CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning, after getting up late, Bea ventured out properly into Credence for the first time—not as a means to go to Annie’s, although she was certainly going to finish up there, but as a getting-to-know-you walking tour. She actually made an effort to get dressed this time, too. If donning a bra and brushing her hair for the second day in a row could be counted as effort. She wasn’t up to surrendering her sweats yet, but they were clean and she was wearing a clean shirt and a pair of Skechers on her feet.

First stop was downstairs at Déjà Brew. “Hey, Bea,” Jenny greeted, and if she looked surprised to see the Credence newcomer out and about and not looking like a hobo, she was too polite to say so.

“Morning.” Bea smiled at the only other female she knew in Credence besides Annie. “Could I get a cappuccino to-go, please?” Bea wasn’t much for fancy coffee—she was more an herbal-tea drinker—but given Jenny had pretty much bailed her out of the pokey, it felt incumbent upon her to support Jenny’s business.

There were no other customers in the café, so they chatted while Jenny fixed the cappuccino. “You off somewhere?”

“Thought it was about time I showed my face around here.”

“Ah.” Jenny nodded and shot her a twinkly smile. “To deny reports of your disfigurement and premature death?”

“And subsequent mauling by my cats? Yes.”

Jenny laughed. “People will be relieved to see you’re alive and intact.”

“I’ll consider it an act of public service, then.” Jenny handed over the coffee and she took it. “But seriously, I just thought I’d have a look around and introduce myself to a few locals.”

She nodded approvingly. “They’d like that.”

Handing over the money, Bea smiled her thanks. “Wish me luck.”

“You won’t need it. Folks around here can be pretty nosy and in your business, but they love a new face and will be thrilled to finally meet the mystery woman. Even more so given you’ll be sticking around for a while.”

On that note, Bea took herself down the main street. It wasn’t exactly bustling. A lot of business premises were unused—either boarded up or displaying faded to-lease signs in their empty windows. But she did meet a few local people along the way, making a point of stopping to introduce herself. Jenny was right: she was greeted warmly, asked if she was okay after her public incident at Annie’s, and what her plans were.

Considering she didn’t even know the answer to that, Bea kept things suitably vague.

The health of her nonexistent cats was also a topic of much discussion. As well as advice about everything from the best spots by the lake to catch a fish to the best bench in the park to the best place to buy Halloween pumpkins. Although she wasn’t sure she was going to be here that long.

She was even invited to Wednesday night line-dancing classes at a bar called The Lumberjack. Seriously—line dancing?

It was a sign.

She’d just plucked that option out of the air when she’d been speaking to Austin, but clearly it was meant to be. She had a very good feeling about Credence. Like she and this town would go together like peanut butter and jelly.

Like perhaps she’d always been destined to spend some time here.

The best part of the morning, though, was stumbling upon Mirror Mirror. The very modern beauty salon with its feature wall of colorful mosaic tiles, Hollywood lights, and an actual glitter ball hanging from the ceiling looked out of place amid the faded desperation of the rest of the Credence main street.

The small swinging plaque on the inside of the door was just being flipped to closed when Bea decided Mirror Mirror was another sign. Her hair needed some serious work, and this place looked like just the ticket. A smiling woman with choppy dark hair, large chunks of which were dyed cotton-candy blue, opened the door.

Bea entered. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I can come back on Monday. Are you open then? Could I grab a card or maybe I could make an appointment now? As you can see, my hair is in dire need of service.”

The woman glanced at Bea’s hair and winced, leaving her in no doubt her hair had surpassed the need for service and required nothing less than a major overhaul. “I can do it for you now,” she offered in a strong Brooklyn accent.

Wow. It must be bad if it couldn’t wait two days. “Oh…but weren’t you closing?”

“It’s fine,” she said with a smile, ushering Bea over to a black swivel chair in front of a mirror. “Business isn’t exactly brisk around here, so we always value walk-ins.”

We? Just then, from a doorway behind that was covered with a heavy bead curtain, another woman appeared. They were strikingly similar—twins, Bea realized. Maybe in their late twenties? They both had long, lean builds with cute chipmunk cheeks. The only hope of telling them instantly apart was their hair. The woman who’d just appeared had a more conservative cut, all one length that brushed her shoulders, the ends kicking up in a cute little flick.

They both had truly magnificent eyebrows, thick and perfectly arched.

“Hey, welcome to the disco,” the other women greeted, also in a Brooklyn accent.

“Hi.”

“I’m Marley,” the twin who had seated her said. “That’s my sister”—she jerked her head to the side—“Molly.”

Bea smiled at them both in the mirror. “I’m Bea.”

