.

I felt the need to defend myself. “How was I supposed to know that?”

His eyebrows disappeared as they dipped behind his glasses. “Brothers and sisters?”

“I’m an only child.”

“Didn’t you babysit to pad your 401(k)?”

He looked serious. I tried not to smile. “No.”

“Can you get me the wood glue in the bucket over there?” Dex rocked back on his heels. “So how did the nail-sticker war end?”

At last I could redeem myself. “I gave them each another set.”

“No kidding.” Dex pushed a nail between his lips, but it looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“What?”

“That was probably their scheme all along.”

“There was no scheme.” I rolled my eyes again. This time on the outside. “They’re four years old! They were upset. Natalie thought she killed the elephant. I wanted them to stop crying. Case closed.” It suddenly occurred to me that those tears had stopped awfully fast when I’d handed them another set of stickers. The stickers they’d wanted earlier but I’d told them they couldn’t have.

Dex nodded the second I became enlightened. “Uhhuh.”

“They set me up.” I’d been scammed. Conned. Taken advantage of.

“I need some more nails.”

Dex had a courtside seat to view my humiliation and it was clear he was hanging out at the concession stand. This was the upside of conversing with someone who lived in an alternate universe.

While Dex pounded on the chair, I worked my way through half a box of crackers and the three pieces of string cheese I’d found in the fridge.

“You’re eating my lunch.” Dex flicked a glance at me as I inched closer to check his progress. I had less than five minutes to get back to the salon.

“I’m sorry.” I shoved the last hunk of string cheese toward him. “Here.”

“It’s all yours.” He leaned away from me and jumped to his feet.

As good as new. Except for the extra fifty nails that formed an uneven line across the back. But I wasn’t going to be picky.

“Thanks.” I wrapped my arms around the elephant and hauled it toward the door. “You saved my life.”

He shrugged. “It’s your first day. Cut yourself some slack.”

“Yeah, you, too.” I couldn’t resist.

He lifted his hands and studied the Band-Aids. “That obvious, huh?”

I mimicked him and shrugged. Then I waited for him to apologize for falling asleep on my couch and beg me to let him keep his job.

“I better get back to work. I didn’t get much done this morning.” That’s all he said.

“You probably should take it easy fighting those kickboxing kangaroos all night,” I muttered.

“Video games?” Dex’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “I never play them.”

Yeah, right.

Chapter Four

not sure I can make dinr. (Me)

whatsup (Bree)

2 wrds. mrs. kirkwood. (Me)

Recovry group at 7. Wear jeans. (Bree)

Mrs. Kirkwood walked in at four o’clock on the dot and there was no way this pleasant-looking woman could be a high-maintenance customer. She had a soft swirl of snow-white hair that reminded me of the meringue on Mom’s banana-cream pie and her cheeks were as round and smooth as a baby’s. If she hadn’t been wearing a pink cotton dress and dainty sandals, she would’ve looked like a storybook drawing of Mrs. Claus.

She hopped up in the chair and her smile was so sweet it should’ve been accompanied by a warning from the American Dental Association. Maybe Bernice had been right to schedule Natalie and Nicole in the morning, but Mrs. Kirkwood must have been a mistake….

“Aren’t you that girl Bernice gave up for adoption?”

I had turned my back for a second to organize my workspace when her sugarcoated missile struck my starboard side.

“I’m Heather Lowell.” My name was the only thing I could come up with when I spun around and found myself caught in the dead center of Mrs. Kirkwood’s lasers…oops, those were her eyes.

“I suppose that movie star is your dad? You have the same nose.” Mrs. Kirkwood patted my hand. “I’m surprised you have to work after falling into all that money.”

Suddenly I knew why Bernice had scheduled Mrs. Kirkwood as my first appointment. She must have known I’d need the entire day to recover. Lorelei Christy—my original four o’clock—was supposed to be the cheerful memory at the end of my first day. To soothe me after Florence Kirkwood—the nightmare at the beginning of it.

“Bernice and Alex aren’t supporting me…” There were several things I was suddenly tempted to do to Mrs. Kirkwood’s hair but I was pretty sure none of them would have been approved by my parents, the faculty at His Light Christian Academy or—and this is the one that saved Mrs. Kirkwood from waking up bald the next morning—God Himself.

“I saw on the news last week that just about anyone can get a degree off the Internet nowadays. But I’m sure you went to school for this. It’s never bad to have family connections, is it?” Her tinkling laugh sounded just like the bells over the door. Internal memo: Remove bells before post-traumatic stress disorder sets in.

“Shampoo chair,” I managed to gasp. Although maybe asking her to put her head into a deep sink wasn’t a very good idea at the moment.

In the six steps it took us to walk across the room, she told me it was too bad that young women today weren’t concerned with modesty and, just out of curiosity, where had I bought my skirt?

It continued downhill from there. By the time the clock on the wall assured me it was closing time, I’d gotten over my initial shock and in one of those weird out-of-body type of experiences, I was a bit awed at the way Florence Kirkwood could simultaneously smile and cut someone off at the knees. It reminded me of a handy little kitchen gadget Mom had affectionately dubbed “the chopper” because it could take a whole onion and reorganize its molecular structure in seconds. When Florence Kirkwood finally left the salon, I knew exactly what that onion felt like.

Fortunately Dex wasn’t asleep on the couch again when I slunk up the back stairs to the apartment. I could melt into a puddle without witnesses.

“Snap!” I wailed. “I need pet therapy.”

