as a receptionist, a shampoo girl and a nail technician. Everyone was booked through closing—and still they had walk-ins filling the reception area, thumbing through the magazines, waiting their turn, everyone laughing and chatting away.
Some of them wouldn’t get their hair done today. But the women didn’t mind. Molly had all the current fashion and hairstyle magazines, comfortable chairs for them to sit in, and the coffee and cold tea were free. They talked town politics and shared the latest gossip. The Cut was the place every woman in town went when she wanted a few laughs, some serious girl talk and all the freshest, juiciest dirt on who was doing what with whom.
“Heard your mom is marrying Ray,” said Donetta Brewer. She sat in one of the soft red reception chairs, thumbing through a Lucky magazine, waiting her turn in Molly’s styling chair. Donetta always seemed to know things no one else had heard yet. “Fourth of July,” she added, “out in Emigration Park.”
The date and the location were news to Molly. But she didn’t let Donetta know it. “Yep. Looks like it.”
“Ray is a sweet man,” declared Emmie Lusk, ensconced in Molly’s chair by then, getting her hair rolled for a perm. Like Donetta, Emmie kept an ear to the ground when it came to town tittle-tattle. “Good at heart, he truly is.” Which meant that, while he didn’t have a job, at least he didn’t knock Dixie around the way most of her other boyfriends had. “I’m sure they’ll both be very happy.” Emmie met Molly’s eyes in the mirror, and Emmie’s large, thin-lipped mouth stretched into the widest, most saccharine of smiles.
Molly, accustomed to talk about Dixie and her boyfriends, smiled calmly in return and went on rolling Emmie’s expertly tinted sable-brown hair. “Make an appointment for some color, Emmie, before you leave today. These roots are starting to show.”
After Dixie and Ray’s upcoming nuptials, the talk moved on to Lena and Dirk. “A whole year till the wedding. What is that about?” Emmie wondered aloud.
Donetta said, “A big wedding takes time. You know that. But did you hear her? A sit-down prime rib dinner for two hundred. Good old Heck had better sell a lot of cars.”
“And didn’t she say Lori Lee will have to come?” asked another customer.
“Hah,” said Donetta. “Can’t wait to see that—and that little boy of hers, too. Nine years old. And she was married for six. Just widowed, did you hear? Met her husband in San Antonio three years after that kid was born. I heard that when she found out she was pregnant, she wouldn’t tell who the father was. Heck yelled and threatened and snapped his belt around, but Lori Lee refused to say. The minute she finished her senior year, Heck packed her up and sent her to San Antonio. I’ll sure be intrigued to see who that little boy resembles.”
“She hardly dated,” said Emmie. “Always the quiet one. I’d guess the father is no one we know. More than likely some stranger who blew into town and then blew right back out again. We all know that does happen.” Emmie sent Molly an arch kind of look. After all, that was just what had happened to Dixie, now wasn’t it—with Molly the result?
Molly gave Emmie her very blandest smile and then tuned out the avid speculation as to the missing daddy of Lori Lee’s love child. She also tried not to think about the things Donetta and Emmie would be saying as soon as the word got out that Molly was having Tate Bravo’s baby.
It was not going to be pretty. But she figured she had at least a month or two—maybe even longer if she watched what she ate—before she started to show and the tongues started wagging. Molly was determined to fully enjoy the time left before scandal engulfed her.
Molly rolled up Emmie’s hair quickly and had just donned her plastic gloves to sponge on the solution when the bell over the door tinkled and Donetta, who’d been talking nonstop for fifteen minutes, suddenly shut up. As a matter of fact, the whole shop went pin-drop quiet. Molly glanced toward the door.
Tate.
Oh, please, God, she thought, not here. Not now…
“May I help you?” asked Molly’s receptionist Darlene, hopefully.
Tate barreled right on past Darlene and went straight to where Molly stood. He made a sick face at the smell of the solution and then announced, “Molly. I’d like a word with you. Now.”
Behind her Lucky magazine, Donetta gasped. In the mirror, Emmie’s eyes were wide and bulging, like a Pekinese just prior to a barking fit.
Calm, Molly silently commanded herself. Stay calm. Don’t let him get to you. “Well, as you can see, I am busy right now.”
“Get unbusy.”
She tried a little noble outrage. “I cannot believe you have the gall to march right into my place of business and start giving me orders, Tate Bravo.”
He grunted. “Yeah, so? I’m big in the gall department and you know it, too. You damn well should have figured this would happen last night when you walked out on me.”
Donetta and Emmie gasped in unison that time.
In the mirror, Molly saw that her face had flushed the same color as the walls and the reception chairs. She could have scratched out his eyes on the spot for that, for making her blush deep red in her own place of business. She opened her mouth to order him out and then shut it before she spoke. She could see by the granite set to his square jaw that demanding he leave would be an exercise in futility. He would still be here and she would look more ineffectual that she looked already.
So what, then? Call the chief of Tate’s Junction’s two-man police department? Yeah, right. Everyone knew Police Chief Ed Polk was in Tate Bravo’s pocket—just like most of the other officials in town.
“I’m sorry,” Molly said, tone sweet as honey, teeth clenched tight. “I can’t talk right now. I have to finish this perm. And after that, I have four cut-and-blow-dries and three weaves to do.”
“Take a break.”
“I will not.”
Tate grabbed for the bowl of solution. Molly snatched it away, almost spilling it down the back of Emmie’s neck. Emmie let out a cry of distress.
“Look.” Molly set the bowl down, stepped right up to Tate and lifted her face so they were nose to nose. “You are scaring my customers. Kindly get the hell out of my shop.”
He stepped back, stood straight to his full six foot three and folded those big, hard arms across his wide chest. “Not until we have a talk.”
“We have talked,” she reminded him in a tone so low he probably wouldn’t have heard it if everyone else in the shop hadn’t been holding their breaths and sitting absolutely still, staring with wide, eager eyes.
“We sure as hell haven’t talked enough.”
“It doesn’t matter how much we talk,” she told him. “Nothing is going to change.”
“We’ll see about that.” He glanced around. “You got an office in this place where we can have a little privacy?”
A thought came to her. She would stall him. Maybe if she stalled long enough, he would give up and go away. She tugged neatly—for emphasis—on her latex gloves and then picked up her bowl of solution again. “I can’t speak
