A Husband's Watch. Karen TempletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
well.
“Nicky, sugar…” Faith leaned across the cart to untangle the baby’s sticky fingers from his sister’s fine hair, half of which remained in the chubby fist when Faith finally separated the two. By this time, Sierra was howling, not good for the nerves of someone who’d been on the breaking point for several days already.
“Nicky, no! It’s not funny!” Faith peeled a half-dozen silky blond hairs out of his clenched fist. “You hurt your sister! You can’t do that!”
At her stern tone, the baby’s sunshiny smile vanished, to be replaced by a quivering pout that rapidly gave way to a full-out wail.
Faith shut her eyes and prayed for patience. And that she wouldn’t break down into sobs along with her children, right here in front of God and everybody.
“Faith! Yoo-hoo, Faith!”
Not today, Lord, she thought, her eyes still closed. Please?
Too late.
Plastering a smile to her face, she turned in time to see Luralene Hastings huffing and puffing up the aisle, her white, crepe-soled slip-ons squeaking like mice against the beige-and-white-tiled floor. “What’s the big idea, missy, canceling your hair appointment!” said the skinny redhead, oblivious to the cacophonic bellowing coming from the cart. “I tried callin’ you, but I guess you were already gone. Darryl answered the phone. How’s he gettin’ on, anyway? ’Cause, frankly, between you and me? He didn’t sound so good. That was a real shame, the service station gettin’ hit by the twister like that. A real shame. Any idea how long it’s gonna take before it’s up and runnin’ again, ’cause Coop says he’s in no mood to go lookin’ for another mechanic this late in the game.”
Faith suddenly realized both babies had gone stark still, staring wide-eyed at Luralene, who was clutching a plastic-wrapped deli sandwich to her heaving chest. Not that Faith blamed them—a tornado had nothing on the far-side-of-fifty owner of the Hair We Are when she was in full sail. Faith took advantage of the momentary lull to stick Nicky’s pacifier in his mouth, only it popped right back out. She fumbled for it, catching it a foot before it hit the floor and a split second before the wails once more reached eardrum-splitting level. She plugged him up again, trying to decide which question to answer first. Not that she was inclined to answer any of them, but sidestepping Luralene was like trying to pass an eighteen-wheeler on a two-line highway.
“We don’t know yet when Darryl’ll be back in business,” she finally said. “It depends on, well, a lot of things. And sorry about the hair appointment, but…I decided to let it grow out for a bit. It’s been ages since I’ve had it long.”
Luralene squinted at her, stopping just short of tangling up her false eyelashes. Her lids were all done up in a medley of purples and lavenders today, not one of which even came close to matching her violet smock. “And you know full well that any longer than shoulder length and your head looks like a tumbleweed. And that was your description, not mine, before you go getting your panties in a twist.” Then she laid one hand on Faith’s wrist, her frosted-rose acrylics shimmering in the glow from the freezer case. “Going through hard times is nothing to be ashamed of, honey,” she said in an uncharacteristically low voice. “There’s not a soul in this town who hasn’t, at one point or another. So come on over, let me give you a trim, on the house. Won’t take but twenty minutes—”
“No, I couldn’t, really. I mean, I’ve got the babies. And frozen food—”
“It’s thirty degrees outside, nothing’s gonna happen to the food. And the babies can play in the kiddy corner, I’ll put you in the chair right beside it so you can keep an eye on ’em. Beatrice Moody canceled her eleven o’clock, so I can fit you in, no problem. Honey,” she added when Faith started to protest again, “all this is is one woman lookin’ out for another. ’Cause nothin’ bolsters a woman’s ability to cope with a crisis better than knowin’ she looks good.”
Faith supposed there was more than a little truth in the older woman’s words. She’d always found life’s challenges much less formidable when armed with the right shade of lipstick and a good haircut, although she’d never quite been able to decide if this made her shallow or simply adaptable.
“And besides,” Luralene said, leaning so close Faith nearly choked on the Aqua Net, “I imagine it wouldn’t hurt to give Darryl a little pick-me-up as well, if you get my drift.”
Faith let out a sigh, surrendering as gracefully as she knew how.
Darryl slouched in one of the plastic chairs in Ryan Logan’s home office waiting room, tapping his heel against the dark, scuffed wooden floor. Except for the chairs, nothing much had changed since this’d been old Doc Patterson’s office, even down to the worn set of wooden blocks stacked in one corner. Magazines were a trifle newer, though that wasn’t saying a whole lot. But the same wooden blinds covered the mullioned windows, the walls were painted the same manila-folder color, the rug taking up most of the bowed floor was the same multicolored patterned number he remembered from when his mama used to bring him and his brothers here for his shots, except it was more faded now. And now, as then, he couldn’t sit in this office without a sense of trepidation, a suspicion he wasn’t going to feel better for having been here.
“Darryl! Didn’t know you were here already!” Ryan, who’d taken over for the old doc after his retirement, stood in his office doorway, looking more like a cowboy than a doctor in his jeans and denim shirt. Lines fanned out around bright blue eyes as the doctor’s dark-blond mustache curved up at the corners. Clearly, marriage and fatherhood—Ryan had married a young widow with three little kids a couple years back, then added one of their own to the brood—agreed with the former recluse. “Come on in, come on in!”
Darryl pushed himself to his feet. “I really appreciate you seeing me. I know I should’ve gone out to the clinic and not bothered you on your day off—”
“Forget it,” Ryan said, leading Darryl into his office. “Those your records from the hospital?”
Nodding, Darryl handed them over.
“Can you get up on the exam table on your own speed, or you need some help?”
“No, no, I’m good,” he said, although it was no mean feat getting his butt up on the paper-covered vinyl with only one hand to steady himself.
“So,” Ryan said, “all things considered, how’re you feeling?”
“So-so. The ribs still ache, but not as bad. And the stitches are itching like hell….”
“Yeah, let’s just take a peek at that.” The doctor carefully removed the dressing, nodding in approval before tossing the bandage in a metal can. “That’s healing up real nice. You don’t need to keep it covered anymore if you don’t want to. We’ll yank those stitches out in a couple days, and that’ll be that. No headaches, I take it?”
“Not from the accident,” Darryl muttered, which drew a curious look from the doctor. “No,” Darryl said, more clearly. “No headaches.”
“You still taking the Vicodin?”
“Not since the first day. They made me…I don’t know. I didn’t feel like myself on ’em.”
“Your arm’s not paining you, then?”
“Actually…that’s why I’m here. I remember breaking my other arm when I was a kid, and it hurt like hell for a couple days, till the bone started to set. What I don’t remember, though, is losing the feeling in my fingers.”
The doctor’s brows crashed together. “Some of the feeling, or all of it?”
“It comes and goes. There’s times when it feels like my hand isn’t even there. Other times it tingles like it’s on fire.”
Ryan walked back to his desk and picked up Darryl’s folder. For several seconds, he read silently, flipping a couple of the pages back and forth, the seriousness of his expression making a cold, hard knot