Wherever she was hiding, she wouldn’t come out. Right then I renamed her Miss Fickle. All right, if there wasn’t purring, then there could be bubbles. Or chocolate. Or both.

Except there was no longer a faucet in the tub. Someone pretending to be a handyman so he could get some extra sleep during the day had lopped it off.

I dialed Pastor Charles’s number. Dex answered the phone.

“Where is it?” I said.

There was a moment of silence. “I’m…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I counted to ten. Actually, I skipped five, six and seven because I didn’t think it would make a difference anyway. “How can you lose something that important?”

“It just disappeared. I think it planned to escape.”

“I hate to tell you this, but it’s only in your world that inanimate objects come to life. Faucets can’t plan anything.”

“Faucets? I thought you were talking about your cat.”

I sagged against the wall. “Snap? You let Snap out?”

“No. I think it snuck out when I propped open the door to clear out the…never mind. I left you a note.”

“Where? On the refrigerator?”

“The mirror. I figured you wouldn’t miss it there.”

And did I want to analyze that? I stepped over to the mirror and read the message on the piece of paper stuck to it.

“I can’t find your cat.”

“Dex, Snap isn’t my cat.” I felt the need to clarify that. “She’s Bernice’s cat and Bernice is very attached to her. Did you try to call her?” Because that works so well for me.

“Cats don’t come when you call them.”

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the busy Main Street just outside. So maybe it wasn’t like rush hour in the Twin Cities but there were a lot of pickup trucks with really big tires and Snap was an inside cat, used to being fed and pampered….

Something brushed against my leg. I shrieked and jumped three feet in the air. When I crash-landed back to earth, Snap was in the bathtub, checking out the gaping hole where my faucet had been.

“Never mind. I found her.” Relief poured through me. “She must have been hiding from you.”

Snap flicked her tail and meowed, reminding me that only one of my problems was solved. The other one was big enough for a raccoon to crawl through.

“I can’t use the tub, Dex.”

“I know. I’ll have it done tomorrow. Scout’s honor.”

You better or you won’t get your Plumbing badge. “Dex, are you sure you know, um, how to do this kind of stuff?”

“I’m trying to raise support for the mission field.”

Oh, sure. Play the missionary card!

“Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Please put the faucet first on your list….” I was talking to dead air. He’d hung up on me!

“You’d think he’d be a teensy bit more grateful, wouldn’t you, Snap?” I shed the skirt Mrs. Kirkwood had implied was too short and reached for the pair of jeans I’d slung over the hamper that morning.

One day down. Fifty-six more to go.

“My name is Heather and I’m a hairstylist.”

“That bad, huh?” Bree met me on the front steps of the Penny farmhouse and waved a cheeseburger under my nose to revive me. We plopped down on the porch swing and I didn’t take a breath until I’d worked my way through half of it.

“Someone could have warned me about Mrs. Kirkwood,” I finally mumbled.

“You wouldn’t have believed us.”

That was true. “She hinted I was after Alex’s money, questioned the amount of experience I’ve had and insisted she’d seen my shirt—the one I bought in Paris—on sale at Kmart last week.”

Bree chuckled. “Try having her for home economics two years in a row.”

“She’s a teacher? How’d you end up so normal?”

“If you call breaking out in cold sweat whenever I see a sewing machine normal.” She raised an eyebrow at me and we both burst out laughing.

It was amazing how close Bree and I had become. The day I’d met Bernice for the very first time, she’d introduced me to Bree. On our way to the Penny farm for dinner that evening, Bernice had condensed her ten-year history with Bree while I tried to form a picture of the girl who must have received the bulk of my birth mother’s attention. She loved horses. She was dating a boy named Riley Cabott. She was an only child.

Did you ever wish you knew me that well, I’d wanted to interrupt. But I didn’t. The resentment bubbling up at Bernice’s obvious love for Breanna Penny had surprised me into silence. The only thing that prevented it from flowing out and staining our conversation was when I remembered my Grandma Lowell’s words.

“This woman you’re meeting has a life, Heather. And so do you. God has given you both a new starting point…a place where your lives are going to intersect again. It’s up to you where you go from there. I would make it an opportunity for grace.”

That was one of Grandma’s favorite sayings. Make it an opportunity for grace. It wasn’t the first time I’d applied it, although I can’t say it was always easy. When Bree and I came face-to-face, I took a deep breath and searched her eyes—expecting to see them full of anger that I’d dare to show up and turn Bernice Strum’s world upside down. But all I could see in them was warmth. And welcome. That’s how accepting Bree was. She loved Bernice. She’d love me, too. It was as easy as that.

It’s strange how someone can enter your life and instantly become such a part of it you can’t imagine there was ever a time they weren’t there. Over the past year, Bree and I had kept in touch and she’d been just as excited as I was that we were both coming back to Prichett for the summer.

Bree rose to her feet and stretched like Snap after a long nap. “Are you ready for your recovery group?”

“I thought that was the cheeseburger.” There was more?

“That was only phase one.”

We tossed our plates in the dishwasher and Bree paused a moment, inspecting me with a critical eye. How could she find fault with my favorite pair of DKNY jeans and yellow high-top tennies?

She frowned. Apparently she had.

“You’ll have to wear my boots.” She dug into the hall closet and tossed her red cowboy boots at me. I’d worn them before as a fashion statement but suddenly I was beginning to get suspicious about what Bree Penny considered relaxing.

“Come on. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

And it was waiting in the barn.

