around my feet as I poured myself a glass of juice. “At least one of us has time for breakfast,” I muttered, serving her a dish of fish-shaped kibbles and replenishing her water bowl.
My Bible was on the counter and, while I rummaged in the drawer for a granola bar, I leaned over to skim the page in a search for spiritual sustenance. As devotional times went, this was pretty sad. Especially when I needed God’s strength more than ever to get me through my first day at the Cut and Curl. For some reason, my Bible was open to Haggai, which consisted of a whopping two chapters, easily overlooked between the two Z’s—Zephaniah and Zechariah.
In the interest of time, I couldn’t turn to the Psalms, my devotional favorite. Haggai would have to be it. I skimmed through the verses until one jumped out at me.
Then Haggai, the Lord’s messenger, gave this message of the Lord to the people: “I am with you,” declares the Lord.
I am with you.
Just the reminder I needed. And humbling. Like going to a potluck dinner empty-handed and leaving with a full tummy. I’d offered God the crumbs of my chaotic morning and He responded with a banquet…
Ian Dexter was at the door again. I studied him without making it obvious I was studying him. Looks-wise, he fell into the same category as my brown leather purse. Not attractive enough to gush over and show off to your friends but not stash-in-the-closet unattractive, either. His short hair was dark brown; his nose was straight and narrow and clearly not up to the task of supporting those heavy glasses. His eyebrows were full but at least there were two of them. He was wearing a pair of paint-spattered blue jeans straight out of a bin from a discount store and a sweatshirt with a faded, peeling logo that I couldn’t decipher. School of Zelda perhaps?
“What did Alex hire you to do?” I didn’t want him changing things too much. As far as I was concerned, the apartment was as close to perfect as you could get.
Instead of answering my question, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. Cheat sheets. Why wasn’t I surprised?
“Paint bathroom. Replace faucet in tub and sink. Cabinets in kitchen—rip out and replace or paint. Heather’s choice.” I smiled when I read that. “Varnish floor in living room. Pantry needs shelves. Wow, you’re going to be pretty busy, Ian.”
“Everyone calls me Dex.” He refolded the list carefully and tucked it back into his pocket. “What time are you done with work?”
“Five o’clock on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Seven o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Three o’clock on Saturday. Closed on Sunday.” I recited Bernice’s standard hours. She’d told me I could close at five on Tuesdays and Thursdays, too, but I didn’t want to test anyone’s loyalty. My goal was to gain a few new clients by the time Bernice got back from Europe, not lose any of her regulars.
“I’ll make sure I’m gone by then,” Dex said. He wouldn’t look at me. Probably because I wasn’t spinning like a tornado or wielding a sword.
“The cat’s name is Snap.” I grabbed my purse and headed toward the door. “Make sure she doesn’t sneak out on you, okay?”
“Okay.” I could see him process the information. Cat. Outside. No. The tension that had cinched my stomach into a knot when I’d wondered if Alex’s handyman was going to disrupt my peaceful abode unraveled. Unless he was battling for control of the golden key, Dex would simply do the job he was hired to do. No threat. No drama. On the quiet side but seemed like an okay guy.
I sent up a quick prayer that the rest of my day would be as easy as handling Ian Dexter.
Chapter Three
What about womn? (Text message from Tony
Gillespie to Ian Dexter)
Been here 48 hrs. (Dex)
So? Has 2 b grls there. (Tony)
Havent seen any. (Dex)
All work and no play…(Tony)
Gets me to S America fastr. (Dex)
I started brewing the coffee as soon as I let myself in. Bernice had mentioned that people stopped by the Cut and Curl at various times during the day just to grab a free cup of coffee so she always kept the pot full.
There was a loud thump above my head and the light fixture on the ceiling quivered. Great. What was Dex doing up there? Painting or replacing drywall?
“Where’s Bernice?”
I heard the voice and the bells above the door jingle at the same time. It was hard to believe the petite grandmotherly woman tottering toward me was one of Bernice’s high-maintenance clients. The circles of coral powder on her cheeks matched the lipstick that followed a crooked path across her lips. I glanced at the appointment book. “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Kirkwood.”
“No. I’m Lorelei Christy. Florence has a mission circle meeting this morning so we traded appointments. Where’s Bernice?”
Traded appointments. Was this allowed?
“Bernice is on her honeymoon.” I knew Bernice had told all her clients she’d be gone for the summer but if Mrs. Christy had forgotten, I wasn’t going to argue the point. “I’m Heather Lowell and I’m helping Bernice out this summer.”
I scanned the appointment book. Sure enough, Lorelei Christy was supposed to be my four o’clock. The last shall be first and the first shall be last. According to Bernice’s system, that meant she was a “low maintenance.” Which meant that Mrs. Kirkwood, my last appointment for the day…wasn’t.
“All right.” Lorelei slipped off her lavender cardigan and draped it across the back of a chair. “I’m sure if Bernice hired you, we’ll get along just fine. Right, dear?”
As far as I was concerned, Lorelei Christy was the dear.
“What would you like me to do today, Mrs. Christy?”
“Just a shampoo and set. The yellow rollers work the best. And I like the shampoo that smells like coconut. It reminds me of the cruise Edward and I took for our fiftieth wedding anniversary.”
By the time I was finished, I wanted to adopt Mrs. Christy and add her to my grandparent collection. She’d told me all about her family, recited her recipe for rhubarb pie, quizzed me afterward, and filled me in on her plans for the summer—which involved knitting slippers for the upcoming preschool class.
“Oh, I almost forgot your tip.” Mrs. Christy turned back to the counter and reached into her purse. “Here you go.” She handed me a neatly folded dishcloth.
If I shook it, would a five-dollar bill fall out?
“I crochet them myself. If you don’t like pink I have a green one in here somewhere—”
“No. Pink is fine. I love pink.”
“You’re a sweet girl. I’ll see you next week. Four o’clock.”
That wasn’t so bad. One down, four to go.
Five minutes after
