I didn’t believe it for one minute, Marla Jean.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Begley.” Marla Jean used the electric trimmers to clean up the back of Chuck Begley’s neck. He was one of her regulars, but she’d just given him a haircut the week before. Today he’d come in for the gossip and not for the grooming.
He gave her a knowing look in the mirror. “I’ve decided Bertie only runs that diner so she can spread rumors. And she was serving ’em up thick this morning, right alongside the scrambled eggs and hash browns.”
Bertie Harcourt owned the Rise-N-Shine Diner, and a lot of folks stopped by on their way to work to grab coffee and catch up on the latest juicy rumor. Apparently, Marla had made it onto this morning’s menu.
“Well, what are you gonna do, Mr. Begley? People in this town like to talk. But I appreciate the heads-up.” Marla hoped that would end the conversation, but it seemed he was just getting started.
“I mean who’s gonna believe that Abel Jacobson and Donny Joe Ledbetter were fighting over you in Lu Lu’s parking lot?” He shook his head and clicked his false teeth.
“I know, right? It’s crazy.” She brushed away the little sprinkles of loose hairs and unfastened the Velcro holding the cape in place around his neck. “I think you’re done. How does it look?”
He craned his neck this way and that, admiring himself in the mirror. “You do good work, Marla Jean. If your dad was alive, he’d be real proud.”
“Dad is alive, remember, Mr. Begley? He just retired and moved to South Padre.”
He looked momentarily confused and then stood up from the chair. “Well, that’s fine then. Tell him to send me a postcard sometime.” He handed her a twenty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. As he walked out the door, he added, “And don’t let me hear about you getting into any more bar fights, young lady.”
“I promise, Mr. Begley.”
Grabbing the broom from the back room, she started sweeping up the hair from the floor. For a Tuesday the shop had been unusually busy, and it wasn’t because she’d been voted barber of the year, either. Tongues had been wagging, and the tales of her exploits at Lu Lu’s Saturday night would soon be the stuff of legends. Chuck Begley wasn’t the first customer who’d come in, more than happy to share what he’d heard.
Most of the stories had Jake and Donny Joe coming to blows with each other over her in the parking lot. That was bad enough, but now another version was circulating that had her getting into a catfight with Irene Cornwell, of all people.
The worst part, the part that really pissed her off? According to Melvin Krebbs, when he’d stopped by to have his sideburns trimmed earlier, Irene Cornwell had kicked her butt up one side and down the other.
As if.
She could whip Irene Cornwell’s skinny little ass with one hand tied behind her back any day of the week.
“Parcheesi!” Hooter Ferguson let out a rousing yell, announcing his victory in the board game that went on almost nonstop every day at the front of her shop.
Dooley Parker slapped the board, knocking the pawns over and scattering them onto the floor. “Hell’s bells, I can’t concentrate today with all these fools comin’ and goin’. I could go for some pie, though. How ’bout it, Hoot?”
“Pie’d be good. We’ll be across the street if you need us, Marla Jean.” The two older men stood up and stretched before heading for the front door of the shop.
“Okay, guys. Don’t forget my iced tea, please.”
Hoot pointed a finger at her on his way out the door. “With extra lemon. Will do.”
Marla walked over and picked up the game pieces from the floor and then put them back on the board. The two old men had been a fixture in the shop long before she’d taken over from her dad, and if she ever sold the place they’d be included in the inventory.
When the brewery out on the highway threatened a big layoff back in the eighties, Hoot and Dooley opted for early retirement. Their wives didn’t like having them underfoot, so they’d adopted her father’s barber shop as a home away from home. Rain or shine, they’d show up every morning at eight and stay until five, playing Parcheesi, chewing the fat, and for no extra charge, dispensing their own brand of wisdom. She couldn’t imagine the place without them. Every day around this time they’d go for pie, and every day they’d bring her back an iced tea with extra lemon.
She sat down in one of the barber chairs and spun around. When she was little, she loved to come to the shop with her dad. She’d hop up in an empty chair, and he’d spin her around and ’round. Then he’d stop the chair, and she’d climb down. Dizzy and giggling, she’d stumble around until she collapsed in a heap. “Pick a direction, Marla Jean,” he’d say with a smile. “It’s important to know where you’re going in life.”
From her vantage point on the floor she’d look up at her father, so tall, so sure of himself, so dependable. Everyone in Everson liked Milton Jones. He was hardworking, clean-living, and loved his wife and kids. Folks thought highly of her mother, Bitsy, as well. She taught music at Thornton Elementary School to several generations of Everson children, and they all still sang her praises. It made Marla proud. It made Marla feel rooted and secure.