I’d ridden before. Once. With Bree. Her horse, Buckshot, was an equine skyscraper, but riding him hadn’t seemed so scary when I was with someone who knew which end of a horse was which.

“Her name is Rose. Don’t ask me why, but the Cabotts like to name their horses after flowers.” Bree opened the stall and Rose stepped out quite daintily for something the size of a Neon. “Riley brought her over this afternoon. He said we can keep her here all summer for you to ride.”

Rose stretched out her neck and blew on my hand, parting the hair all the way up my arm.

“She likes you.” Bree grinned. “Here, take her out in the yard while I saddle up Buck.”

“We’re going riding now?” I think I needed more time to get used to the idea. Like two or three years.

“Sure. You’re going to love it. This is the best time of year to ride. Before the flies get too bad.” Bree gave Rose a gentle swat on the behind and she accompanied me agreeably to the door. She seemed harmless enough.

Until I was looking at how far away the ground was a few minutes later.

This can’t be any more complicated than riding a bike, I reasoned. Pull on the left rein, she goes left. Pull on the right rein, she goes right.

“Loosen your reins a bit. Sit back in the saddle. Drop your heels,” Bree instructed as soon as she saw me.

At the same time? So maybe it was a bit more difficult than riding a bike! I gave Rose’s neck a comforting pat in return for her patience.

“We’ll take the dirt road to the Cabotts’ place,” Bree said. “Riley wants to meet up with us there, if that’s okay.”

“Is Riley part of my recovery program or yours?” I teased.

“He’s a nice way to end the day.” Bree shrugged but she couldn’t quite hide her smile.

If I had to pick a word to describe Riley Cabott, it would have been steady. When it comes to guys, there are two kinds of steady—steady and boring or steady and intriguing. Riley was definitely in category two. He and Bree had come to the wedding together but I’d noticed he’d given her a lot of space. Bree was so independent I had a feeling she’d shake off any guy who made it hard for her to breathe. Riley must have known that, too, and that’s what put him in the steady and intriguing column. A guy who paid attention.

I tried not to envy the easy way they laughed together. I’d never had a serious boyfriend, but it’s not because I didn’t want one. I just want the right one. Occasionally I’d go to a movie or have lunch with one of the guys in my YAC group. YAC was an acronym for the Young Adult Class, which met for Bible study before the worship service on Sunday mornings.

I’d attended the same church all my life, so even though all the YAC guys were working full-time or were in college now, I still had a hard time moving past certain memories. Like all the years I’d been forced to listen to the obnoxious noises they loved to make. And the way they acted out Bible stories like David and Goliath by collapsing on the floor and letting red Kool-Aid dribble down their chins. Not exactly the kind of visuals conducive to a romantic date.

Maybe with the Lord’s help I could have gotten past all that, but there was something else. And that something was The List. When I was a freshman in high school, the girls in my Wednesday night Bible study went on a weekend retreat—one of those camping experiences that put a dozen teenage girls in a dorm with one bathroom. The weekends are designed to promote friendship and bonding but instead they become a battle over who gets to plug her blow-dryer into the one outlet first.

The guest speaker talked about issues like modesty and respecting yourself and we politely yawned our way through her Friday night message. Most of us at the retreat were raised in Christian homes and we’d heard so many variations of her speech over the years we could have written our own.

On Saturday morning, though, she handed out paper and pens, sat on the arm of the couch, which I’d never seen a guest speaker do, and told us to write down all the qualities we’d like to see in our future husband.

A guest speaker that was telling us to think about guys? This was something new. She didn’t say a word while we giggled over descriptions like great looking and drives a Porsche. When we finished our assignment, she told us to read through the list again and turn it into a prayer request.

A prayer request?

There was an uncomfortable silence. I looked at my list and immediately crossed off two things and added three more. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl sitting across from me crinkle hers up into a ball and start over. There were no more giggles as we tackled our lists again with the intense concentration we’d use to take our SATs.

The really strange thing was that none of us shared our revised list after that. I didn’t. I tucked it in my Bible in the Song of Songs, which was an appropriate place not only because it’s all about love and romance but also because I figured no one who accidentally grabbed my Bible to look something up would look up something there. I’d blushed my way through that particular book a few years ago and can understand why pastors don’t quote verses from it with the same enthusiasm they do from 1 Corinthians 13.

After that, I started silently comparing any guys I’d meet to The List. It got a little discouraging. It wasn’t like I was in a hurry to get married or anything, but couldn’t I meet someone who hit at least one or two out of my Top Five? Was my list unrealistic? Even though I’d changed the great looking (yes, that was me) to attractive, maybe my expectations were still too high. But I’d comforted friends who’d lowered their standards to warm and breathing just so they wouldn’t sit alone on the weekends. If God was presently molding a man to meet my specifications, all I had to do was wait patiently until He was finished. And obviously it was taking a while. But I was still convinced that waiting for Mr. Right was better than settling for Mr. Right Now.

“Still thinking about Mrs. Kirkwood?” Bree’s voice floated over her shoulder, muffled by the soft thud of Buck’s hooves against the road.

Rose had taken advantage of my momentary split with reality. When I snapped back to attention, she’d also taken a little side trip and was busy nibbling at the grass along the ditch.

“No, just decompressing after a horrible, no-good, very bad day.” I tugged on the reins and Rose ignored me. In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard her laugh.

Bree twisted around in the saddle and saw my dilemma. “Give her a little kick with your heels. She’s testing you.”

And she gets an A plus.

