school graduation, when I’d received a plaque engraved with the verse from Jeremiah that promises God has a hope and a future for us, I accepted that God had a plan for me. And if He could create the entire universe in six days, eight weeks would give Him plenty of time to yank out the file marked Heather Lowell and let me in on it.
“Heather.” I heard Riley’s polite cough. “You probably should ride with your eyes open.”
“Shh,” Bree scolded. “She’s praying.”
I wasn’t surprised she knew what I was doing. Bree is a believer, too. She brought God into our conversations as naturally as she did horses. Which meant she thought about Him a lot. I’d figured out that people tend to talk about the things they think about, which was another reason I was wary of the guys in YAC. Their conversations were dominated by compare and contrast. Comparing their scores on the newest version of a video game (pick one) and contrasting their cell phone plans. The only time God seemed to get worked in was during prayer time in small groups on Sunday mornings.
When we got back from our ride, Riley dragged out some rickety lawn chairs and started a bonfire large enough to bring a 747 in safely. Bree and I ended up round and drowsy from eating all the hot dogs and marshmallows he supplied us with. Finally, we saddled up the horses again and headed back to the Penny farm. By now it was past ten and the sun had slipped away, officially off duty.
“This is more peaceful than what you’re used to in the city, right?” Bree asked as we started out. Now that the two horses were better acquainted, they walked shoulder to shoulder on the road.
“Peaceful?” She had to be kidding. The crickets and the frogs were belting out a chorus in the ditch at a volume level that rivaled my alarm clock. “Okay, maybe it’s not sirens and honking horns but—”
“Not again.” Bree groaned.
I heard it, too. And it was coming this way. The motorcycle. I felt Rose’s shoulders bunch and I knew my nerves weren’t up for another lap around the track. I slid off her back, hoping that if both our feet were on the ground she wouldn’t be tempted to go AWOL again.
A headlight barreled toward us, but just as I braced myself to become a human windsock, the bike slowed way down and stopped a few yards away.
“Hey.” The muffled Darth Vadar voice beneath the helmet was definitely male. I saw a tall shadow unfold. Now I wish I had stayed on Rose. I’d still be five foot six but at least I would have felt bigger. And I was about to get up close and personal with the guy responsible for re-creating the Kentucky Derby a few hours ago.
“Hi.” Why aren’t there any streetlights around here?
God must have heard my pitiful question because suddenly the moon rolled out from behind a cloud and lit up the area like a spotlight. It gave me courage to know He was keeping a watchful eye on us.
“You almost scared the horses to death,” I said bravely, buying some time now so I could give the police a full description later. I started at the storm trooper helmet and memorized my way down the black leather jacket to the slashed blue jeans and heavy boots.
“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Just before he reached me, he yanked off the helmet, releasing a ponytail that swung against his shoulder. But he didn’t look threatening anymore. Maybe it’s because he looked…well, drop-dead gorgeous. I heard Bree suck in a breath.
He smiled at us and shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m lost.”
“Who are you looking for?”
He hesitated for a second. “A cow named Junebug?”
When Marissa Maribeau stumbled into the salon the next day, I almost performed a pirouette. Bernice had told me she’d been trying to coax Marissa into her chair for years but apparently she was a hairstylist’s ultimate challenge—a self-trimmer. She had thick, waist-length hair, but the ends reminded me of frayed wire and the humidity was definitely not her friend. She must have come right from her pottery studio because she was wearing baggy khaki pants and a white T-shirt smeared with dried clay.
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t made an appointment. Bernice had warned me about the customers she referred to as Wild Cards. The ones who impulsively decided to get their hair colored, cut or styled and they wanted it done now.
I snapped a fresh cape open and held it up. Marissa skidded to a stop in front of me. I shook the cape and she took a wary step backward.
“My four-thirty canceled, so you can be my last customer of the day.” I gave the chair a cheerful, game show hostess spin.
“I’m not here…” Marissa glanced in the mirror and her eyes widened. She reached up and pressed on her hair. Which promptly sprang back into place like a chocolate cake just out of the oven.
She groped for the arm of the chair and sat down. Hard.
Bernice wasn’t going to believe this! The elusive Marissa Maribeau was now a Cut and Curl customer.
“You’ve got beautiful hair,” I told her. “There’s just way too much of it. Especially when you’re fine boned. You want people to see your face, not your hair.”
“I don’t like to fuss.”
“You’d have to fuss a lot less if it’s shorter.”
“How much shorter?”
Using my fingers as scissors, I made a pretend cut at her shoulder and ignored her low moan. “It’ll still be long enough for you to put in a ponytail or tie in a scarf, but this will get rid of the split ends.” All ten inches of them.
“I guess it would be all right.”
That was good enough for me. I hustled her over to the shampoo sink and grabbed a bottle of industrial-strength conditioner.
She blinked up at me. Natural brunettes like Marissa usually had brown eyes, but hers were a striking bluish-gray. Tiny pleats marked the corners, indicating she wasn’t as young as I thought she was when I’d met her at the wedding. Her skin was smooth and well moisturized, but some oil-free powder wouldn’t be a bad idea for her T-zone…
“Uh-oh.”
“What?”
“I know that look and you can forget about it.”
“There was no look.” I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.
“I’m an artist, remember? I throw a pot and I can see exactly what I need to do to finish it. What kind of glaze. Whether to etch it with leaves or flowers or just leave it alone.” Marissa settled back comfortably in the chair. “I suppose it’s the same for you when you’ve got someone’s face in front of you.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way before. Didn’t everyone pay attention to the shape of someone’s face, the color of their eyes and whether or not their hairstyle flattered their features?
“You can’t compare the two,” I murmured, remembering the few pieces of Marissa’s work I’d seen. She’d given Alex and Bernice a beautiful set of handmade dessert plates as a wedding gift. Each one had a delicate dandelion puff blowing across the center. I remembered wishing at the time that God had gifted me with an ability to create something like that.
“I’m not so sure. I walked in the door and right away you saw I had twice the amount of hair as a normal person. I’ve been looking at my face in a mirror for the past thirty-two years and missed it.” Marissa crossed her arms under the cape and gave me a knowing smile.
That was because she was busy creating something beautiful outside herself. I didn’t argue, though, because the customer is always right. My summer working at the Fun Fruit Factory had taught me that.
I picked up the scissors and clicked them above her head.
“Ready?”
Marissa closed her eyes. “Surprise me.”
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