Passing Through Midnight (6 page)

He cast her a yeah-right glance over his shoulder and
closed the door with a small smile on his face.

Instinctively, her gaze met Gil's over the hood of the
truck. Her heart was racing, and she had a giddy urge to giggle, much
to her dismay.

"Do you need anything?" he asked politely, his eyes as
intense and discerning as ever.

At that moment she felt very needy.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. I'm going into
town this morning. Can I bring you back anything?"

"I can't think of anything. But thanks."

"Can you recommend a good hairdresser?"

"We go to Ed's Barber Shop," Baxter said, climbing over
his brother to yell out the window. He was immediately elbowed back
into his seat.

Gil shrugged and grimaced helplessly. He wasn't really up
on his hairdressers.

"Try Trudy Holiday. She's good," Fletcher said casually,
grinning and lifting both hands in the air when his father stared at
him through the windshield.

Dorie laughed. God bless the Howletts. They were getting
to be more fun than watching old
I Love Lucy
reruns.

There were exactly two beauty salons in the greater Colby
area. Trudy's Palace of Beauty was one of them, and it was located in
the woman's garage.

"Good golly," Trudy said, turning Dorie's face from side
to side. "It's a good thing I like to be creatively challenged now and
again. Talk about your bad hair day!"

This came from a big-haired blonde who probably had Made
by Mattel stamped on her butt. Dorie gave her a closed-lip smile.

"Well, don't you worry, honey. Your last beautician was
clearly a maniac, but now you're sitting in
my
chair." She laughed and then began to snap her gum in earnest as she
scrutinized the possibilities. Dorie's heart sank through the floor.

"Maybe I should wait till it grows out a little more," she
said nervously, touching the precious short growth at her temple.

"No indeed-dee, honey," Trudy said, reaching blindly for
her shears. "I am about to turn your life around."

Around to what? She thought about making a run for it, but
froze solid. Trudy cut hair like Edward Scissorhands. Hair flew. Great
gobs of dark brown hair fell to the floor at their feet. Handful after
handful of pampered long tresses were discarded and stepped on. Dorie
closed her eyes.

"So, what do you think, honey?" Trudy asked at last,
turning her chair to face the mirror.

From a one-eyed perspective, Dorie thought she might have
been reborn. Trudy had sculptured her hair short and close to her face,
feathering the top to the left to help conceal the shorter hair on that
side. It made her eyes look huge, and highlighted cheekbones that would
have made a model weep with envy, if only…

"I have some wonderful concealer for those scars. No one
will even know they're there."

"I can't," Dorie said, half-dazed by the marvel in the
mirror. "Ah, they're still too new. Infection."

If she held her face just right, she couldn't see the
scars anyway. She looked as she always had—only with a great
new hairstyle. Why hadn't Carmella suggested short hair to her before
the accident?

"Look at this," Trudy said, pulling up her smock to show
off her scar from a gallbladder surgery. "I had this done two years
ago, and you can't hardly see it now. And yours are so thin. Not
puckered or anything. You must have had one of those plastic surgeons
working on you. Good golly, I get worse-looking marks than that just
sleeping with my face on the bedspread."

She turned her head to see her scars through Trudy's magic
mirror. Unfortunately, they were still very red against her pale skin
and very noticeable—but if she listened to the physician in
her, she knew they wouldn't stay that way. They'd fade. They were so
skillfully thin, they'd all but disappear.

So would her other scars, she realized, pushing herself
out of Trudy's enchanted chair. The superficial ones anyway. The
invisible scars, where the lacerations were deeper and the bruises more
tender, could take much longer to heal. They could, if she didn't
correct and care for them now.

"How much do people charge for miracles these days?" she
asked, smiling at Trudy.

"No charge." She held up both hands to stop any payment
coming her way.

"What? Why?"

"It just wouldn't feel right. Collecting all that money
and then charging you too."

"Collecting what money?"