I obeyed and exhaled in relief when Rose trotted to catch up to Buckshot. I didn’t want Bree to think I wasn’t a natural at this, even though my tailbone was wearing away like erosion on a riverbank every time it connected with the saddle.

There was a low growl behind me and Bree whirled Buck around. “Uh-oh.”

I caught the look of concern on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I hear a motorcycle. Buck loves them. He runs to the fence whenever a Harley goes by, but Rose—”

“What about Rose?” I squeaked. The noise was getting louder and it sounded like someone was riding a chain saw.

“She might not like…” Bree lunged for the loop of rein a mere second before Rose decided she could outrun the horse-eating motorcycle. She must have figured she was close enough to home to make a break for it. So she did.

I just happened to be along for the ride.

Chapter Five

Describe your day. Use words. (From the book Real Men Write in Journals)

Woe is me. (Dex)

Rose came in first, with Buckshot a close second, but Rose and I were the ones that rearranged the Cabotts’ landscaping on the way in.

Rose downshifted from a full gallop to a sudden stop and if I hadn’t been clutching the saddle horn, I would have somersaulted over her head. Instead I poured off the saddle like a bucketful of sand as the motorcycle roared past at warp speed.

Bree jumped off Buck and ran over. “Are you all right?”

My lungs weren’t working. They pushed out short, hot gusts of air but refused to let any back in. I could feel my eyes begin to bulge.

“What a jerk!” Bree spoke the very words that were going through my mind. “I can’t believe he didn’t slow down when he saw the horses.”

Riley ran up with Dex—Dex?—right behind him. My brain couldn’t quite process why he’d be at Riley’s.

“Is she okay?” Riley looked at Bree and I was touched by his concern.

“I’m fine,” I managed to wheeze.

“Poor baby,” Riley murmured, dropping to one knee to examine Rose’s feet.

Bree rolled her eyes and I realized I wasn’t the one he was concerned about. She’d told me how attached he was to his horses so I didn’t take it personally.

“Who was that?” she asked, frowning at the veil of dust still dancing in the air.

“Nobody from around here, that’s for sure.” Now Riley looked at me. “Are you okay, Heather?”

The adrenaline had subsided and I could inhale again. “Uh-huh.”

“Shaken not stirred,” Dex said under his breath.

I looked at him suspiciously, but he didn’t crack a smile.

“Rose never bolts,” Riley fretted. “I don’t think you need to worry—”

“I’m supposed to get back on again, right?” I interrupted.

Riley and Bree exchanged approving looks, but I saw Dex frown.

“That’s if you fall off,” he pointed out.

Details, details. If I subtracted the heart-stopping terror of being held prisoner on the back of a runaway horse and focused instead on the exhilaration I’d felt when I finally got her to stop (okay, technically it was Mrs. Cabott’s gazing ball that stopped her), all in all it had been kind of fun.

And it had helped me forget about the twins. And Mrs. Kirkwood. And The List.

Bree looked at Dex and then at Riley.

“Oh, sorry. Bree, this is Dex. Dad hired him to help with the barn chores once a week,” Riley said. “Dex, this is Bree Penny. She lives down the road. And this is—”

“We met this morning.” And I have the faucet-less bathtub to prove it. “You’re working for the Cabotts, too?”

“I’m picking up a few jobs here and there.” Dex shrugged. “Whatever comes along and pays a few bucks.”

“Too?” Bree looked at me and I could tell she was wondering why this tidbit of info hadn’t come up during our conversation over supper.

“Alex hired him to do some remodeling at the apartment this summer.” I buried a sigh. “Some carpentry, painting. Faucets.”

Dex didn’t respond except to lift one shoulder and use it to nudge his glasses back to the bridge of his nose where they belonged.

“You never mentioned him…I mean that,” Bree said. There was a funny sparkle in her eyes that warned me I was going to get the third degree later. How was I supposed to describe Ian Dexter? Narcoleptic handyman by day, sword-wielding treasure hunter by night?

“You can go riding with us if you want to, Dex,” Riley offered. “We’ll probably start a bonfire when we get back and roast some hot dogs.”

I saw the color drain from Dex’s face. “No, thanks. I have to get back.”

“I could put you on Iris,” Riley said, oblivious to the fear in Dex’s eyes. “My four-year-old cousin rides her all the time.”

Riley may have been sensitive to Bree, but obviously he needed a bit of fine-tuning when it came to dealing with other guys. Or maybe it was a test to find out where Dex’s nerves were on the wimp-o-meter.

Come on, Dex, I silently urged. Here’s your next line: Iris? What is she, a Shetland pony? Don’t you have something with a few more cylinders?

He ad-libbed instead. “That’s okay. I’ll catch up with you some other time.”

Riley might have pushed the issue but Bree must have felt sorry for Dex, too, because she came to his rescue with a simple but effective maneuver. She stepped in front of Riley, pulled her rain-straight blond hair off her neck and then let it sift through her fingers, completely short-circuiting Riley’s thought process.

“It’s warm tonight, isn’t it?”

Riley nodded mutely. Oh, the power of the right haircut!

“We better get going. Daylight is aburnin’, as Grandpa Will always said,” Bree sang. She slipped her boot in the stirrup on Buckshot’s saddle and he stood like a perfect gentleman as she swung her leg over his wide back.

I wasn’t an experienced rider like Bree, so my attempt to get back in the saddle wasn’t nearly as graceful as hers. To complicate things, Rose took a step to the side whenever I put my foot in the stirrup. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Dex would put his fears aside and help me out.

