Marrying The Single Dad. Melinda Curtis

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СКАЧАТЬ Her snow-white curls stood stiffly. They’d been unrolled hastily and hadn’t been combed out. In a way, Mildred reminded Brit of Mrs. Claus...if Mrs. Claus wielded a walker and squinted from behind thick glasses, ready to review the unruly elf brigade. “Where are you putting the hair dryers? I don’t see any hair dryers.”

      “Ironic, Mildred.” Rose spun with the broom. “Since you don’t see.”

      Brit revised her assessment of Mildred’s hair from unrolled hastily to unrolled by feel.

      “My hearing is just fine, Rose,” Mildred said sternly, banging her walker around so she could use the built-in seat. “The hair dryers will be perfect underneath that thing on the wall.”

      Brit tried not to be upset by Mildred’s calling Keira a thing. She’d save her emotion for critics with better eyesight.

      “We aren’t getting hair dryers.” Phil rattled the paper more than usual. “This is a barbershop.”

      “Grandpa, I’m paying you rent so I have a spot to do women’s hair. I deserve half the space.” Especially since he wasn’t using any. He hadn’t cut one head of hair yesterday and based on the dust on his station, he hadn’t cut any hair in weeks.

      “The electrician I know said he’d be here Monday.” Agnes had wasted no time assessing Brit’s needs and wasn’t shy about pitching in. She poked around the supply cabinet and held up an inky black toupee with her thumb and forefinger. “Whose was this?”

      “Crandall’s.” Grandpa Phil lowered his paper and his gray eyebrows. “His wife didn’t want him buried in it and thought someone else might use it someday. Why do we need an electrician?” He’d been at Martin’s Bakery when they’d stopped by the first time and wasn’t privy to their conversation.

      “I don’t want to blow a fuse and cut the electricity to the entire block when I plug in the hair dryers,” Brit said briskly. “Do you know how much electricity a chair with a hair dryer attached uses?”

      Before Grandpa could answer, a figure appeared in the barbershop’s window.

      Joe stood outside the glass, looking just as dangerously handsome as he had a few hours before. Dark hair, dark glare, dark outlook toward others. He reached for the door just as his ice-blue gaze connected with Brit’s. His hand paused in midair.

      “A customer’s gonna get away.” Grandpa Phil lurched out of his chair and shoved the door open. “Never mind the chitchat. The barber is in.” He stepped out on the sidewalk, letting the door shut behind him.

      “It’s one of those Messina boys.” There was awe in Agnes’s voice. “I recognize the long black hair. They were a handful—too much for Tony with his other challenges.”

      “They should have gone to prison.” Rose held the broom like a staff. “Painting the water tower green for St. Patrick’s Day. Racing those motorcycles up and down Parish Hill.” She pounded the broom bristles into the floor. “Why, one of them nearly burned the gymnasium down. It’s a miracle they didn’t kill themselves, much less anyone else.”

      “I always admired how they drove those motorcycles,” Mildred said, reminding Brit that someone had once told her Mildred raced cars back in the day. “Not everyone knows how to take a corner at speed.” She adjusted her thick glasses and blinked toward the doorway. “They used to be the most handsome young men in town. How does he look?”

      “Like he could charm you out of your car keys and you wouldn’t report him for stealing,” Rose begrudgingly admitted. “Long hair. Blue jeans. Boots. All he’s missing is a leather jacket and a motorcycle.”

      “There were more like him?” Brit was glad Reggie wasn’t around to hear the wonder in her voice.

      As one, the town council ladies nodded.

      Brit needed to regain her perspective, focus on the man’s flaws. “Did any of the Messina boys have a good haircut?”

      “Nope. Unkempt troublemakers. Every one,” Agnes said with a dreamy sigh.

      “I have to admit.” Rose began sweeping, but it was more like a ballroom dance. “Messina men improve with age.”

      “Sam!” the object of the women’s infatuation called out loud enough they heard him through the glass. “I’m getting a haircut. Wait for me here.” Joe pointed to the curb.

      “Okay, Dad,” came a high-pitched prepubescent reply. A familiar figure—slight, in blue coveralls—appeared on the sidewalk. Sam plopped onto the curb, booted feet in the gutter, slouching and drinking from a Martin’s Bakery to-go cup.

      Phil ushered Joe inside and into his chair. “What are you looking for today? Trim? Buzz cut? Mohawk?”

      “Trim.” Joe spared Brit a look that was stay-away contemptuous.

      Lighten up, dude. It wasn’t as if I made away with anything this morning.

      Phil opened a drawer at his station. It took him several tries to clench a folded drape with his age-spotted fingers.

      The first inklings of apprehension worked their way through Brit. She’d noticed Phil’s tremulous hands for years, but hadn’t made the leap to what that meant in terms of him cutting hair. She couldn’t let him cut anyone’s hair. At least, not with scissors. “How about a buzz cut, Mr. Messina?”

      Phil’s head came up. “Messina?”

      “No, thanks.” Joe stared at Brit as if she’d teleported from another planet and offered him a ride on a unicorn.

      Phil was stuck on Joe’s last name. “You’re one of those Messina boys who used to live here?”

      Joe sighed, as if being recognized was the worst news of the day. “Yes.”

      “Is that...” Rose glided gracefully to the window with the broom, which took skill, considering she looked to be nearing eighty. “Is that a girl?”

      Brit’s attention turned to the child on the sidewalk. The child she’d assumed was a boy because of the shapeless, grimy coveralls and an equally grimy baseball cap. Brit had gone through a tomboy phase after the devastation of the Promotion Dance. She, of all people, should have recognized a girl beneath the trappings.

      “Hell, yeah, Sam’s a girl,” Joe said defensively. “Anyone can see that. Brittany’s sister just called her by her full name in the bakery.” But this last was said without Joe’s typical iceman tone.

      Agnes and Rose exchanged doubtful looks.

      “Wow.” Brit should have felt better that other people assumed his daughter was a boy, too, but she didn’t. The little girl had probably been called a boy more than once and she was getting to an age where those remarks would register and sting. “Poor Sam.”

      “Poor Sam.” Joe snorted like a bull about to charge. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Sam...” Agnes said evenly. “As in Samantha?”

      “Yes,” Joe ground out.

      “What’s going on?” Mildred СКАЧАТЬ