The Paper Detective. E. Joan Sims

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      I slammed my bedroom door and threw my clothes in the corner as I stripped down for my first whole bath in two days. Steam filled the bathroom as hot water filled the tub. I doused the water liberally with some of Cassie’s flowery bath salts and sank down in the fragrance and the heat. I didn’t turn the faucet until my limbs floated off the bottom, and even then I let the water continue to trickle to keep my bath hot.

      Slowly, the hurt and anger began to disappear as my muscles relaxed. I deliberately avoided investigating the reasons for my feelings. They were better off tucked away. Out of sight, I decided, out of mind.

      I had almost fallen asleep when I heard Cassie calling at the door.

      “Mom, are you decent? Can I come in?”

      I laughed. “I am in the bathtub, you know. Never mind, come on in, pumpkin”

      The door opened, letting in a slight draft of cold air.

      “Shut the door, for Pete’s sake!”

      “Wow, Gran was right. She said you were in a mood. What happened out there in the woods with your mountain man?”

      Cassie sat on the chair by the vanity. She looked at me curiously through the mist when I didn’t answer right away.

      “It’s like a steam room in here,” she said wiping the perspiration off her upper lip. “Are you all right, Mom? I mean, he didn’t take advantage or anything, did he?”

      The tears started up again, and before I knew it I was crying as hard as I had all the way home.

      “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sobbed. “I can’t stop crying.”

      “Oh, Mom, maybe we’d better call the doctor. Danny said you hit your head pretty hard. Bert thought you had a concussion. Maybe you need x-rays or something.”

      I sniffed and blew my nose on the washcloth. “No. No doctor. I’ll be fine.” I tried smiling to reassure her, but my heart wasn’t in it. I really was a very poor actress.

      “Have you had breakfast?”

      This time my smile was genuine.

      “You sound like Mother,” I chided. “No, come to think of it, I didn’t. And I am hungry. Think maybe you could bring me some soup?”

      Cassie fixed a tray for me while I dried my hair. Two days without a comb had made the curly auburn tangles almost impossible to brush out. Once again, I made the decision to get a haircut as soon as possible.

      I looked in the mirror at my reflection. My face was flushed bright pink from my bath. Green eyes stared solemnly back at me over a ridiculously pert little nose. I swore softly as I realized once again how unfair it was for a forty-two-year-old woman to still have freckles.

      I combed furiously at a tangle, and the pain almost brought the tears back to my eyes. The scissors in the cabinet were too much of a temptation. I decided impetuously that I could probably do as good a job as anyone in Rowan Springs. Holding up a twisted, tangled lock, I took an experimental whack. It was easier than I thought. The scissors were sharp and made a whispery little sound as I continued to snip away. The sink slowly filled with hair as my head got lighter. When I had finished, I ruffled the short, tousled cap of curls that remained with satisfaction.

      “Goodbye, Raggedy Ann,” I whispered.

      Cassie loved my new haircut.

      Mother was appalled.

      “Paisley, darling, why in the world didn’t you have the self-control to wait for a decent hairstylist?”

      “Well, Mother, let’s see. Number one, I have no self-control. You’ve told me so a hundred times. And number two, there is no such animal in Rowan Springs.”

      “Gennie does a very competent job on my hair, thank you very much,” she huffed.

      “Yes, she does,” I agreed. “But that’s because you have beautiful silver-white hair, and you’ve spent years making her perfect that French twist.”

      “Well…” she smiled, pleased with the compliment.

      “Besides, I like the way I cut my hair. It feels great.”

      “If you want to look like Shirley Temple…”

      I interrupted her angrily. “I’m not Shirley Temple, and I’m not Raggedy Ann! I’m me, Paisley Sterling. And if I want to shave my head and paint it blue, I’ll do it.”

      I stormed out of the kitchen and grabbed my jacket from the hall closet. It would take a bracing walk in the snow to cool me off. I was more than a little surprised that my boiling point was so low.

      The fields and the lane were covered with snow and prohibited a walk in the woods behind the farm. Instead, I went around to the front of the house and down the driveway. Off in the distance I could see smoke from our neighbor’s chimney. Dora Nick was ninety years old. She had been a friend to the women in my family for four generations. We all loved and admired her for different reasons. Her house had been a quiet refuge during my years as a confused and rebellious adolescent. She and her porcelain doll, Phoebe, had listened patiently to my interminable tales of woe over endless cups of hot chocolate. Now, I thought, was the perfect time for another cup.

      I trudged gamely through the dirty snow and ice on the shoulder of the road until I reached her driveway. She had already had it cleared by some enterprising soul, and the going was much easier as I walked up to her house.

      Nicholas and Dora Nick had begun to build their big, beautiful home while they were still on their honeymoon. It had taken three years. Nicholas had been killed by a young German soldier before he got to carry his bride over the threshold. Stalwart and brave, Dora had moved in and made a life on the pattern they had planned, minus the six children.

      She answered the door shortly after my first knock. “Paisley, love! Come in before you freeze to death.” She looked up at me over little gold-rimmed glasses as I stepped inside her entry hall.

      “Your nose is red!” she protested. “How long have you been outside?”

      She hurried past me, her tiny figure still trim and neat, firing a barrage of questions without waiting for a single answer.

      “When did you cut your hair? I love it. I’ve been thinking about cutting mine but Nicholas wouldn’t like it. Oh, no, he loved my hair long.”

      I followed her into the cozy warmth of her parlor and shrugged off my jacket. A toasty seat on the hearth beckoned.

      “Just a minute dear while I ask Rosie to bring us some chocolate. Would you like a sweet? Of course you would. You always loved my shortcake. I’ll insist she put some on a tray.”

      She came closer and whispered loudly, “She’s been threatening to put me on a diet because she’s gaining weight! Imagine that!”

      Dora hurried out to the kitchen and left me to gaze around at a room that hadn’t changed since my childhood. Above the fireplace, a beautiful hand-carved oak mantle showcased several ornate picture frames СКАЧАТЬ