Nope, chivalry was truly dead. He was already halfway to his car—an ancient Impala the color of French dressing. I shuddered. Maybe he was color-blind.

Riley was the one who noticed I was having trouble and, like a knight in shining spurs, he held Rose still while I scrambled awkwardly into the saddle. I was a little nervous but instead of taking the road again, Riley led the way to the trails that meandered through a huge stand of maples on the back of the Cabott property. When I realized the trails were too narrow and bumpy to accommodate anything with an engine, I relaxed a little.

None of us said a word as the horses nodded their way through the woods. The setting sun filtered through the branches and formed intricate stencils on the ground under our feet. I closed my eyes and trusted Rose enough to go on autopilot for a few seconds while I soaked up my surroundings, lulled by the gentle creak of leather and the warm smell of horses and summer.

I talked to God a lot throughout the day and I tried really hard to listen, too, although it wasn’t as easy. I wondered if He ever got impatient with my rambling commentaries.

Thanks, God, for getting me through my first day at the salon. And thank You for bringing me to Prichett. You knew I’d need a quiet place this summer to hear Your voice, didn’t you? Well, I’m listening. Go ahead!

From the day Mrs. Holmes, my first grade Sunday school teacher, rewarded my perfect attendance with a Bible (a cardinal-red hardcover with gold-tipped pages) to my high school graduation, when I’d received a plaque engraved with the verse from Jeremiah that promises God has a hope and a future for us, I accepted that God had a plan for me. And if He could create the entire universe in six days, eight weeks would give Him plenty of time to yank out the file marked Heather Lowell and let me in on it.

“Heather.” I heard Riley’s polite cough. “You probably should ride with your eyes open.”

“Shh,” Bree scolded. “She’s praying.”

I wasn’t surprised she knew what I was doing. Bree is a believer, too. She brought God into our conversations as naturally as she did horses. Which meant she thought about Him a lot. I’d figured out that people tend to talk about the things they think about, which was another reason I was wary of the guys in YAC. Their conversations were dominated by compare and contrast. Comparing their scores on the newest version of a video game (pick one) and contrasting their cell phone plans. The only time God seemed to get worked in was during prayer time in small groups on Sunday mornings.

When we got back from our ride, Riley dragged out some rickety lawn chairs and started a bonfire large enough to bring a 747 in safely. Bree and I ended up round and drowsy from eating all the hot dogs and marshmallows he supplied us with. Finally, we saddled up the horses again and headed back to the Penny farm. By now it was past ten and the sun had slipped away, officially off duty.

“This is more peaceful than what you’re used to in the city, right?” Bree asked as we started out. Now that the two horses were better acquainted, they walked shoulder to shoulder on the road.

“Peaceful?” She had to be kidding. The crickets and the frogs were belting out a chorus in the ditch at a volume level that rivaled my alarm clock. “Okay, maybe it’s not sirens and honking horns but—”

“Not again.” Bree groaned.

I heard it, too. And it was coming this way. The motorcycle. I felt Rose’s shoulders bunch and I knew my nerves weren’t up for another lap around the track. I slid off her back, hoping that if both our feet were on the ground she wouldn’t be tempted to go AWOL again.

A headlight barreled toward us, but just as I braced myself to become a human windsock, the bike slowed way down and stopped a few yards away.

“Hey.” The muffled Darth Vadar voice beneath the helmet was definitely male. I saw a tall shadow unfold. Now I wish I had stayed on Rose. I’d still be five foot six but at least I would have felt bigger. And I was about to get up close and personal with the guy responsible for re-creating the Kentucky Derby a few hours ago.

“Hi.” Why aren’t there any streetlights around here?

God must have heard my pitiful question because suddenly the moon rolled out from behind a cloud and lit up the area like a spotlight. It gave me courage to know He was keeping a watchful eye on us.

“You almost scared the horses to death,” I said bravely, buying some time now so I could give the police a full description later. I started at the storm trooper helmet and memorized my way down the black leather jacket to the slashed blue jeans and heavy boots.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Just before he reached me, he yanked off the helmet, releasing a ponytail that swung against his shoulder. But he didn’t look threatening anymore. Maybe it’s because he looked…well, drop-dead gorgeous. I heard Bree suck in a breath.

He smiled at us and shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m lost.”

“Who are you looking for?”

He hesitated for a second. “A cow named Junebug?”

When Marissa Maribeau stumbled into the salon the next day, I almost performed a pirouette. Bernice had told me she’d been trying to coax Marissa into her chair for years but apparently she was a hairstylist’s ultimate challenge—a self-trimmer. She had thick, waist-length hair, but the ends reminded me of frayed wire and the humidity was definitely not her friend. She must have come right from her pottery studio because she was wearing baggy khaki pants and a white T-shirt smeared with dried clay.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made an appointment. Bernice had warned me about the customers she referred to as Wild Cards. The ones who impulsively decided to get their hair colored, cut or styled and they wanted it done now.

I snapped a fresh cape open and held it up. Marissa skidded to a stop in front of me. I shook the cape and she took a wary step backward.

“My four-thirty canceled, so you can be my last customer of the day.” I gave the chair a cheerful, game show hostess spin.

“I’m not here…” Marissa glanced in the mirror and her eyes widened. She reached up and pressed on her hair. Which promptly sprang back into place like a chocolate cake just out of the oven.

She groped for the arm of the chair and sat down. Hard.

Bernice wasn’t going to believe this! The elusive Marissa Maribeau was now a Cut and Curl customer.