She’d worked at the barber shop off and on as she got older, but never planned to make it her career. She always imagined herself doing something artsy, like jewelry design or illustrating children’s books. But after graduating with an art degree from the University of North Texas, she moved back home to Everson, fell into helping her father again, and before she knew it she was married to Bradley and working at the barber shop full-time.
Her course in life had seemed set, and if she hadn’t found genuine fulfillment, she’d at least found comfort in that. But now, since the divorce, the very things that brought her comfort before made her feel like she might suffocate. She’d lie awake some nights and fight the urge to pick up and move away to somewhere where nobody knew her or cared about her business.
It was tempting. But it was also the coward’s way out. Sure, she’d been blindsided by Bradley’s betrayal. Completely unprepared, and in the blink of an eye, everything changed. Libby Comstock batted her trifocal-covered eyes at Bradley, and Marla Jean had yet to recover from the repercussions.
The end of a marriage was bound to make a person question herself. When did Bradley stop loving her? And what could she have done differently? Maybe nothing, but when your husband leaves you for an older woman it’s not exactly a boost to your ego.
The split with Bradley smashed up all the ideas she’d had of who she was and what her life would be—smashed them all to smithereens. The idea of selling the barber shop and taking off for parts unknown still held a certain appeal, but so far she’d resisted. As Jake put it, life happens, and all she could do was steer her way on down the road a day at a time.
Jake. His name burst inside her head like a familiar flavor, like the scent of something distant and from long ago. After he left her house on Sunday, she’d tried not to think about him at all, because thinking about Jake was like taking off on a road that led absolutely nowhere. The drive might be pretty, but it wouldn’t get you anywhere.
She’d spent her entire adolescence pining after Abel Jacobson. Not the serious kind of pining, but the he’s-so-dreamy kind of pining that young girls engage in. He’d been safe, older, and unattainable, the perfect guy to practice her budding feminine wiles on. He’d tolerated her, never made fun of her, and never pushed back when she’d tried to push him too far. With any other teenaged boy she would have been playing with fire. Jake always made sure she didn’t get burned—unless you counted that last weekend before he’d gone off to college.
But that was years ago, and she’d had nothing but casual encounters with him for most of her married life. From all accounts he’d grown into a fine upstanding citizen—one of those sturdy, steady, calm-in-the-storm kind of men. Marla knew he’d been a loyal, true friend to Lincoln since they were kids. He took good care of his widowed mother, and his home remodeling business was a success.
But he’d managed to stay unattached all these years. Oh, there were women. In that respect he could give Donny Joe a run for his money. He might be a little more discreet than Donny Joe, but it was touted as gospel by those in the know that the woman that could rope Jake into matrimony hadn’t been born. No siree, Bob. She always figured his wariness was because of his sorry excuse for a father. Talk about a terrible role model. But that was just conjecture on her part.
And now, thanks to Lincoln, the poor man had been dragged back into this mess she called her life. Her brother was going to get an earful the minute he got back into town.
“Hey, no daydreaming allowed on the job.”
She jumped when a deep male voice interrupted her runaway thoughts. The bell on the door must have jingled, because when she looked up, Jake, Mr. Dreamy himself, stood just inside the entrance with his hands on his hips. The afternoon sun poured through the plate glass window, lighting him up like the angels above were smiling at the sight of him. He was wearing work clothes, but even in blue jeans and a gray flannel shirt, Abel Jacobson was guaranteed to turn a few heads just by walking down the street.
She found the way he kept turning up lately a bit unnerving, but she manufactured an unruffled smile and plastered it on her face. “Hey, Jake. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“It’s okay, but you looked like you were a million miles away.”
“Maybe not a million, but close enough. So what’s going on? I know you’re not here for a haircut. You haven’t been in since Dad retired.”
He took a look around the place before his eyes settled back on her. “I was just passing by and thought I’d see how you were holding up.”
“Holding up?” she asked, taking a second to stick the broom back in the storage room. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know about you, but everywhere I go today we seem to be the main topic of conversation.”
“So, you thought you’d drop by and give them something else to talk about?” She occupied herself by straightening the counter in front of her station, finally looking up to meet his gaze in the mirror.
He winked. “I’m not above stirring the pot. I waved at old lady Smithfield right before I came in the door. The old girl couldn’t make it over to the diner fast enough to spread the word.”
She turned to face him. “You better watch it. I bet she could still send you to detention hall if she really wanted to.” When they’d been in high school, Fran Smithfield had taught world history, and right behind discussing the glories of the Roman Empire, sending Jake to detention had been her second greatest joy. “But seriously, I’m holding up just fine. All the talk has actually helped my business. It’s amazing how many people suddenly need a haircut.”
Jake laughed. “Well, there’s a silver lining.”
