Chapter Three

“I still can’t believe you went to Byron Cruz’s funeral.”

I sat stiffly on a denim-covered futon in the waiting area of Sophie’s Style Station while Ruthie Turner reprimanded me.

“You went,” I said.

“I’m not carrying his grandchild.”

“That’s the point. I’m practically family.”

Her voice lowered. “But you don’t want to be part of that family.”

“No, I don’t, but that doesn’t change the facts. My baby is a Cruz whether I like it or not.”

A sarcastic snicker slipped from her lips like a stifled hiccup. “Poor kid.”

I inspected a cricket near my foot before reaching for a tattered fashion magazine. Ruthie’s comments rubbed, but I took the criticism as well as my pride would allow. After all, she stuck around when my sorority sisters flurried away like startled quail. But we were unlikely friends.

She was a grocery-store clerk desperately in need of a manicure, working nights and weekends to put herself through college, and I was the holier-than-thou daughter of the wealthiest man in Trapp. But somehow Ruthie found it in her heart to forgive my family of our sins against hers when I toppled from my imaginary pedestal and landed splat on the ground at her feet.

I’d say we were best friends, but that sounds all cute and confident and united in purpose, which we weren’t. The only thing holding us together was my upside-down life, because we both knew I would flounder without her by my side, tutoring me in lower-middle-class survival.

Flipping the pages of the magazine, I boasted, “I scrubbed the windows on my house.”

“The place is falling down, and you clean the windows.” Her tinkling laughter caught the attention of Sophie Snodgrass who paused with a lime-green roller suspended above the hunched shoulders of a tiny old woman whose name I couldn’t remember.

“Fawn Blaylock washing windows? I can’t picture it.” Sophie’s jaw worked a wad of chewing gum like one of my father’s Hereford cows, and she lifted an eyebrow at her gray-haired customer.

I answered her lightly, brushing off her insulting tone. “The view is the only thing the property has going for it.”

“That’s not true,” said Ruthie quickly. “Your place is cozy, and with your fancy things, it practically looks like something on HGTV.”

Bless Ruthie Turner.

Even though she considered my house a dump—and told me so—she would never stand by and let Sophie do the same. None of my “fancy things” had been allowed to leave my parents’ house. Instead, Ruthie and I drove to garage sales, collecting tacky household items, which her cousin delivered in his pickup truck.

I lowered my head. “Mother would just die, wouldn’t she?”

“Eew, don’t think about your mother.”

The woman in Sophie’s chair chimed in. “How’s your mama doing, Fawn? I haven’t seen her in town for weeks.”

Her question startled me, partly because I never dreamed the old woman could hear my private mutterings to Ruthie, and partly because I had no answer for her—I hadn’t seen my mother either.

A second elderly woman appeared from the corner bathroom, inching toward a hair-dryer seat with her four-pronged aluminum cane clicking along the linoleum. “That’s not quite right, Sister,” she said slowly. “We bumped into Susan Blaylock last week in the United grocery. In front of the freezer where they keep the orange sherbet.”

“Oh, that’s right. She wore high heels on a Tuesday morning.”

I lifted my magazine slightly and whispered, “Remind me of their names.”

Ruthie turned in her seat as though she were looking at something on the street. “No idea. I always call them Blue and Gray.” She winked before wandering to the air conditioner where she held her hair away from her neck so the frigid blast could dry her skin.

Blue and Gray? I frowned, wondering if she was referencing the Civil War, but when she crossed her eyes and tilted her head toward the hair-dryer seat, it all made sense. The woman in front of Sophie was gray headed, but her sister’s hair held a tinge of blue from too much dye.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

“Fawn, honey,” said Gray as Sophie pulled the last roller from her hair, “I remember when your mama married. Seems like just last week.”

Blue gave an airy whistle. “Susan and Neil Blaylock’s wedding was the most highfalutin event Trapp’s seen in fifty years.”

“Maybe sixty.” Gray scrunched her nose. “And I bet Fawn’s marriage to the Cruz boy will be even fancier.”

A sickening knot tightened my insides. Apparently, the news of my newfound independence hadn’t completed the local gossip circuit yet, though from the look on Sophie’s face, the hairdresser was bursting to share the news.

The sweet sisters continued their conversation, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Like mother, like daughter.”

“Sure enough—the apple doesn’t fall far.”

I crossed one knee over the other, which sent the futon’s uneven legs tapping back and forth like the pendulum on my parents’ grandfather clock. The words of two batty old women shouldn’t bother me. Everyone from Trapp to Tahoka had already pointed out that my unplanned pregnancy and hurried wedding plans echoed that of my parents.

Sophie peered at me with wide eyes. “Have you and Tyler pushed the big day back until after the baby comes, Fawn?”

I wanted to crawl under the futon. Or leave the building. Or move to another state. A haircut shouldn’t be so much trouble.

Ruthie huffed. “Sophie, you know good and well Fawn broke it off with Tyler Cruz.”

“Well.” Sophie’s mouth tightened into a reprimanded O. “I never heard it from Fawn herself, so who am I to say?” She busily teased a lock of Gray’s hair into a tangled frenzy.

Blue sat up straight, stretching her withered frame to peek at me over the edge of the counter. “I bet he was unfaithful to you, wasn’t he, dearie?” She seemed to imply that if Tyler would sleep with one woman out of wedlock, he would certainly sleep with others.