“You’ve got beautiful hair,” I told her. “There’s just way too much of it. Especially when you’re fine boned. You want people to see your face, not your hair.”

“I don’t like to fuss.”

“You’d have to fuss a lot less if it’s shorter.”

“How much shorter?”

Using my fingers as scissors, I made a pretend cut at her shoulder and ignored her low moan. “It’ll still be long enough for you to put in a ponytail or tie in a scarf, but this will get rid of the split ends.” All ten inches of them.

“I guess it would be all right.”

That was good enough for me. I hustled her over to the shampoo sink and grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength conditioner.

She blinked up at me. Natural brunettes like Marissa usually had brown eyes, but hers were a striking bluish-gray. Tiny pleats marked the corners, indicating she wasn’t as young as I thought she was when I’d met her at the wedding. Her skin was smooth and well moisturized, but some oil-free powder wouldn’t be a bad idea for her T-zone…

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“I know that look and you can forget about it.”

“There was no look.” I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

“I’m an artist, remember? I throw a pot and I can see exactly what I need to do to finish it. What kind of glaze. Whether to etch it with leaves or flowers or just leave it alone.” Marissa settled back comfortably in the chair. “I suppose it’s the same for you when you’ve got someone’s face in front of you.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Didn’t everyone pay attention to the shape of someone’s face, the color of their eyes and whether or not their hairstyle flattered their features?

“You can’t compare the two,” I murmured, remembering the few pieces of Marissa’s work I’d seen. She’d given Alex and Bernice a beautiful set of handmade dessert plates as a wedding gift. Each one had a delicate dandelion puff blowing across the center. I remembered wishing at the time that God had gifted me with an ability to create something like that.

“I’m not so sure. I walked in the door and right away you saw I had twice the amount of hair as a normal person. I’ve been looking at my face in a mirror for the past thirty-two years and missed it.” Marissa crossed her arms under the cape and gave me a knowing smile.

That was because she was busy creating something beautiful outside herself. I didn’t argue, though, because the customer is always right. My summer working at the Fun Fruit Factory had taught me that.

I picked up the scissors and clicked them above her head.

“Ready?”

Marissa closed her eyes. “Surprise me.”

Half an hour later, I turned the chair around to face the mirror. “All done.”

Marissa stared at her reflection. Instant panic washed over me when I saw her expression. I’d talked her into this and she hated it.

“What did you do?” Her eyes were wide with shock as they met mine in the mirror.

“I just…cut it.” How was I supposed to explain this to Bernice? I definitely wasn’t ready to go out on my own yet! “Your hair is naturally curly, but the length and the weight of it pulled most of the curl out. When you take that away, the curls find their original shape.”

I’d also used enough anti-frizz gel to straighten the hair of an eighties’ girl band, but no need to mention that. The overall effect was that Marissa’s hair didn’t dominate her face anymore. And I’d guessed that her curls, given the proper attention, were the beautiful corkscrew kind. And I was right. Normally I would have taken satisfaction in the final results, but not at the moment. Right now my stomach was tying itself into knots because I’d ruined one of Bernice’s friends.

“I can see my face.” Marissa touched her cheeks lightly with her fingertips.

“That was the plan,” I said cautiously. “Look how big your eyes look now that you aren’t hiding behind all that hair.”

Marissa’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She tried again. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

At least she didn’t pretend she loved it, like the first woman I’d practiced on at cosmetology school. She’d smiled and thanked me and then I’d heard her in the hall, frantically calling her usual stylist for an emergency appointment. The only reason I’d scraped up the courage to go back the next day was because my parents had already paid the tuition. Things had gotten better after that. Until now!

“No charge.” Taking money would only add to my guilt.

“Why not?”

“You don’t like it.”

“I just said it would take some getting used to,” Marissa corrected. She fingered the much shorter ends of her hair. “You did a great job, Heather, I’m just not sure I was ready to come out of hiding yet.”

What did that mean? I saw her glance at her reflection again, but this time she smiled slightly. “Help me out here. I don’t venture out into the real world very often. I’m supposed to give you a tip, right?”

“Make it a practical one instead. Please.”

“That’s easy. Don’t let anyone talk you into joining a committee.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got a temperamental art student named Jared Ward in my studio at this very moment who’s insisting that Denise—one of the PAC committee members—promised him housing for the summer. That’s why I stopped in, to see if you had a number I could call to get in touch with Bernice.”

I had a swift flashback featuring the motorcycle maniac I’d met the night before. The one looking for Junebug. As soon as Bree had given him directions to Lester Lee’s farm, he’d given her a polite salute and hopped back on his bike. It hadn’t occurred to us that he was the one who’d been commissioned to create a statue for the park. A statue of Lester Lee’s Holstein, Junebug.

I’d heard all about her from Bernice and over Easter break I’d seen the billboard with Junebug and Elise Penny’s picture on it. A month ago, some mysterious benefactor had paid to recover it with a cute advertisement for the local 4-H. I can’t prove anything but I think Alex was the culprit.

“I have no idea where to put him,” Marissa said with a shake of her head. Which sent her curls into motion. She touched them and smiled again. “He showed up about an hour ago. Apparently Denise told him there was a vacant apartment on Main Street this summer that he could rent. Now Denise is gone to a weeklong crafting retreat and I have no idea whose apartment she was talking about.”

As if on cue, something crashed above our heads and plaster dust sprinkled down from the ceiling like bits of confetti. I winced, half-expecting my bathtub to crash through the ceiling and take up residence next to the shampoo sink.