"Oh, honey, you're going to get a kick out of this," Trudy
predicted. "At the Farm Bureau meeting last week they were betting on
who you'd go to see first, Doc Beesley or Denise Wayne over at the
drugstore. Well, you know me. I had to get my two cents in on that one.
So I told them that with you being a woman and all, the first person
you'd go lookin' for would be a good hairstylist. Honey, I'm going to
make enough off those silly old farmers to do your hair free until
Christmas." She paused. "Is something wrong? You look a little funny,
honey."

"No. I'm fine. And congratulations," she said, shaking her
head and chuckling despite her ailing pride. "Enjoy your winnings.
You've earned them. But you have to let me leave you a tip," she said,
placing a ten-dollar bill on the Formica worktable.

Though not one head turned her way as she drove down Range
Street, she knew
everyone
was looking at her.
Passing farmhouses, she could all but feel the eyes that tracked her
with binoculars. She scrunched lower into the soft leather seat of the
car even though she knew the "being watched" sensation was all in her
head. They didn't watch as much as they talked. From Trudy and any one
of a dozen people who might have glanced briefly in her direction, the
whole town would know how she'd spent her morning and what she looked
like before lunch.

And so, she wasn't the least bit surprised when she heard
the Howletts' truck pull into the yard and the knock at the door
shortly after that.

"We came to see your new hair," Baxter stated the moment
she opened the door.

"You did, huh? Well… Hi," she said, amused.

"Trudy said it was a
must see
,"
Fletcher said, his eyes twinkling as if they were sharing a private
secret.

"Then you
must
see it," she said,
stepping out onto the porch, drawing her sweater closed against the
nippy April wind. Gil was leaning against the rear of the truck, having
given his permission to the boys but clearly declining on his own
grounds to show any interest in her new hairdo. Unreasonably, it
irritated the hell out of her.

Turning slowly with her hands out at her sides, she asked
the boys, "So what do you think?"

"I think you're beee-uuutiful," Baxter said with feeling,
while Fletcher simply nodded with uncommitted approval. She ruffled
Baxter's red hair, satisfying a month-long yen and pleasing Baxter at
the same time.

Then she turned to Gil.

"No comment?"

She looked too happy and too beee-uuutiful for him to
simply say he liked it. Or that he liked it a lot. Or that he didn't
know how acutely a woman with big, bright, happy eyes and a radiant
smile could affect him. This was one of those women situations that
called for more than words, he decided, pushing himself away from the
truck and stepping up onto the porch.

He walked slowly around her, winking at his sons when she
couldn't see. He considered her looks carefully, touched a fluffy curl
close to her cheek. It was the first rime he'd seen her in the light
without her dark glasses. Large golden-brown Gypsy eyes were fringed
with thick dark lashes, smoldering with heat and humor, marking his
soul as an easy target.

Finally he stood nodding in front of her.

She was undeniably excited. Her hands were trembling
again, but not in fear. She could see the approval in his eyes; that he
liked the way she looked very much. He was going to compliment her any
second now, she braced herself and hoped she wouldn't blush much more
than she already had.

"How fast can you grow it out again?" he asked, enjoying
the slow droop in her expression until he laughed out loud. "I'm
teasing. It looks great," he said. Then with that subtle changing of
his voice that she found so intriguing and that he probably didn't even
realize, he added, "You look great."

"Thanks." Lord, sometimes it was so hard to look humble!
Harder still to appear cavalier to a particular man's regard.

"Matthew says you can bring your hair over to supper so he
can see it too. If you want," Baxter said, tacking on the last bit as
if it were part of the instructions.

"I'd like to, but I've already fixed something," she said,
fibbing a little about the unopened can of soup in the cupboard.

"Then come tomorrow," he piped up cheerfully.

Standing on the front porch, soaking up the admiration of
three discerning gentlemen was one thing—it could almost be
considered therapy at this point. But eating with them? In their home?
Seeing their lives? Letting them into her life?

Gil watched her hesitation, identified with it, and wanted
her to know where he stood.

"It's not going to be anything special," he said. "Just
hot brown food."

He was right. She could eat with people and not feel
obligated to them emotionally. It was going to take more than a couple
of cute kids and a handsome, sensual man to expose her feelings and
place her in a vulnerable position again. She wasn't ever going to let
anyone get close enough to hurt her again. She'd be perfectly safe with
the Howletts.