She patted the barber chair. “So, how ’bout it? Are you ready to let me have my way with you?” She’d itched to get her hands on his silky head of black hair for years and years, but he’d always wiggled out of it.
He raked his fingers through his hair and took a step backward. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
She moved closer. “What’s the matter, Jake? Don’t you trust me with your manly locks?”
“It’s nothing personal, Marla Jean, but after your dad left, I started going to Floyd Cramer over in Derbyville.”
“Derbyville? Isn’t that a long way to go for a haircut?”
“Nah, I’m over that way once or twice a month picking up supplies.”
“Likely story.”
He stuck his hands in the front pocket of his jeans and shrugged. “I have a tricky cowlick. A man can’t be too careful.”
She laughed at his newest excuse. “Okay, be that way. I can take a hint, but if you change your mind, the first haircut’s on the house.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He stood there not making any attempt to leave.
“Anything else?”
“That about covers it, I guess.” He started out the door and then stopped. “I’ll be working on my folks’ house this week, so I’m camping out there until the job’s done. If you need anything, just holler.”
“Thanks, but I’ll try to stay out of your hair. No pun intended.” She wouldn’t be surprised if the offer wasn’t another part of Linc’s plan for Jake to keep an eye on her. She still needed to set Linc straight on a few things, but that was her problem, not Jake’s.
“Okay, I’ll see you around, then.” He gave a small nod and started to leave again.
“Hey Jake?” She stopped him before he made it out the door.
“Yeah?”
“All these rumors you’ve been hearing today—did you happen to hear the one about me and Irene Cornwell having a knock-down-drag-out?”
His face split into a wide-open grin. “Sure did. That was probably my favorite.”
“Just out of curiosity, in the account you heard? Who won?”
“Hmm. Let’s see. I was buying lumber over at Binyon’s this morning, and Larry Prindle was helping me load up. After he finished describing all the scratching, and the biting, and the clothes being pulled off, he might’ve mentioned that Irene came out victorious.”
Her irritation mounted. “Good grief. He actually said we pulled each other’s clothes off?”
“Hell yeah. What good’s a catfight if clothes don’t come off?” His eyes got all twinkly, like he’d just been plugged into an outlet.
“But you told him it never happened, right?”
His grin got wider, if that was possible. She could see he was having a high old time at her expense. He shook his head. “I didn’t have the heart.”
“Jake.” She slugged him in the shoulder.
“Ow.” He rubbed his arm. “But I did tell him I had fifty dollars riding on you to win, and that I doubled my money when you laid out poor old Irene with a right hook.”
“Aw, Jake.” Oddly touched by his effort on her behalf, she grabbed him by the arm. “You said that?”
His big hand covered hers. “Sure, slugger, I figured a little damage control was in order. And besides, I’d take you in a fight over almost any woman I know.”
She beamed. “Stop with the sweet talk. You’re embarrassing me.”
The bell over the door tinkled as Hoot and Dooley came walking back into the barber shop. Dooley held out a paper to-go cup. “Here’s your tea, Marla Jean.”
She jerked her hand away from Jake’s arm, feeling like they’d been caught at something.
“Abel Jacobson, as I live and breathe,” Hoot declared as soon as he spotted him inside the door. “Son, I haven’t seen you in here in a month of Sundays.”
Jake shook hands with both men. “Hey, Hoot. How’s it going, Dooley?”
Dooley held back and didn’t say anything, but Hoot asked, “How about sitting in on a game of Parcheesi, for old time’s sake?”
Jake looked over at the old table in the front window. For a minute he looked tempted, but then he said, “Thanks for asking, but I’ve got a lot of paperwork waiting for me over at the office. Maybe I’ll stop by next week if the offer’s still open.”
Hoot clapped him on the shoulder. “Anytime, Jake. Don’t be a stranger, ya hear?”
“I won’t.” He nodded at the two men and then turned to Marla. “Later, Marla Jean.”
He walked out, and the door barely closed before Dooley turned a stern eye in her direction. “All right, girlie. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on, Dooley. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do tell? We come in and find you making goo-goo eyes at Abel Jacobson, pretty as you please, but nothing’s going on.”
“I don’t make goo-goo eyes. But if I wanted to make goo-goo eyes, I would. Why does everyone in this town have a sudden interest in my social life?”
“Leave the girl alone, Dooley.” Hoot put a hand on his arm, but Dooley ignored him.
“Me and Hoot, we aren’t everyone.”
She sighed. “Oh Dooley, of course you’re not. It’s just all the gossip flying around town has me feeling out of sorts.”
Dooley harrumphed, stalked over to the game table, and sat down. “I’ll go back to minding my own business now, but there’s one thing I’d like to know first. What in tarnation are you thinking, getting sweet on that boy again?”