“Is someone in Bernice’s apartment?” Marissa asked.

“It’s my apartment now,” I told her. “But I’m pretty sure Jared Ward thinks it’s his.”

Chapter Six

Heather (find out last name) (Addition to Jared Ward’s little black book)

“You’re living in Bernice’s apartment now?” Marissa ignored the sound of the vacuum cleaner that roared to life over our heads while I sent up a silent plea that Snap wasn’t somehow involved in Dex’s latest disaster. No wonder the poor thing hid under the couch when Dex showed up.

“She and Alex offered me the house, but I thought it would be better if I was closer to the salon.” When I was nervous, my words tended to pick up speed and now they were practically rolling over the top of each other. “And it’s so cute, don’t you think? You’d pay a lot of money for an apartment like that in the Cities.”

“Uh-huh.” Marissa looked at me so thoughtfully I wondered if she’d somehow read my journal and discovered Reason Number Three. “That’s the downside to being out of the small-town loop, I suppose. If Denise assumed Bernice’s apartment would be empty, I can see her offering it to Jared. She already offered him the use of my studio.”

I was dying of curiosity here. “Jared is…he’s a student?” Ponytail? Leather jacket? Motorcycle?

Marissa must not have heard the question. “I’ve lived in Prichett for years and successfully avoided holiday open houses, sidewalk sales and the Prichett Advancement Council. I offer to help the committee with one tiny detail—choosing someone qualified to re-create Junebug the Cow in bronze—and what do I get? A homeless art student who was wolfing down the last of my granola when I left.”

But does he drive a motorcycle? That’s what I wanted to know.

“I have Jim Briggs to thank for this,” Marissa grumbled as she gave her curls one last shake and headed for the door. When she pulled it open, she paused and looked up.

“What happened to the bells?”

I sensed that Marissa was the kind of person who valued honesty. So I confessed. “Mrs. Kirkwood.”

Marissa nodded in complete understanding. “Thanks, Heather, for bringing me out of hiding. Now I have to call a certain excavator and find out if he has a guest bedroom.”

Even if I hadn’t heard the ominous sound of the vacuum cleaner upstairs, the sight of Dex’s car parked in the alley behind the salon clued me into the fact that he was still lurking around my apartment.

My feet needed a soothing cucumber rub and a long soak in the bathtub that, by now, should have a faucet. I pushed open the door and my nose immediately twitched in response to the strange smell of Chinese food mixed with…burning rubber?

“Dex?”

I heard Snap’s low, welcoming yowl from her hideout under the couch.

“You’re early.” Dex emerged from the bathroom. His hair was plastered against his head and his clothes were soaking wet. I suddenly remembered there were certain types of vacuum cleaners that sucked up both dirt and water.

“Actually, I’m late. Marissa came in just when I was about to close. It’s almost seven.”

“Seven?”

“What happened to—”

“I have to go.” Dex grabbed his bucket of tools and charged past me, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the floor.

“What do you think, Snap? Should we make a onetime contribution to his mission trip and save the apartment while there’s still time?”

At the sound of my voice, Snap crept out of hiding. I was touched by her loyalty until she rubbed her whiskers lovingly against the corner of the breakfast counter. Did I mention my nose had tricked me into believing that somewhere in the apartment was a container of sweet and sour chicken? Only it wasn’t a trick. There was a note from Dex, signing over custody of the white cardboard carton to me.

“I forgive you, Dex,” I said out loud. I grabbed a fork and shook the chopsticks to the side. They may be the authentic way to eat Chinese, but they weren’t quick enough to suit my stomach—which hadn’t had a deposit since a quick chocolate break mid-afternoon. I tap-danced my way back to the couch to find Snap already waiting there.

No way was I sharing. “I have one word for you. Indigestion. Go eat your kibbles.”

Someone knocked on the door and I figured Dex had decided to come back to confess to whatever handyman crime he’d committed. Or he’d changed his mind and wanted to share my supper. Too late for joint custody, buddy!

“All I know is there better be a faucet…” I have a bad habit of starting to talk to a person before I can actually see their face. Suddenly I was cured. Because the guy leaning casually against the railing wasn’t Dex.

“Heather, right? I’m Jared Ward.”

I’ve never been the kind of person who gets tongue-tied around strangers. Ask my parents, who claim I did my own imitation of stand-up comedy at their dinner parties before I turned three.

Come on, Heather. You could say the words “want cake” when the kids in your weekly playgroup were still blowing spit bubbles. You can do this!

“I thought I’d come by and see the apartment I’m not going to be living in this summer and meet my closest neighbor.” The teasing tone in his voice told me he had a sense of humor. The half step forward was my cue to invite him in.

“We’re neighbors?” A gold star for my advanced communication skills!

“We are now. Marissa is letting me live in the garage behind the studio.” He pointed over his shoulder and I could see his motorcycle parked next to a small concrete building at the end of the alley. He gave me a mischievous wink. “It ain’t much, but it’s home.”

“I just got off work. Things are kind of crazy at the moment.” Snap was probably finishing off my fried rice. And I still didn’t know why Dex had looked like he’d been in a dunk tank.

Jared didn’t take my not-ready-for-visitors hint. Instead, he ran a quick, appraising scan that started at my face and ended at my toes. I felt the heat from the blush that traveled along right behind it.

“You wear it well. Crazy, I mean. Not many people can pull it off.”

He had no idea. It was all in the accessories. And of course having unlimited minutes with God. I was just about to give in to a moment of weakness (that may or may not have had something to do with his eyes—which were as blue as the ocean on a travel brochure) and invite him in, when he gave me an easy smile.

