“Why’d you take my hat?”
“You have very dark eyebrows.” I studied her eyebrows, but my attention instinctively moved lower. The woman’s eyes were unreasonably pretty, truly remarkable, and I needed to stop staring at them.
She crossed her arms again, lifting her chin and looking unhappy. “How long are you going to keep my hat?”
“When did your momma start dyeing your hair? How old were you?”
Her preposterously pretty eyes—pretty in both color and shape—lost focus for a split second. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Do you like your hair color?”
She didn’t answer, and that was answer enough.
“Would you ever consider going back to your natural color? Or something else of your choosing? Red, maybe?”
She gawked, a perplexed line between her eyebrows. “Do you think that would help?”
I understood her question perfectly and why she’d asked it. Would it help her get a husband if her hair were a different color? Yes. But not for the reason she thought.
Taking control of her appearance, well, that was the first step toward taking control of her life.
So I answered a version of her question. “Yes. I think it will make a big difference if you decide what hair color you like, and then make your hair that color.”
Her frown intensified and her eyes lowered to my chest where she stared without seeing. She appeared to be torn.
“I don’t think my momma would like that.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then stopped myself, because the question I was about to ask was a critical one. I needed to use just the right tone. I needed to employ exactly the right expression.
I shuffled a step closer, placing a hand on the counter to my left, and softened my voice. “Are you always going to do everything your mother likes?”
Her gaze lifted to mine, and it was sharp, sharper than I’d thought possible coming from Jennifer Sylvester. Gorgeous eyes, hot with anger; stern, pointed chin; silent accusations cutting me with unsaid words. All this added up to a potent mixture. The combination made the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
It was a scathing look.
And I was impressed.
But before I could compliment the impressiveness of her scathing look, she turned and said softly, “I think the lesson is over. You should leave out the back,” and exited the kitchen through the entrance to the main bakery.
I stared after her for a full minute, not because I expected her to come back, but because I was listening. I was listening for footsteps, or any sign that she was moving around the main bakery. But I heard no sound. That meant she’d fled to the front and was hiding, doing nothing, and listening for signs of my departure.
That was fine. I’d rattled her cage. I understood her desire to flee.
I checked my watch; I still had six hours until my next appointment, enough time to catch a nap. I gathered my belongings, just a red and black checkered coat and my hat, and glanced back at the kitchen. She’d left the folded piece of paper, the list of things she liked to do, on the counter. I tucked it into my pocket and left out the back door.
Our next lesson wasn’t for two weeks. Two weeks would give Jennifer plenty of time to marinate on my question and make a decision. Who was she living her life for? Herself or her mother?
***
Hank Weller was good at two things: making money and fishing.
As the owner of the local strip club, Hank frequently treated customers to fishing excursions on his big boat. I was not a customer. Nevertheless, he did take me fishing from time to time, if I asked. This was because Beau and Hank were close friends and had been since childhood. Beau was my in.
It was a nice morning for fishing. Not too cold. Water vapor rose over the lake, making the surface hazy, like it was covered in gauze. Since it was late September, the lake was surrounded on all sides by trees doing their best impressions of autumn fireworks. Birds were complaining about their breakfast, otherwise the only sound was water lazily lapping against the shore.
I liked nature just fine, yet I didn’t like to fish. But far be it from me to pass up a convenient opportunity to cross a to-do item off my to-do list.
“Long time no see, Cletus.” Catfish lifted his chin in greeting as he boarded Hank’s big boat. “What you been up to?”
Catfish, which was not his Christian name, was a captain in the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club. So not the bottom of the barrel, but not a decision-maker either. He was a good soldier.
“A bit of this and that,” I responded easily.
“How’s that sister of yours?” This question came from Drill, who was the next to board the boat.
“Easy.” Hank came to stand next to me, crossing his arms. “No talk of family. Let’s keep this nice.”