raised one shoulder. The Gallic shrug was one of the few truly French things she mastered in decades of living there. “You didn’t ask.”
The young woman stepped aside to give Bobby better access to Hope. “I saw your suitcase and stuff upstairs. Do you want me to run up and grab your things for you?”
A part of her stiffened at the thought of having a perfect stranger gather her personal items, but she was tired. Weary to the bone. And everything hurt. Not just her feet, but her head and her hip and a host of other body parts making their displeasure known. Bobby applied gentle pressure to the heel of her left foot, and she sucked a sharp breath through her teeth.
“You have a few pieces stuck in there.” He adjusted the light, then reached into the box and pulled out an impressive pair of tweezers. “I can try to get them out here, or we can send you over to Memorial.”
Everything inside Hope froze at the mention of the local hospital. “No.” The answer came out instinctively. “There’s no need for the hospital.”
Bobby inclined his head in acknowledgment. “This will hurt a bit, but I can get you lined out. At least for tonight.”
“Ms. Elliot?” Ms. Graham inquired, prodding her back to the previous topic. “Would you like me to get your things?”
“Yes, please,” Hope said, resigned. “I would appreciate the help.”
“No problem,” she replied, but her attention was diverted.
Hope followed the young woman’s gaze and spotted the other firefighters exiting the house. One gave a thumbs-up signal with his gloved hand, and then the two of them proceeded to the back of the truck and started stowing equipment.
Within minutes, Hope’s feet had been cleared, cleaned, and bandaged. Blue medical tape crisscrossed the tops of her feet. Ms. Graham beckoned from the doorway, and Hope started to scoot down out of the truck, only to be stopped by the young man who’d treated her.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
She started to protest, but her words transformed into a whoop as he swept her up, threw her over his shoulder in the classic rescue hold, then stalked toward the house.
“Gotta keep the dressings dry,” he admonished her. “And be sure you keep applying a topical antibiotic. God only knows what you stepped on out here.”
Hope couldn’t reply. She was too aware her ass had been hoisted into the air for the whole world to see.
“You had a recent tetanus shot?” He ducked carefully through the door and deposited her onto the small settee in the entrance with an unflattering grunt. Rolling his shoulders back as he straightened, he flashed a sheepish smile. “If you haven’t, you should get one as soon as you can.”
“I’m up to date on all my vaccines,” she assured him, pushing the ropy tendrils of her tangled hair back from her face. A beat too late, she remembered her manners. “Thank you.”
“I thought you might like to change before you go?” Ms. Graham touched the large rolling suitcase hauled out of the bedroom upstairs. “I also grabbed your makeup bag and brush out of the bathroom.”
A warm rush of gratitude flooded her. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Bobby smirked and turned to go. “Donate what you would have given the cops to us.”
Hope laughed. The sound was rusty, but she remembered this giddy feeling. Joy. Simple joy for simple things. Dry clothes. A hairbrush. Brave people who rush in where others fear to go. Strangers who dial emergency services for crazy ladies standing in the rain.
Firefighter Graham glanced out at the truck. “Go ahead and change. I’ll have to seal the house until the inspector walks the scene and says the place is safe.” She must have looked stricken, because the young woman was quick to reassure her. “Won’t take long. Probably first thing tomorrow.” One corner of her mouth crooked up. “Things are usually quiet around here. He’ll be excited to have something to do.”
Exhaling her impatience, Hope reached for the suitcase. “Oh. Good. I suppose I’ll need to call an electrician to check the wiring.”
At this, Ms. Graham shifted, looking mildly uncomfortable. Hope looked down at the suitcase. She hadn’t even opened the case, so her unmentionables weren’t showing. Puzzled, she looked at the young woman. “What?”
“My dad’s an electrician. Master electrician,” she corrected, as if repeating the distinction had been drilled into her. “I can give you his number, if you want.”
Hope blinked. Then realization struck her. This was what Bobby meant with the dig about drumming up business. “Oh.”
“He’s booked up most of the time,” the young woman continued, “but he has my two cousins working with him now. All certified. They could at least take a look and give you an estimate.”
Hope smiled as she opened the suitcase and pulled out the first pants and shirt she found. “A reference would be lovely.” Tired, dripping, and far too weary to try to come up with a pen and paper, Hope plucked the mobile phone from her bag and handed it to the girl as she rose, the dry clothes clutched in her hand. “Enter his phone number and the company name.”
The petite young woman in the big, bad firefighter clothes smiled like a girl crowned with a tiara. “Thanks. I know Dad can get you fixed up.”
Hope carefully avoided the mirror over the powder room sink. She didn’t need to see the ravages to know the result was bad. Leaving the sodden jersey and her panties in a twisted heap on the floor, she used the hand towel to dry off before dressing in black palazzo pants and a gauzy peach top meant to go with an equally frothy skirt. She dismissed the mismatched outfit without a second glance. Let the fashion police come after her. This time she was at least armed with her identification and a hairbrush.
She squeezed her eyes shut as she attempted the first pass with the brush. Her normally smooth bob was twisted into tight coils. She was halfway to a new look involving dreadlocks. Working the bristles through the snarled ends first, she managed to free the knots, and eventually made her way to her crown. At last, she screwed up her courage and chanced a look in the mirror.
Big mistake.
The wee small hours of the morning had stopped being kind to her years before. Now she was firmly in the “nothing good happens after midnight” phase of her life, and those hours were even crueler. Even in the funky light and shadows created by the flashlight perched on the vanity, her skin was sallow. The vertical lines between her brows appeared deep as trenches. Her hair, a mixture of the pewter and platinum, hung limp and straggly. Worse, when lit from below, her sleek-cut bob looked to be a plain, old gunmetal gray.
In France, going gray in her thirties made her feel chic and daring. But Americans didn’t celebrate life and love the way Europeans did. They had no appreciation for a woman of a certain age, and even less for one who had the temerity to show their age. She hadn’t been in her sister’s house for ten minutes when Diana had offered to set up an appointment with her colorist.
Once upon a time, their hair color had been nearly identical. Burnt russet, a painter friend once proclaimed. She was sure Diana’s colorist called the color something more along the lines of red number three-sixty-seven. Hope
