Love Me If You Must

11

Tammy dried my hair, then suggested a manicure as a finishing touch. I looked down at my jagged nails. The last remaining runt had peeled off this morning when it snagged my paint-splattered sweatshirt.

I pictured myself across the table from David at the Rawlings Hotel, lifting my glass in toast to a possible future together.

I slumped at the vision.

The only lipstick I owned had to be at least three years old; I’d never had my nails done professionally; and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new outfit. Goodwill clothing had always served my renovator lifestyle just fine.

Before my thoughts degenerated into an all-out pity party, I reminded myself that David had asked me out before I cut my hair or bought new clothes. He appreciated me for qualities beyond my outer appearance. What those qualities were, I couldn’t yet fathom, but I hoped to discover that on Friday.

Still, stick-on nails with a glossy coat of polish could only enhance my inner attributes.

“A manicure sounds good,” I said.

Tammy led me to an oblong mahogany table near the window. A display rack filled with nail colors took up one end. I sat in a floral-patterned chair and lay a hand on the vinyl pad opposite me. Tammy picked up a file and went to work. White dust gathered on the black surface beneath my fingers.

I peeked at Tammy’s own perfectly manicured hands and wondered how she’d managed to dodge a wedding ring through the years.

“It sounds like you were pretty involved in high school. Do you still stay busy?” I asked, interrupting the steady ssht ssht of the file.

“Absolutely. I spend most of my time with the teens from church. You wouldn’t believe how many hurting families there are in this town. And most of them live in the pretty houses.”

I nodded. I hadn’t lived in one of the pretty houses, as Tammy put it, but I’d endured the lingering pain of my mother’s suicide. I’d probably never forgive Mom for leaving me to be raised by my grandmother.

“Your mother would be spinning in her grave if she knew you were hanging out with that girl,” Grandma would scold. “And look how you’re dressed. Nice girls don’t wear clothes like that.”

It seemed Grandma never approved of anything I liked—my friends, my music, or even the books I read. I finally figured out that life was simpler if I did things Gram’s way.

College had been my first taste of freedom. Unfortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. I remember the sound of Christmas music playing on my roommate’s stereo and the smell of homemade gingerbread cookies from a care package as I answered the phone in my dorm that day more than ten years ago. Nat King Cole’s rendition of “The Christmas Song” became a surreal requiem in light of that brief conversation.

“I’ve got some bad news, sweetie.” Grandma’s voice was filled with false bravado as she told me she was given only a few months to live. “Come on home and we’ll talk about it.”

“Which color do you prefer?”

My head snapped up at Tammy’s question, and I realized I’d been staring vacantly as she’d applied my nail tips. I looked at the myriad of opaque, gloss, and pearlescent polishes on the rack beside me.

Choices.

I excelled in a one-color scheme in all my renovation projects: off-white. When dealing with discerning homebuyers, walls the color of cream cheese frosting were the safest, least offensive choice.

But that seemed far too tame a shade for a Friday night at the Rawlings Hotel.

Tammy leaned her elbows on the vinyl pad. “What will you be wearing? That’s the easiest way to decide.”

What will I be wearing? I chewed my lip. Jeans and a tee would never do.

“What should I wear?” I asked. After all, she was the professional.

She cocked her head and poked her lips to one side. “Hmmm. How about something blue? That will show off your hair and eyes.”

The suggestion brought to mind an exterior paint chip card I’d been contemplating for accent colors at the Victorian. The shade was a rich, medium blue, like the sky over Lake Michigan on a summer morning.

I wrestled my mind back to the moment. I could probably track down some bluesy outfit at one of the local clothing stores.

“Blue it is,” I replied. “Which polish choices does that give me?”

“I hate to do this to you.” Tammy reached for a bottle filled with a pale fleshy-mauve tone. “This is Rebecca Ramsey’s favorite shade. The woman might be a witch, but she has impeccable taste.”

I tested my new nails on the mahogany tabletop, enjoying the clickety-clickety sound of the long tips. Somehow from David’s puppy-dog eyes back at the supermarket, I hadn’t figured Rebecca for a witch. And he’d seemed sincerely remorseful about the divorce papers arriving the other day. But then again, what kind of woman disappears for a year and then writes home with a divorce decree?

“Impeccable taste or not, I can’t imagine wearing her shade to dinner with David.” I searched the rows for a color I could call my own.

The sheer pressure of having to choose a single shade had me swallowing to chase down the acid climbing my esophagus. I panicked, settling on a Flamingo Pink in the second row.

Tammy opened the bottle and painted a stripe down the center of one nail. She paused, waiting for my approval. The bright fuchsia had me squinting. The color went completely against my personality, but I was open to fresh ideas.

“Perfect.” I nodded for Tammy to continue. Ten minutes later, she showed me to an overstuffed chair by the window where I could sit and let my nails harden. I folded my legs under me and relaxed.