“You’re the woman in the Witness Protection Program, right? With the cats?”

Bea laughed. Okay, the thing with the cats had to stop. “No. I can assure you stories of my past are greatly exaggerated. I’m a recovering advertising executive running away from the circus that is LA, not a criminal past, I promise. And there are no cats.”

“As recent New York escapees, we can relate,” Marley said warmly.

Bea glanced above her. “It feels very New York in here.”

“Oh yes.” Marley smiled. “The glitter ball caused quite the sensation. Now…” Turning her attention to Bea’s hair, she ploughed her fingers through it, inspecting it all over like she was searching for lice. Glancing into the mirror, she asked, “What were you thinking?”

Bea laughed at the inquiry. Was Marley asking Bea her thoughts on the cut and style she was wanting, or was she asking Bea why she’d let her hair get into such a state in the first place? She assumed it was the former, because Marley’s tone was neither incredulous nor unkind.

“Surprise me.”

Bea gulped as the words slipped from her lips and wondered if she’d been abducted by aliens and had her brain snatched. She’d never just handed herself over to a stylist before—she’d always been very particular about her hair. The fineness of it had been the bane of her grandmother’s existence, but with her guidance, Bea had figured out a style that worked. Long enough to pull back into a loose chignon at her nape for volume and counteract any flyaways. No bangs to betray just how impossibly fine and straight it was. And a light chestnut tint to give the mousy color some depth.

But when she’d quit, she’d been due for another cut and color, and since then, she’d been a hermit letting everything grow wild, and it was longer and scrappier and duller than it had ever been. She winced at herself in the mirror.

God…she was a hobbit.

Definitely time for a change. And if this was her time for being reckless, that had to include her hair as well—her grandmother be damned. “I desperately need a style and some color. My hair is ridiculously fine with a mind of its own, but I’m ready for a change.” Her gaze flicked to the blue in Marley’s hair. “Nothing too…outrageous.” Reckless could come in baby steps, right? “Just different.”

Both the women nodded, and then a conversation followed between them as they both sifted through her hair, flipping it back and forth, lifting it up and letting it fall, peering at the roots, prodding at the scalp. After about a minute without what Bea could see as any kind of plan or consensus forthcoming between them, Marley nodded a few times, then glanced at Bea’s reflection in the mirror. “Do you trust me?”

Lordy. Bea had no earthly reason to trust someone she’d just met, especially when it came to her hair, but hell, her father, who had never understood his mother’s constant wrangle with Bea’s hair, always said the only difference between a good haircut and a bad haircut was a couple of weeks. And she had enough hoodies to hide a disaster for a while. She wasn’t sure if it was the solidarity of three Credence outsiders united in their makeover quest or just that buzz of excitement glowing in the other woman’s eyes, but Bea actually did trust Marley, blue hair and all.

“Yes.”

Charlie don’t-be-too-distracting Hammersmith could go take a hike.

Marley pumped her fist and grinned. “Okay.” She whipped out a cape, and Bea was wrapped up in the blink of an eye.

“Would you like Molly to do your nails? A pedicure, maybe?” She gestured to the other chair in the salon, complete with a foot bath. “She can do that while the color takes? We also,” she said as both twins looked rather pointedly at Bea’s shaggy, unruly eyebrows, “offer a full waxing service.”

Molly nodded. “Eyebrows, underarms, legs, bikini line.” She lowered her voice a little. “Brazilians.”

Bea blinked. If a glitter ball had caused a sensation, she could only imagine what kind of stir the waxing of hoo-has had created.

“Thanks. Eyebrows and a mani-pedi will be fine.”

No way in hell she was letting Molly anywhere near her bikini area. If the twins thought her eyebrows were concerning, Bea did not want to expose them to how wild things had gotten down below.

She doubted there was enough wax in all Eastern Colorado for that job.

…

“What on earth are you looking for, Junior? You’ve been clattering around for ages.”

Austin, on his hands and knees, his head stuck inside the corner cupboard in the kitchen, grimaced at the nickname he’d had since forever. Junior. It felt particularly sharp and pointy right now. He’d gone to Denver, struck out on his own for five years to prove to everyone he wasn’t Junior anymore, but old habits died hard.

“Didn’t you used to have a fondue set?” His mother’s love for/obsession with kitchen gadgets had resulted in much clutter over the years.

“A fondue set?” The puzzlement in his mother’s voice reached right inside the cupboard.

“Yeah,” he confirmed as he eased out and rested back on his haunches.