“You don’t mind if I stop over when things aren’t so crazy, do you?”

“No.” That came out pathetically quick. He probably had girls fainting in a line behind him. Personality had always meant more to me than looks, but Jared Ward seemed to have been blessed with both. What was a girl to do?

“So, any idea when that will be?”

In about five minutes. As soon as I see what Dex did to the bathroom…but I couldn’t say that without sounding like one of those desperate-for-a-Friday-date girls. And today was Thursday.

“The craziness tends to last a while.” I was being truthful, not coy, and I couldn’t resist the urge to test his confidence a little. “Like last night, when I was horseback riding with a friend? Some maniac on a motorcycle broke the sound barrier as he drove past us and almost sent the horses into orbit.”

Jared’s eyes widened, making them look even bluer. Not fair. “That was you?”

I wasn’t offended. It had been dark when he’d stopped to ask directions. I tipped the brim of my invisible cowboy hat.

“I’m sorry, I’m a city boy. When I got on that flat stretch of country road I just had to open it up.” Jared tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, the kind deliberately created with worn spots and artistically placed rips. “When I saw the horses running, I thought it was on purpose. You looked like you had it under control.”

How could I remain upset after that flattering—but totally erroneous—assessment?

“At least you slowed down the second time,” I murmured. Forgiveness was an important part of my faith, after all.

“So, Friday nights aren’t crazy, are they? What do people do around here on the weekends? Count tractors?”

He wasn’t going to give up, which left me feeling flattered and flustered. “I’m not sure. I haven’t been here very long, either,” I admitted.

“Really? Let’s figure it out together. What time do you get off work tomorrow night?”

“Five.”

“Great.” He bounded down the stairs and didn’t stop until he reached his home-away-from-home at the end of the alley. I didn’t realize I was still staring until he turned and waved at me. The wave I returned was limp with embarrassment and as soon as he disappeared, I lunged back into the apartment.

I was right. The take-out carton was lying on its side under the coffee table and Snap was cheerfully cleaning the last of the fried rice out from between her toes.

I fortified myself with a Tootsie Roll from Bernice’s cache in the canister marked Tea, pretended I was a FEMA worker and bravely entered the bathroom. With my eyes closed. I turned toward the spot where my bathtub had been that morning. When I opened them, there was a faucet.

“Snap, I have a faucet. A real, live, normal-looking faucet!”

And a date for Friday night, an irritating little voice reminded me.

It’s not a date. It’s two people who are new in town getting together to see the sites. All two or three of them.

I decided to celebrate—the faucet, of course—with a long soak in the bathtub.

When my phone rang a little after ten, I hoped it was Bree. She’d warned me she’d be putting in long hours helping her dad with the farm and there’d be times she wouldn’t be able to talk to me until after dark. Which was fine with me because I did some of my best talking late at night.

“Does it work?”

“Dex?”

Silence. I took that as a yes. His question had been so uncertain I wondered what exactly had taken place while I was gone during the day.

“Yes, it works.”

“I was late for another job.”

“There aren’t that many places to work around here,” I said, daring to tease him. “Did Sally give you a job as a waitress?”

“No.”

Obviously teasing Dex was like playing tennis when no one was on the other side of the net. Still, he’d made that “shaken not stirred” comment, so maybe there was a sense of humor buried in there somewhere. If someone had the patience to look for it.

“I’m not coming over tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll be back on Monday to start in the kitchen. Did you want me to replace the cupboards or paint them?”

The image of a crowbar and splintered wood sprang into my head. “Paint them. Definitely. And thanks for the Chinese—”

He’d hung up on me again.

“Food.”

In the name of dessert, I grabbed another handful of Tootsie Rolls, tucked my Bible under my arm and curled up in the chair by the window to talk to God.

Psalms was always a good place to hear His voice. Even though David was a guy, he tried to live honestly before God. There were times he praised Him, times he questioned Him and times he asked Him for things. And times he asked God—in no uncertain terms—to squash his enemies. Which, truthfully, made me a little squeamish. But after having met Mrs. Kirkwood, I was a little more understanding. David also asked God to direct his steps, something I was doing on a daily (hourly?) basis. We had a lot in common.

My Bible fell open to Haggai again. Not because a divine hand stretched out and turned to it but because there was a folded-up piece of paper there. A receipt for sweet and sour chicken from the grocery store. Scrawled on the back of it was a question.

What does it mean that the people earned wages and put them in a purse with holes in it?

Dex had hijacked my devotional time!

Panicked, I thumbed through my Bible, looking for the extremely personal poetry, musings and notes to God that I sometimes wrote on the back of church bulletins and making sure The List, safely hidden in the Song of Songs, hadn’t been tampered with.

I breathed a sigh of relief when everything seemed to be in its rightful place. Not that Dex had been rifling through my Bible, but still…how had he known I was accidentally reading Haggai?

I skimmed through the verses and found the one he’d questioned. Why did he think I knew what the purses with holes passage meant? I wasn’t exactly a Bible scholar.

I did, however, know purses. They were kind of my specialty. And I was pretty good at finding shoes that matched, too. Encouraging him might not be a good idea, but I couldn’t resist. I grabbed a pen, took out a fresh sticky note and wrote the first thing I thought of when I imagined a rip in my Juicy bag.

You might lose something important.

I put it back in Haggai, chapter one. A booby trap to see if I’d catch a snoopy handyman.

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