Just as my chic new hairdo hit the fabric behind me, the hat-clad head of Martin Dietz bounced past the plate glass and up the steps of the Beauty Boutique. I sat up and gripped the armrests, forgetting the still-wet polish on my fingers.

A pinky nail popped off and landed on the floor with a tiny clink. I stared at my mutated hand. That man was nothing but bad news. If I scrunched up small enough in the chair, I could probably go unnoticed.

I sensed him as he walked in the door. The loud jangle of bells punctuated his entrance, giving clear warning of a black mood.

I hunched lower and listened for his bellowing voice.

Instead, I heard a low rumbling sound that seemed soft and sensual. “Good morning, Tammy.”

“Hi, Martin,” Tammy returned with trademark cheeriness.

I peeked around the tall back of my chair to double-check that I hadn’t been transported to an alternate universe.

Dietz was leaning across the front counter, practically gazing into Tammy’s eyes.

Where was the evil zoning official who had given me such a rude welcome to Rawlings the other morning? I watched, amazed, as he hung his coat and hat on the rack by the door, seemingly laid-back and friendly.

He rubbed his scalp and smiled. “Time for a trim.”

Tammy giggled.

I tried not to puke.

I turned back toward the window, holding my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. It seemed the local ogre had some budding attraction for the local hairdresser. That explained Dietz’s out-of-character generosity toward the church youth. I didn’t peg Tammy as the Beauty-and-the-Beast type, but I figured she could flirt with whomever she wanted as long as she wasn’t hounding after David.

I plucked at a nail tip. It seemed secure enough. Time to get back to the house and start on another upstairs bedroom. Once I got the second floor done, I’d have some furniture brought in and could at least enjoy a mattress and a fluffy pillow at bedtime. With a decent night’s sleep once in a while, I should be able to get the rest of the house done by selling season.

I fished under the chair for my pinky nail, tucked it into my jeans pocket, then walked over to the counter to pay the bill. As I approached, Dietz dropped his relaxed pose and stiffened to full height.

I squinted into his eyes, daring him to make some comment.

He glared at me, his bald head bulging with veins. I half expected him to snort and paw like a raging bull.

Tammy dove between us. “Doesn’t Tish look great, Martin?”

She touched a strand of hair that followed the line of my jaw. “With a little restyling, we’ve uncovered the real Tish Amble. And she’s beautiful.”

Tammy turned toward Dietz. “Isn’t she, Martin?”

The red drained out of his face and he cleared his throat.

“You certainly look like a different person,” he said to me.

I stood flabbergasted. It seemed Tammy had already tamed the beast. I gave a half smile, slapped enough money on the counter to cover the bill plus tip, and headed for the door.

I practically sprinted the half block to the Whistle Stop Coffee Shop, hoping to put some fast distance between Dietz and me.

The scent of fresh, hot coffee calmed my jostled nerves.

“Brrr,” I said to the bejeweled attendant inside. “Feels like January out there.”

“It’s supposed to get colder this weekend.” The girl’s diamond lip stud flashed with each word.

“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “I guess I better warm up with a café mocha. A drop of raspberry in that too, please.”

“Whipped cream today?”

“Absolutely.”

Coffee Girl blended and poured and stirred until my order was steaming in front of me on the counter.

“By the way,” she said, “I watched it.”

I looked at her, perplexed. “Watched what?”

“Casablanca. I didn’t like the ending.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Why not? Rick did the right thing.”

“I know, but he loved Ilsa. They should have been together.”

“Ilsa didn’t love Rick. She loved Victor.”

Coffee Girl leaned over the counter toward me. “Victor Lund was an idea, not a man. Rick was real. I wanted her to love Rick.”

I’d never seen such passion in the usually complacent young woman.

I shrugged. “Ilsa made a tough choice. We can only guess at the outcome.” I picked up the Styrofoam cup. “Thanks for the coffee,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out the door.

The sharp November air sliced through me like hedge cutters. Though it was only noon, dark clouds had moved overhead, creating a perpetual twilight. The first snow of the year would surely grace us by the end of the week.

I came around the rear corner of the house and headed to the garage for the snow shovel. The back porch would be the best place to lean it for the next five months or so.

One foot caught on a ridge in the blacktop driveway and I stumbled. The cup of café mocha flew out of my grasp and settled lidless on the pavement. I caught myself with outstretched palms, saving my secondhand jeans from a bigger hole in the knee. I dusted my hands off and watched the last drops of coffee drain onto the ground. In my side vision, I caught that “something’s not right” feeling. I turned toward the rear of my towering Victorian.

My eyes rested on the basement window, the one just above the spooky old cistern. A stick protruded out the bottom sash, propping open the flip-out window half an inch.

I froze to the pavement. Icy wind forced its way into my lungs. At least I wouldn’t die from lack of oxygen while I waited for my senses to come back on line.

I stood there breathless, trying to figure out how that window ended up open. Just a few nights ago, Brad had assured me everything was locked up. So when had a stick magically appeared in the sill?