She placed a basket full of vegetables she’d obviously just picked from the garden on the drainer of the sink. His mother had an amazing green thumb, her garden bursting with seasonal goodness all year round. As far as Margaret Cooper was concerned, there was nothing as nice as freshly picked produce.

She frowned as she proceeded to rinse away the dirt from her harvest. “The one we got as a wedding present from my cousin Avery and his wife?”

“Um…yes?” Austin didn’t really care about its provenance.

“Why do you want that old thing?”

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Beatrice. Ever since she’d kissed him yesterday, Austin had thought of little else. Of how nice it had been. Of how he’d like to do it again. Of how much he liked her.

Of her skittishness…

“I hear they’re making a comeback,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Oh, okay…”

This morning, as he’d been helping out in the yards, he’d randomly remembered the old electric fondue set his mom would bring out on occasion for a birthday party or a sleepover and figured he could give it to Beatrice. But he didn’t want his mom to know that. Just because he was living back home again didn’t mean she got to know everything going on in his life.

The fact that he still lived at home had seemed to freak Beatrice out enough without seeking his mom’s approval or counsel.

Returning her attention to the vegetables, she said, “Have you looked in the big old chest in the barn?”

Austin blinked. “No.” Why in the hell would it be in the barn?

“Last year we decided to try and declutter in here a bit.”

Austin almost smiled at that. We meant only his father. Decluttering wasn’t something his mother usually embraced. She wasn’t a hoarder exactly, but everything had a story attached to it, which made her stuff feel like friends rather than objects—the cousin-Avery anecdote being a classic example.

“We put a bunch of disused things in the chest to donate to Goodwill.”

“Okay.” Austin rose. “Thanks.”

“Lunch is in fifteen minutes,” his mother called after him as Austin strode out the door.

…

It took him ten minutes to unearth the item buried under a veritable treasure trove of gadgets that belonged in the previous century. He had no idea if the set still worked or not—he might have to do some rewiring. He could have sourced one online, but this would be quicker.

Plus, this was more personal. And everything about Beatrice felt personal.

By the time he was tromping back into the big central farmhouse kitchen via the mudroom, his father and brother and sister-in-law were already there, laughing and chatting as they set the table.

“Oh, you found it!” his mom exclaimed, obvious delight coloring her voice as Austin crossed to the bench near the sink and plugged it into the socket.

“I did,” he said as the red light glowed instantly. Yes. The pot could benefit from a bit of spit and polish, but it would do.

“And it still works, too.”

He grinned at his mother. “It does.”

“Umm, the seventies are calling, Junior, and they want their heart attack in a bowl back.”

Austin turned to face his brother, leaning his ass against the bench top. Clayton was older than him by five years. They were similar in looks, but Clay’s build took more after their mother—shorter and stockier. Austin was more his father—longer, taller, leaner.

They were close in that hard work, beer, and smack talk kinda way.

“This is true,” Jill, his sister-in-law, agreed. “Plaque forms in all vessels, if you know what I mean.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, grinning at him as she lost the battle with being serious. She and Clay had been together forever, and Jill enjoyed smack talk almost as much as they did.

“Look, Brian, I can’t believe it still works.” Margaret pressed her hand to her chest, which was a surefire sign there were tears brewing. That was his mom—ridiculously, wonderfully sentimental. “It’s forty years old.”

Brian sidled up to his wife. “So it does.” They both looked at the glowing light like it was the second coming. He pecked his wife on the forehead, then clapped Austin on the shoulder. “Ah, son, have I mentioned lately that I’m fondue you?”

Austin rolled his eyes as both Clay and Jill groaned behind them. His father loved a good pun as much as his mom loved a good cry. But she was laughing now as she snuggled into her husband’s neck. “The cheese is strong with this one.”

“Great. Thanks, Junior.” Clay sighed. “You know it’s going to be nothing but cheese over lunch.”

Their father snorted. “Nonsense. I can get through lunch without a cheese pun. Set your minds at cheese, boys.” He cracked up, followed closely by their mother. For a man who wrangled cows and ran the ranch with a firm hand, he was the ultimate dad joker.

“We should run now,” Clay said to Jill. “While we still have the will to live.”

“Do you mind if I give this away?” Austin asked when his mom’s laughter settled. He had contemplated just asking to keep it, but knowing his mother, she’d probably end up at his doorstep one day with several packets of cheese, insisting they have fondue, and then he’d have to lie to her and tell her it stopped working or something.

Given how the presence of a light alone had almost made her cry, he didn’t want to break her heart. Plus, he’d never once managed to lie to his mother and get away with it. Nobody who knew Margaret Cooper was foolish enough to take her soft, sentimental heart as the measure of her. His mom could sniff out a lie, a stashed bottle of Jack, or a girl in the barn quicker than he could blink. She should have been a cop.

