Marrying The Single Dad

CHAPTER THREE (#ub4e7d2b4-0a72-574e-8569-0b7e2634a084)

“DON’T CHANGE ANOTHER THING.”

Brit pulled her head out of the supply cabinet filled with sixty years of barbershop supplies. She stared at Grandpa Phil, at his sweet lined face and his short-sleeve, wrinkled white button-down. He looked as outdated as the decades-old box of men’s hair color in her hand.

That will not be me fifty years from now.

“I’m not changing anything.” Brit added the box of hair color to the already full trash can. “I’m cleaning.”

“Something’s changed.” Grandpa Phil’s hands shook as he held the open newspaper, but they didn’t shake with anger. His hands always trembled nowadays. “You hung an old bicycle on my wall. What will you dig out of the trash next? A pair of worn sneakers?”

“It’s called upcycling. Repurposing things that have been thrown away. People like it. I like it.” She may be a beautician by trade, but in her heart she was an artist. An artist who’d been commissioned for her work.

“People don’t like change,” Grandpa Phil said, raising his newspaper higher so she couldn’t see his face.

“Meaning you? Or your customers?” Few as they might be. “Or perhaps those retired friends of yours who like to gossip and play checkers all day at Martin’s Bakery?”

“I’ll have you know that playing checkers keeps me mentally sharp.” Phil turned a page and rattled the newspaper. “I’m sharper than the reporter who wrote this article on local crime in Cloverdale. He said they arrested a catfish.”

Brit didn’t bother explaining the social-media term that referred to taking on a false persona to scam someone. The fact that the reporter was accurate would only make Grandpa more upset. And given that Brit wasn’t exactly in a Zen mood, she didn’t need him wound up, too.

“Now, don’t change anything else or you can go live with your grandmother like Regina did.”

Brit contained a shudder. Grandmother Leona was the Captain Bligh of Harmony Valley. She ran a tight ship and just being around her made Brit want to mutiny.

When Reggie announced she needed a break from corporate America and was moving to Harmony Valley to run a B and B—Leona’s B and B—Brit had been happy for her. And truth be told, she’d also been a tad envious. Had Brit taken a running leap toward her dreams of being an artist? Nope. There’d been too many excuses—Dad’s death, bills, the price of scrap and metal—and too much doubt—she’d talked through the logistics of almost every project with Dad. Could she create her art without him?

If she wasn’t careful, she was going to be eighty and her only legacy worth noting would be Keira.

So she’d followed Reggie to Harmony Valley. She’d convinced Grandpa Phil to rent her a station in the barbershop and a bedroom in his home for figures significantly below those she paid in San Francisco. She told Reggie she was moving to the small, remote town in the easternmost corner of Sonoma County to lend her support. And she’d told herself that she’d work half days at the shop and the rest of the time on her art.

The barbershop door opened and the town council began to enter. The three elderly women had stopped by earlier to introduce themselves, and this time they’d brought gifts—cleaning supplies.

Brit sighed with relief.

“Here we go,” Phil muttered.

“We thought you could use some help cleaning.” Agnes planted a bucket and a mop near Phil. Her stature—small and unassuming—was at odds with her nature—big and confident. Her pixie-cut hair was as dull gray as Phil’s, but her eyes were sharper than Brit’s thinning shears.

Rose danced in, holding the broom like a waltz partner. She was as slender as a ballerina and her ivory chignon was just as tight as it would be if she was performing in a ballet. “Will you be coloring hair, Brittany?” Rose dipped her broom partner. “I’m thinking of becoming a redhead.”

“The world isn’t ready for Redheaded Rose.” Mildred trundled in, a spray bottle of disinfectant hooked on her walker. Her snow-white curls stood stiffly. They’d been unrolled hastily and hadn’t been combed out. In a way, Mildred reminded Brit of Mrs. Claus...if Mrs. Claus wielded a walker and squinted from behind thick glasses, ready to review the unruly elf brigade. “Where are you putting the hair dryers? I don’t see any hair dryers.”

“Ironic, Mildred.” Rose spun with the broom. “Since you don’t see.”

Brit revised her assessment of Mildred’s hair from unrolled hastily to unrolled by feel.