I lowered my gaze to the floor with an air of mournful loss. I didn’t want to lie to the old woman, but I wasn’t about to admit the real reason I backed out of my engagement. So far, the truth hadn’t come anywhere near the gossip chain—evidence of Tyler’s interest in keeping it under the radar as well. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to have started the “cheating groom” rumor. He knew as well as I did that people around here wouldn’t forgive abusive behavior nearly as readily as they overlooked promiscuity.

“That’s the natural way of men.” Gray held up a crooked finger for emphasis. “Can’t trust ’em from here to the porch and back.”

She coughed as Sophie sprayed her head with a can labeled Big Sexy Hair.

“You’re all done, sweetie.” Sophie gently shooed Gray toward the door with Blue close behind. “Ladies, I’ll see you again next week. Same time.”

I stepped around the puttering women and wondered if the hairdresser wasn’t anxious to get me captive in her chair. I muttered to Ruthie, “I’m beginning to remember why Mother always took me to the spa in Lubbock.”

“Welcome to the working class.”

I settled into Sophie’s throne as the hairdresser approached. “What can I do for you, Fawn, hon?”

A brief explanation quickly sent her to work on my split ends, and soon her gentle combing and snipping relaxed my nerves. I closed my eyes, hoping she would let me enjoy the goose bumps tickling across my scalp.

“Oh, sorry.” She yanked a tangle, and when my eyes popped open, she asked, “So you’re living up on the Cap?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But I see you’re still driving Velma Pickett’s car.”

“Yes, she loaned it to me.”

“Ansel and Velma were awful hospitable to board you while you worked things out with your folks.”

What was she getting at? Not only had I not worked things out with my folks, but my moving in with the Picketts was old news. “I talked it over with Ansel and Velma, and we agreed I should have my own place before the baby comes. That’s why I rented.”

Sophie’s response came so quickly her words tripped over mine. “Someone sat in this very chair the other day, saying they knew the reason that house has been vacant so long.”

“Sophie …” Ruthie plopped into the hair-dryer seat. “This sounds like something you shouldn’t bring up.”

“Why shouldn’t I bring it up?”

Sophie’s movements grew rapid and jerky, and I began to fear for my hairstyle. “I’ve probably heard it already,” I said.

“Oh, I doubt it. You never would have moved there.”

The lingering scent of Big Sexy Hair stung the back of my throat, but I accepted it along with Sophie’s prattle. Another layer of my sentence.

She paused in her work, clearly waiting for us to ask for details, and when we didn’t, she blurted, “The place is infested with rattlesnakes. I heard the last tenants moved to Oklahoma after they found their six-year-old daughter dead one morning … with a rattlesnake coiled on her pillow.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.” Ruthie looked as though she might slap her.

“Well …” Sophie’s bottom lip pooched. “I heard there were tons of—”

“But nobody ever died.”

The hairdresser lifted her chin. “So you admit there are snakes up there.”

“Of course. We live smack in the middle of rattlesnake country, but don’t start telling Fawn wild stories.”

“I’ve heard all the stories.” A small foot or hand or elbow poked my insides, reminding me to keep things in perspective. “But I’ve been there a week, and I haven’t seen anything except scorpions and tarantulas.”

“Did the owner mention snakes?” Sophie turned her head so quickly her bobbed hair whipped against her cheeks.

“I haven’t met him.”

She dropped her hands to her sides. “Then how did you rent the house?”

“Ansel knows him.” I adjusted the plastic cape hanging from my shoulders. “I don’t know where the man lives. Dallas or Austin, maybe.”

“Ruthie, do you know who he is?”

“No, but if he’s a friend of Uncle Ansel, he’s probably supernice.”

I ran my thumb across the stubble on my knee. I hadn’t told them everything. Sophie didn’t need to know, but I rightly should have admitted to Ruthie the sole detail that redeemed my ratty little shack on the Caprock.

It could only be called a shack, but I didn’t care. The owner offered to let me stay there free of charge the first month if I cleaned the place up, so I had no choice. The financial break could make all the difference.

Sophie stood motionless with her eyebrows bunched together in concentration. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re willing to live alone in a snake-infested dump because you’re too proud to live in Tyler Cruz’s enormous mansion?”

Ruthie slapped her palms against her thighs. “Sophie Snodgrass, Fawn’s house may not be as nice as what she grew up in, but she sure as heck doesn’t need any help from Tyler.”

“Oh, he’s that bad, is he?” Sophie chuckled, then squirted gel into her palm and began working it through my curls. “Maybe that boy wants to do right by Fawn; have you ever thought about that?”

Ruthie snorted.

“He doesn’t.” I moaned softly. “When I broke it off with him, he didn’t argue. If anything, he seemed relieved.”

“Not that it’s any of your business.” Ruthie scowled.

Sophie’s lips wadded into a tight pucker. “Well, I’d bet money you misjudged the boy. I’d wager he’s concerned for his little family.”

“Why on earth would you say that?” Ruthie’s voice rose. “He hasn’t shown an ounce of interest in Fawn or the baby in five months.”

The hairdresser wrinkled her nose at Ruthie’s reflection in the mirror, and then made eye contact with me. “I just think you’re wrong about that.” She looked pointedly out the front windows to the street. “Take a look.”

The vinyl cape acted as a barrier, trapping warm air against my torso, but when I stood and looked past the front counter, chill bumps shimmied up my arms and legs, and I felt as though I had stepped outside during a cold snap.

Tyler was just outside the Style Station, leaning against Velma’s Chevy, waiting for me.