She accepted the invitation with unhidden pleasure.

"You were right, Bax," Matthew Hammicker said in a roaring
loud, but utterly gentle voice. "She is prettier than Miss Calloway.
Prettier than Miss Judy too." He took Dorie's hand into a huge paw at
the end of his arm and leaned close to tell her, "He was hopelessly in
love with his teacher till you showed up."

"And Miss Judy?" she whispered back, to get the lowdown on
all her competition.

"Sunday school. Longtime affair there."

Matthew Hammicker was one of those men with whom women
fall hopelessly in love at first sight. A huge grizzly of a man with
the disposition of a teddy bear. An open, accepting expression. A full
head of silver-streaked red hair. Without his uttering a word, you
could see through his eyes that his heart was as big as Kansas.

The golden retriever, Emily from Baxter's pictures, had
been on her heels since she stepped out of the car. Rubbing against her
bad leg for more attention, she caught Dorie off guard and had her
staggering to the side.

A strong arm looped about her instantly, gently supporting
her until she regained her balance. She was grateful for Matthew's
quick reflexes, but he wasn't in a position to have caught her, she
noticed belatedly.

"Em, you pest, get on out of here," he said, bending to
push the dog's neck and muzzle toward the door, hoping the rest of her
would follow.

Dorie turned her head and came nose-to-nose with Gil, his
hands still on her elbow and at her waist. She didn't see the concern
in his fine hazel eyes as she was completely overcome by the proximity
of his mouth to hers.

"Sorry," she murmured, surprised by her breathless-ness.

"That dog's big enough and clumsy enough to knock over a
silo," Matthew went on, closing the door on Emily's dejected-looking
face. "Come on in here and make yourself comfortable. Supper's almost
ready."

Gil's hands were still itching and tingling long after she
stepped away from them. He wanted to touch her again. For two days now
he'd had knots in his belly. Glancing over at the Averback place would
send his insides into spasms, coiling like a spring. A chilling shiver
would pass through his limbs at the thought of her. And her eyes, her
golden Gypsy eyes, haunted his dreams, day and night.

"Come see my room," Baxter insisted, taking her hand,
pulling her away from Matthew and the cheery-looking kitchen with its
warm, fresh-baked-bread smell. "I got stuff you wanna see. I'll show
you my fire engines, and I got a fish. I won it at Fletch's school, at
the carnival. Wanna see Fletch's hamsters?"

Dorie looked askance at Matthew and then Gil, both of whom
smiled and looked on helplessly.

"May as well get it over with," Matthew said
good-naturedly. "There won't be peace in the house till you do."

"They got tunnels they can run through all over his room,"
Baxter said, still speaking of the hamsters.

"Maybe she'd rather sit and talk for a while and see your
room later," Gil suggested, noting her hesitation.

How personal was a tour of someone's home? she wondered.
If she went, would she be passing over that thin line between casual
acquaintance and friend? Viewing their private spaces wouldn't cast a
different light on the simple sharing of a meal, would it?

"I'm fine," she said, and since Gil seemed as untouchable
as she wanted to be, she left the decision to him. "Do you mind?"

" 'Course not," he said, trying to be indifferent.
"Fletch, you go too. Don't let anything jump out of your room at her."

"Very funny," Fletcher said, loping toward the stairs,
taking two at a time.

"Fletch's room is a mess," Baxter explained, as they
followed him together, hand in hand. "Uncle Matt says he has two sets
of dirty dishes under his bed, but he doesn't really. One time he had a
glass of milk in there so long that it got hard and smelled like puke."

This tickled him so much that he started to laugh. He had
one of those contagious child-giggles, and she was infected
immediately. She glanced over her shoulder at Gil. He was chuckling too.

She got a whirlwind tour of Baxter's room. He dragged her
from one corner to the next showing her
everything
he owned. By nature, he played the perfect child role to Fletcher's
rebellious teenager by habitually putting everything back where he got
it. He was one those rare children of order and routine. One of those
children who found security in methods and systems and deeply dug ruts.