“My hearing is just fine, Rose,” Mildred said sternly, banging her walker around so she could use the built-in seat. “The hair dryers will be perfect underneath that thing on the wall.”

Brit tried not to be upset by Mildred’s calling Keira a thing. She’d save her emotion for critics with better eyesight.

“We aren’t getting hair dryers.” Phil rattled the paper more than usual. “This is a barbershop.”

“Grandpa, I’m paying you rent so I have a spot to do women’s hair. I deserve half the space.” Especially since he wasn’t using any. He hadn’t cut one head of hair yesterday and based on the dust on his station, he hadn’t cut any hair in weeks.

“The electrician I know said he’d be here Monday.” Agnes had wasted no time assessing Brit’s needs and wasn’t shy about pitching in. She poked around the supply cabinet and held up an inky black toupee with her thumb and forefinger. “Whose was this?”

“Crandall’s.” Grandpa Phil lowered his paper and his gray eyebrows. “His wife didn’t want him buried in it and thought someone else might use it someday. Why do we need an electrician?” He’d been at Martin’s Bakery when they’d stopped by the first time and wasn’t privy to their conversation.

“I don’t want to blow a fuse and cut the electricity to the entire block when I plug in the hair dryers,” Brit said briskly. “Do you know how much electricity a chair with a hair dryer attached uses?”

Before Grandpa could answer, a figure appeared in the barbershop’s window.

Joe stood outside the glass, looking just as dangerously handsome as he had a few hours before. Dark hair, dark glare, dark outlook toward others. He reached for the door just as his ice-blue gaze connected with Brit’s. His hand paused in midair.

“A customer’s gonna get away.” Grandpa Phil lurched out of his chair and shoved the door open. “Never mind the chitchat. The barber is in.” He stepped out on the sidewalk, letting the door shut behind him.

“It’s one of those Messina boys.” There was awe in Agnes’s voice. “I recognize the long black hair. They were a handful—too much for Tony with his other challenges.”

“They should have gone to prison.” Rose held the broom like a staff. “Painting the water tower green for St. Patrick’s Day. Racing those motorcycles up and down Parish Hill.” She pounded the broom bristles into the floor. “Why, one of them nearly burned the gymnasium down. It’s a miracle they didn’t kill themselves, much less anyone else.”

“I always admired how they drove those motorcycles,” Mildred said, reminding Brit that someone had once told her Mildred raced cars back in the day. “Not everyone knows how to take a corner at speed.” She adjusted her thick glasses and blinked toward the doorway. “They used to be the most handsome young men in town. How does he look?”

“Like he could charm you out of your car keys and you wouldn’t report him for stealing,” Rose begrudgingly admitted. “Long hair. Blue jeans. Boots. All he’s missing is a leather jacket and a motorcycle.”

“There were more like him?” Brit was glad Reggie wasn’t around to hear the wonder in her voice.

As one, the town council ladies nodded.

Brit needed to regain her perspective, focus on the man’s flaws. “Did any of the Messina boys have a good haircut?”

“Nope. Unkempt troublemakers. Every one,” Agnes said with a dreamy sigh.

“I have to admit.” Rose began sweeping, but it was more like a ballroom dance. “Messina men improve with age.”

“Sam!” the object of the women’s infatuation called out loud enough they heard him through the glass. “I’m getting a haircut. Wait for me here.” Joe pointed to the curb.

“Okay, Dad,” came a high-pitched prepubescent reply. A familiar figure—slight, in blue coveralls—appeared on the sidewalk. Sam plopped onto the curb, booted feet in the gutter, slouching and drinking from a Martin’s Bakery to-go cup.

Phil ushered Joe inside and into his chair. “What are you looking for today? Trim? Buzz cut? Mohawk?”

“Trim.” Joe spared Brit a look that was stay-away contemptuous.

Lighten up, dude. It wasn’t as if I made away with anything this morning.

Phil opened a drawer at his station. It took him several tries to clench a folded drape with his age-spotted fingers.

The first inklings of apprehension worked their way through Brit. She’d noticed Phil’s tremulous hands for years, but hadn’t made the leap to what that meant in terms of him cutting hair. She couldn’t let him cut anyone’s hair. At least, not with scissors. “How about a buzz cut, Mr. Messina?”