“Sure,” she agreed readily, then she frowned. “To who?”

“Someone mentioned wanting one a few days ago,” he said with as much casualness as he could muster while he pushed off the bench and walked over to the bubbling pot of chili on the stovetop.

“And is this a he someone or a she someone?”

Austin’s spidey senses went on full alert—his mom’s nose was in action. “Just a work thing,” he dismissed as he inhaled the aroma of lunch.

Which was not technically a lie. He did meet Beatrice because of work. But that didn’t mean his neck wasn’t sweating as four sets of eyes bored into his back.

“Arlo doesn’t strike me as the fondue type,” she fished.

Austin almost laughed out loud at that image. The only part of a fondue set he could imagine Arlo being interested in were the potential of the skewers to be used as weapons. “Nothing to do with Arlo.”

“Someone in…Denver?”

“Nope.”

His mom had always been worried he’d take up with a city girl and she’d never see him again. Which was utterly ridiculous. Austin was home now, and that’s where he was staying. Although, technically, Beatrice was a city girl. Not that he’d taken up with her, and she was living here now—for the foreseeable future, anyway.

His mother narrowed her eyes. “Who is she, Austin Cooper?”

Well, at least she hadn’t called him Junior. “Mom.”

“Is she cheesy on the eyes?” Brian added, clearly amused.

Clay winced and Austin grimaced as they both said, “Dad,” in unison.

Jill laughed, because she’d always dug Brian’s puns. Clay, however, turned pleading eyes in Austin’s direction. “Seriously, bro. You’re a cop. Can’t you arrest him or something?”

Unconcerned at the possibility of being clapped in handcuffs, his father crossed to where Austin stood. “While it is fun watching you get grilled”—he stopped and smiled, savoring the more subtle pun for a second or two like a true craftsman—“in front of us all, you might as well spill, son. You ought to know by now that resistance is futile.”

Austin sighed and glanced at his mom. “It’s not a…thing. I’m just being…neighborly. Like you taught me.”

“Uh-huh.” She crossed her arms. “And does this neighbor have a name? Is it one of those nice girls who own the salon? Or that lovely young woman who came out and fixed my laptop?” She glanced at Brian. “We should have tipped her more.”

“No,” Austin hastily assured. The last thing the only computer fix-it person in town needed was a dozen bogus calls out to the ranch just so his mother could ingratiate herself. “She’s new to town.”

Of course, there was only one person new to town, and it took his mother about 2.5 seconds to connect the dots. “Oh.” Her eyes lit up. “The mystery woman? The one living above Déjà Brew?”

Austin sighed, resigned to his fate. What the hell, if he ever did convince Beatrice to go on a date with him, it’d be around town fast enough anyway. “Yes.”

“The one with the cats?”

He laughed. “No cats.”

“I heard she was a spy,” Jill said.

“It doesn’t really matter as long as she’s fondue you.”

Clay groaned. “Jeez, Dad, enough already.”

“What’s her name?” Margaret asked.

“Beatrice.” Even saying her name caused a little hitch in Austin’s breath.

“Like the princess?”

“Well, yes.” Austin blinked at his mother’s choice of words. “Like the princess.”

She took a few excited steps toward him. “What else? Where’s she from? What does she do? What does she look like?”

Apart from not being any of his mother’s business, Austin didn’t think telling her Beatrice was fond of sweats, day-of-the-week underpants, beer for breakfast, and not brushing her hair would endear the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about. And as the only other woman in his life who mattered, he really wanted his mom to like Beatrice.

Because he really, really liked Beatrice.

Maybe it would go somewhere, maybe it wouldn’t. All he knew was he couldn’t wait to see her again and give her this old fondue set. One step at a time. They had time, after all. She was sticking around for a while.

“Mom…it’s a fondue set.”

“Okay, okay.” His mother held up her hands. “I get it. You’ve only just met and you’re taking it easy—”

Brian snorted out a laugh, interrupting. “Taking it cheesy,” he uttered delightfully under his breath.

Unfazed by the continued puns, his mom plowed on. “We’ll speak of it no more. But if it becomes more than a fondue set, I hope you’ll bring her out here to meet us.”

“It’s a fondue set,” he repeated.

His mother nodded, but her eyes sparkled mischievously, and Austin could tell she was tickled pink by the news. “Of course.” She tapped her nose twice and winked. “Now”—she undid her apron—“let’s eat lunch, shall we?”

“Hallelujah,” his dad said. “Praise Cheeses.”